You couldn’t but pick up the whispers at Royal Troon, they were on the breeze in between all the breakers, warbles, claps and caws. “Jon Rahm birdied the first three holes!” said the one lad who had managed to get reception on his phone to the two either side of him while he flicked his thumb down along the scoreboard.
“How’s Rosey doing?” his mate asked. “He’s just teed off.” The other cut in: “Here comes Scottie Scheffler now.” He waited a beat. “Who’s that with him?” The three of them squinted into the middle distance at the man strolling down the fairway. Blue sweater, blue slacks, white cap. No one spoke.
