SOUTHPORT, England – There were no scores, late in the first half of England-Argentina, and the golf course was empty. The driving range, the practice green, the clubhouse, the parking lots – all are empty. A guard here, a guard there, that was about it. “Good night, boy,” the uniformed worker at the door of the printing tent, stooped with age, tells his last customer, who is 66 years old.
A flat and easy walk, from the course to the village of Birkdale, lined with red brick shops, flats above them, with a surprising number of tea houses and bars where the Fleetwoods have drunk various drinks, hot and not, for generations. He walks by a large mural of one of the family members, Tommy, a professional golfer and competitor in the Open Championship here.
The course, Royal Birkdale, is really good links but also decided to go out, if you know that bit of Brit-speak. (Posh, old, upscale.) There were backyard viewing parties throughout the trip. You can keep track of the roars and noises of the crowd, the same way you can track the day’s events at the Masters, in the form of grunts and scoring. Football here is not a game for toffs, not that it isn’t. Football here is for everyone. England score. The microphone tells everything.
The restaurants in town, or most of them, close early at night, because of the game. The bars are full. The side streets are full. Plazas are turned into football.
Points for Argentina. Groans are heard from Liverpool Road.
Points for Argentina. More whining about Birkdale.
The game ends. The city is empty. A mile home. Home of the week. In golf gear.
