Once upon a misty morn in the hallowed halls of St. Andrews, where the ghosts of Old Tom Morris whisper swing tips to the wind, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club — better known as the R&A, those guardians of golf’s rulebook and self-proclaimed keepers of linguistic purity — decided they were too posh for plain speaking.
Their crown jewel, the British Open Championship, had been called just that for eons, especially by us Americans who grew up glued to ABC’s Wide World of Sports. Ah, those golden afternoons: the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and the late, great Jim McKay narrating every sand trap saga with his warm, folksy charm.
“Welcome to the British Open from Royal Lytham & St Annes,” he’d say, making it sound like a friendly backyard barbecue with bunkers. But the R&A? They sniffed at such commoner clarity. No, it must be “THE OPEN,” as if it were the only tournament in existence, the Platonic ideal of putts, the Magna Carta of mashies.
Flash back to those halcyon days of shag carpeting and bell-bottoms. It was the 1970s, and young and old Americans would plop down in front of the family Zenith TV — a colored one if you were lucky — in July. There was Jim McKay, that avuncular anchor of Wide World of Sports, bringing the British Open straight from the blustery British Isles. McKay didn’t mince words or titles — he called it the British Open because, well, it was British, played on those quirky links, and it was an Open, meaning the world’s best duked it out for the Claret Jug.
Seve Ballesteros’ swashbuckling escapes in ‘79, Tom Watson’s dominance in the 80s, all under that straightforward banner. No confusion, no pretension — just golf, glorious golf, branded with the precision of a well-placed wedge shot.
But oh, how the R&A chafed at this colonial colloquialism. Officially, it had always been The Open Championship since 1860, when eight Scots in woolly knickers teed off at Prestwick. Fair enough, it was the original. Yet, as other nations launched their own Opens — the U.S. in 1895, Australia, Canada — the Brits clung to their definite article like a lifeline.
By the mid-2010s, though, the R&A ramped up their rebrand with the zeal of a caddie chasing a wayward ball. In 2017, a representative of the R&A openly stated that it is a priority to “eradicate the term British Open,” and they started issuing edicts to broadcasters and scribes: “It’s THE OPEN, not that ghastly ‘British’ business.”
Media rightsholders are contractually required to refer to the event as The Open or The Open Championship.
They claimed it honored the tournament’s global stature, but really, it reeked of snobbery, like renaming your local seafood joint, “THE FISH.” Why specify “British” when you could float in ethereal vagueness?
Enter the branding blunder. “The Open” — what a marketing mulligan! Is it open mic night at the pub? An open house in suburbia? And what sport, pray tell? Tennis has its Opens, chess has Opens, heck, even doors have opens. Without “British,” it lost its moorings, leaving casual fans adrift like a ball in the gorse.
The R&A wanted mystique, but they got mockery. As one cheeky article put it, calling it THE OPEN is like insisting your dog’s name is “THE DOG” — pretentious and pointless.
The fans teed off en masse. Pubs from Pebble Beach to Prestwick hosted “British Open Watch Parties,” toasting McKay’s memory with pints and put-downs.
So, as the sun sets over the links, remember: It’s the British Open, folks. Jim McKay said so, and that’s good enough for us.
