AS a player, I fell out of love with the game of golf very quickly.

In my mid-teens I enjoyed a brief flirtation with the sport but decided to sell my clubs while they were still intact as my relationship with the 18-hole swear-fest soured.

Even during my times of relative contentment, there were still simmering moments of frustration when an otherwise faultless round was destroyed by a card-wrecking 11 on the 17th hole.

On other occasions, I would be obliged to borrow my playing partner's putter for the rest of the day after the gratification of two perfect approach shots quickly evaporated into a club-breaking frenzy following four attempts to sink the ball into that ever-shrinking hole.

No sport has ever left me as uptight or irritated and it is not just me either. I have a vivid and amusing memory of a friend, as mild-mannered as myself in normal life, trudging down the 18th fairway after the wheels had literally fallen off his round - a tyre-less trolley trailing behind him.

Amazingly, that was after he had chipped in from more than 100 yards on two holes - a feat he has never since come close to emulating, having decided to persevere with the torturing test of temper.

My final straw came when a swing, which always boasted the narrowest margin of error for any hacking golfer that ever walked on to an elevated tee and possessed all the rhythm of your drunken uncle at a wedding disco, completely fell apart.

Overnight, 30 shots were suddenly piled on to my already modest scores and, despite a brief, but inevitably ill-fated, recent re-acquaintance with the putter (resulting in a typically tragic, stand-alone 17 on the 13th hole of a crazy golf course) I have stayed away from all fairways and greens.

As a spectator, however, because of my painful shortcomings to master the game at the very lowest level I remain in awe of what the world's greatest players can achieve.

This weekend's Open was addictive for many reasons - the early challenge of Malton and Norton's Simon Dyson, the final hurrah of Jack Nicklaus, the performance of a rejuvenated Colin Montgomerie and the mastery of Tiger Woods.

The last factor might have been the least engaging as, like Pete Sampras's tennis supremacy, Michael Schumacher's dominance of Formula One (well, at least until this year) and Stephen Redgrave's Olympic heroics, the enjoyment of sporting brilliance is often tempered by monotonous familiarity and the public's desire for a fresh challenge.

Most neutral viewers, all British onlookers, and maybe even a number of American golf fans who have developed a grudging respect for 'Monty' despite past differences, would have been longing for a home victory at St Andrews.

Like them, I cursed every Tiger putt that meant Monty's major dream remained just that. But the mental strength, allied to obvious natural talent required to make victory a formality in the world's most-frustrating sport, at the world's most-famous course during the world's most-famous competition was inspirational.

Not, however, inspirational enough, thankfully, to tempt me back to the driving range.

TKO was written this week by Dave Flett.

Updated: 10:14 Tuesday, July 19, 2005