Two days, 36 holes, one whiffed tap-in putt by Rickie Fowler, one Cameron Tringale DQ for accidentally signing for a lower score than he shot, one trip to Google to find out who Mike Lorenzo-Vera is, one more Tony Finau flirtation with winning a big one, and two days into Brooks Koepka reminding us that he’s still the baddest man in golf, one thing has come clear:
It’s nice to have major-championship golf back.
Forget that this PGA Championship has no fans on site, that face masks have become a fashion accessory and that summer is still baking the juice out of most of the United States, the first two days of golf at emerald green and enviably cool TPC Harding Park have come to life the way a major championship should.
What major championships have, whether they’re played in April in Augusta or in San Francisco’s version of summer, is a meaning and magnitude that can’t be manufactured. It’s as real as the marine layer along the Pacific coast that comes and goes but changes how things look and feel when it arrives.
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