Oddly enough, they have very little to do with the golf itself, although my recollection of standing with Tiger after the 2000 runaway will always rank high. No, instead, they have to do with life and death.

The Open is always held on Father's Day week and for years, as many as I spent covering the Open for CNN and other networks, I would arrive the Sunday or Monday before the championship and begin a very familiar routine.

I would go to the media center and get my credentials and then find my way to the merchandise tent. As the Open grew over the years, so did the sideshows. Hospitality tents began lining fairways and the enormous merchandise tent became a must-visit destination.

My father never played the game but, for some odd reason, became fixated by the professional version. Every weekend, he and my mother would sit through hours of tournament golf and then call me.

"Hey, you see what your boy did?" they would gush. At times, my "boy" would be Greg Norman, Jack Nicklaus or Tiger.

So after picking up my press credentials, I would always stop at the merchandise tent and find my father something for Father's Day. There is always a shipping center nearby and I would box up my gift, hand it to the shipping magnates and be done with my shopping for Dad.

He would get his present by mid-week and proudly wear whatever it was for the rest of the week. The showoff!

When he died in 1999, we set about cleaning out his closet and it was a bit like filtering through a mini-Hall of Fame. There were golf shirts from Pebble Beach, windshirts from Baltusrol, jackets from Winged Foot and caps from Pinehurst.

"Take them," my weary mother said to me. But I wouldn't, couldn't, and gave them to charity.

It has been nine years now but every time I return to the Open, the memories of my father and his odd relationship with golf come flooding back. I am tempted to visit the merchandise tent but know I would not be able to see much through the tears.