After Shinnecock, I'm Ready to Call the U.S. Open Golf's Best Major

Every ‌year, ‌right ‌on schedule, we end up circling the same question: “What’s the best major?” The answer I give depends on when you catch me. In April, I'll say The Masters without blinking. By the time Sunday at the U.S. Open rolls around, I'm usually reconsidering everything.

As we recover from another final round at our national championship, I am once again reminded why.

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The Masters is playing with a built-in edge. For those of us who live where winter is a real thing, it arrives at exactly the right moment. The range mats are finally being replaced by divots. Golf courses are reopening. The season is officially here.

And then, of course, there’s Augusta National itself. A place most of us won’t ever set foot on, much less play. It’s soaked in history to the point that people tear up walking through the gates. The 12th, the 13th, the green jacket, the pimento cheese sandwich. You don’t even have to explain any of it to someone who follows the sport.

That mythology is earned, and it’s why The Masters sits comfortably in the S-tier of sporting events. In a weird way, the sum of the tournament is greater than its parts. At Augusta, the grass is greener than grass has any right to be—both literally and metaphorically. Even the trash cans are green, meant to disappear into the scenery. Nothing reads as random, it all lives inside a world that feels built.

We return to that same stage every year with decades of shared memory attached to it. That’s the comfort of the Masters. We know the place before the tournament begins.

The U.S. Open, though, is a different animal.

Year after year, we are dropped somewhere new and told to learn how to fly as we fall. Sure, there is always history. This isn’t the first time we’ve watched a Shinnecock U.S. Open, but the questions on the test have changed.

Wyndham Clark didn't win because he knew every contour of the golf course. He won because he adapted faster than everyone else. That's the thing the U.S. Open asks for year after year. The venue changes but the assignment stays the same.

With the challenges at Augusta are so similar year after year, it lends itself for repeat visitors to have an advantage. Much was made of Rory’s win this year and the amount of reps he put in there.

Of course, the more U.S. Opens you have under your belt, the more you understand the importance of patience in an event like this. But unlike Augusta, you don’t need countless reps on the greens to know that the putt to the Sunday pin on 18 breaks more than you think it does.

Everyone technically starts off at even par every week, but the U.S. Open is one of the few tournaments where it genuinely feels that way. The defending champion doesn't get to lean on years of institutional knowledge. The rookie isn't automatically behind. Everyone gets the same exam.

Oakmont’s church pew bunkers are unique to the pine straw and wire grass at Pinehurst. Pinehurst’s turtle back greens present a different challenge than the dinner plates Pebble Beach has to putt on. Still, when you watch it, they all register as unmistakably U.S. Open, even when the look and feel change completely.

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Each year it packs up and moves on to another course that can hold the weight. Sometimes it’s public, sometimes it’s private. The design changes, the weather shifts, the winning number swings all over the place, but the assignment never changes. Find the best golfer in the toughest conditions.

The Masters is the most exclusive major, and that’s not an insult. It’s supposed to feel hard to get close to. Magic is worthless without the unknown. The gates are well kept.

The U.S. Open is Ying to the Masters Yang. Every spring, thousands go through local qualifying. The lone gatekeeper being a handicap of 0.4 or better. As long as you meet that, the dream is still alive. Even if it's only for 18 holes.

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Most fail, almost all fail.

Still, that isn’t really the point. I love that the same championship that ends up at Shinnecock begins with a sign-up sheet.

I love that the national championship still feels like it belongs to the game itself. Maybe that’s also why the rotating sites matter so much. The U.S. Open doesn’t belong to its host course. The championship belongs to golf. You don’t have to enter a lottery to maybe (read:never) get tickets to watch the action. You don’t have to win a TOUR event or the US Amateur to gain a spot. You just need a little bit of cash and the drive to accomplish a dream.

Being able to put things into context always takes the viewing experience from good to unforgettable. The Masters gives me context because I’ve watched it every year of my life.

The U.S. Open gives me context because it doesn’t feel far away from the game all of us play every Sunday. We are watching golfers put squares on scorecards more often than circles. We’re watching Dustin Johnson play ping pong around the 15th green on his way to a snowman. It’s relatable.

A lot of golfers have also played a public U.S. Open venue, or know someone who has. Even when we haven’t, even when it’s somewhere like Shinnecock, the place feels reachable in a way Augusta never really can. That might be why I keep drifting back to the U.S. Open.

With The Masters, I’m in love with Augusta National and the near-religious experience it puts on.

With the U.S. Open, I’m in love with golf.