Bob Donaldson, Post-Gazette
	Allen Doyle, the oldest player to qualify for the U.S. Open, swaps for a putter yesterday from his caddy, daughter Erin Packer. Click photo for larger image.

You can chart the misery of Allen Doyle's day with both the first number he saw -- the one on his alarm clock -- and last number on his scorecard -- a quadruple bogey. Yesterday at Oakmont, he shot an 81, 11-over-par. He lumbered through 18 holes, his shirt performing a total color change because of sweat. He compared the feeling to "getting whacked."

The U.S. Open, which began yesterday, leaves an annual trail of brutal performances, better forgotten than preserved. This was one of them. Perhaps Mr. Doyle saw it coming, too.

He approached the Open, the third of his lifetime, with a little "apprehension," he said, because indeed, a few barefaced facts pegged him as a long shot. He was 58 -- the tournament's oldest player by seven years. He'd turned pro only a decade earlier. Observers commonly compared his golf swing to a hockey slap shot.

So, for the privilege of five unforgiving hours on one of the world's toughest golf courses, Mr. Doyle followed the code of routine: He concentrated on the details until they obscured his daunting odds.

He woke up at the Westin hotel at 5 a.m. and hopped in his courtesy Lexus sedan, joined by his caddie and daughter, Erin Packer. En route to the country club, he scanned the radio for some country music. In the player's clubhouse, he grabbed a bowl of Cheerios and some orange juice. He made certain to arrive on the practice range one hour and five minutes before his tee time, per routine.

Always, he reserved up to one hour for hitting golf balls.

Always, he reserved the other five minutes to apply sunscreen, and if necessary, take two Advils "just because of old age." Yesterday, he took the pills.

"He's saying it's 15 holes before he's in tears today," his daughter joked while on the range.

"No," Mr. Doyle said. "Ten or 12 holes will do it."

He'd qualified for the Open field by winning the 2006 U.S. Senior Open; that secured his exemption, and provided a landmark triumph in a career of twists.

Mr. Doyle grew up near Boston, honing his golf swing in his parents' basement. He kept the motion low and choppy to avoid the ceiling. After graduating from college, he served in the Army. Later, while raising his family, he operated a driving range in La Grange, Ga. -- just a 1 1/2-man operation, he called it.

"And I was the one man," Mr. Doyle said.

When his two daughters neared college age, he took a risk, needing tuition money. He decided to chase a pro golf career. He qualified for the PGA Tour in 1996 -- at age 47, the oldest rookie in its history. Since turning 50, he's thrived on the Champions Tour, winning 11 tournaments and earning some $13 million.

So his approach for this year's Open? He reminded himself that sometimes, the unlikely story prevails.

"Even if I am a long shot -- hey, long shots pan out all of the time," Mr. Doyle said. "Maybe not every week, but once, twice, three times every year, something unexpected will happen."

He finished one bucket of balls on the practice range, taking turns with each of his 14 clubs, and nodded his head in satisfaction. His daughter said the swing looked strong.

They proceeded, after a brief stop on the putting green, to the first tee box for a 7:22 a.m. tee time. The sun, rising from above the first green, lent the moment a natural spotlight, and Mr. Doyle grabbed his driver. Those in the grandstand fell stone silent.

Then a ping.

Then a faint, collective groan.

The spotter threw his arms right, signaling a shot heading off course. Mr. Doyle's Titleist, as would happen several more times in the round, buried itself in deep rough. He bogeyed the hole.

Only a few dozen followed Mr. Doyle's threesome, which included Olin Browne and Tom Byrum, but at every hole, hundreds lined the ropes or filled the grandstands. When spectators spotted Mr. Doyle, they mentioned two things: either his profuse sweat or his unorthodox swing.

In a field dominated by the young, the tan and the composed -- players of alien ability and form -- Mr. Doyle represented the familiar. He walked with a stuttering lurch. He had a lumpy midsection and a fleshy face. On a course filled with the world's best golfers, Mr. Doyle was the world's best golfer who shouldn't be a golfer. At every hole, fans watching Mr. Doyle shared one reaction: They smiled.

After he finished the eighth hole at four-over-par, Mr. Doyle found a rhythm, recording pars on five consecutive holes. Oakmont's legendary hazards, though, promptly stifled that momentum.

On the 14th hole, Mr. Doyle's tee shot drifted right and plopped into a bunker. Using a sand wedge, he tried to extricate himself. Instead, he popped the ball some 30 yards forward, into another bunker.

Said one fan: "Hey, that happens to me."

Mr. Doyle recorded a double-bogey.

On the final hole, a 484-yard par-4, a theater built for drama, Mr. Doyle gave the gallery only unwatchable tragicomedy.

Again, his tee shot sailed right, this time into the rough. Again, he elected against laying it back onto the fairway. And again, his attempts at the green led him everywhere but the green. He took four consecutive shots from the high grass bordering the right side of the hole, and ended the hole with an 8, a quadruple-bogey.

He picked the ball from the hole, shook hands with his playing partners and wiped his brow. Two hours later, Mr. Doyle sat in the player's dining area with a Diet Coke, examining his strategy on his poorest holes.

"On a hole like 14 or 18," Mr. Doyle said, "when do you decide it's smart to lay up? You're thinking you can make a good shot. You're sitting 58 yards away or something -- you're not thinking it will only get halfway [to the green]. There has to be a point in time where you say, I'm just going to go for this."