Yesterday, I went to Carnoustie to find out.

I called the guy who runs the course and asked if I could play 18. Not all 18. Just No. 18. He agreed, so I rented some clubs, bought three sleeves of Pro V-1s and headed on over. Carnoustie is directly across the sea from St. Andrews, or, by land, through the town of Dundee.

The 18th tee lies out in the distance, a straight shot from the white hotel behind the final green. Workers ready scoreboards for the upcoming Senior Open Championship. Skeletal bleachers sit empty. And, out before me, the individual spirals of Van de Velde's crash: the bunker, the water of Barry Burn, the thick rough, the tee box where the entire nightmare began.

In case you forgot, let's recap. Cue the violins and shots of Jean with his head in his hands.

1. Driver way right. Into 17th fairway.

2. Another shot way right, into just ridiculous rough. Only a grandstand keeps it inbounds.

3. Chips into the water. The ball stops balanced on a rock.

4. He takes off his shoes, socks, rolls up his pants and gets into the water. Then he gets out and takes his drop.

5. Chips into a green-side bunker.

6. Out of the bunker. Eight feet away.

7. Holes his putt. Lead gone.

I go to the tee. The big, blue backdrop sponsored by MasterCard wraps around the back. I hit the first shot dead left. I tee up another one, and another, until I am satisfied. My back burns from the eyes of nearby golfers. You know how some people "respect the game?" Me? Yeah, I'm the guy who played only 16, 17 and 18 on the Old Course so it wouldn't mess up the rest of my day. I have no shame, certainly not about starting my round on the 18th tee.

The play-by-play of my trip to the hole is bloody, and a few details suffice to describe the gore: a bunker, a virtually horizontal chip, an approach that clangs loudly off the bleachers. The ball hitting metal sounds like a gunshot. The workers around the green turn to stare.

But I get the perfect bounce off the grandstand and the ball sits close to the green. I chip it but leave it short, then putt onto the green, then hit another gutless putt to set up a 10-footer. If I make it, I get a seven. After all of those shenanigans, I still have a shot. Man, Van de Velde sucks.

I hit it hard and, by some miracle, the ball rolls in.

I hadn't beaten the Frog but I'd tied him. Me. Who never plays golf. I'm feeling elated. I do a real fist pump, then catch myself, looking around, making sure nobody saw.

Walking back up the 18th, to try again, I record the shots in my notebook.

1. Tee shot. Goes right but in play. Really short.

2. Three-wood. Line drive directly into the bunker.

3. Sand wedge out of the bunker.

4. Four-iron that clangs off the bleachers. This is the greatest golf shot I've ever hit. Sure it didn't go, you know, straight, but I knocked the hell out of it. It sounded good. I'm working up to looking good.

5. Bad chip leaves me short.

6. Putt from fringe doesn't even make it halfway.

7. Totally wimp out on second putt …

… Oh, my god. I went back and added up again. And again. I'd miscounted! (St. Andrews moment: I am writing this story in the lobby of the Rusacks Hotel, waiting for Arnold Palmer, and a well-dressed older gentleman just left the couch next to me. It was Roberto de Vicenzo, who famously lost the Masters by signing an incorrect scorecard.)

8. Make the putt.

I'm stunned, marching back toward the tee to try again. A woman walks up. She doesn't look pleased. Her job is to remove errant shots from the water. She's holding a muddy Pro V-1, one of the first, abandoned attempts.

"Did I fish your ball out of the burn?"

I nod. She hands it to me.

I tee off two more times. One finds the green-side burn on my fourth shot. The other clangs off the bleachers again on the fifth shot, and this time, gets a terrible bounce. I can't find it, and I slink off the course. Before returning to St. Andrews, I stop in the pro shop to get shirts for some friends back home and, above the cash register, tacked to the wall like the skin of some slain wild beast, is the putter Van de Velde used on his meltdown. They've got it mounted there like he's a Boone and Crockett buck they shot. In a way, that's exactly what happened. The golf course shot Van de Velde.

I mention it to the sales clerk, who smiles thinly, as if to say: I've seen it before. Everyone who comes here tries to beat the Frog.