You can bet there won’t be a sober breath drawn in the whole of Scotland for a week after last week’s bizarre British Open.

It was not a golf tournament. In reality, it was a wonderful circus, a real circus.

First the course: The tough Carnoustie held the spotlight, with world-class golfers from around the glove all whining and wailing about the woes of the test. "Unfair" was the cry, to the audience’s delight.

And the star of this circus? An unlikely Frenchman. A combination high-wire performer, tiger trainer and daredevil, all in one.

Starting out low-key, he stole the limelight early in the week and all the world’s eyes were on this dashing Frenchman. He wowed them with impossible feats of magic, as he extracted himself from trouble day in and day out, better than the wonderful Houdini.

He defied the Gods of the game as he laughed at danger. "Why play safe?" you could hear him cry. "Danger is my game, I am invincible."

Or so it seemed.

Who was this handsome Frenchman? Some sort of Musketeer? Time and time again, he laughed at danger and had the audience in the palm of his hand. He could do anything. He holed impossible putts, got out of unplayable places.

A true French hero. Everyone could imagine the tickertape parade in New York, the hero up there with the great Bobby Jones and Ben Hogan.

He grew in stature every hole, every amazing recovery. Why, at times he was wearing a suit of armor. He was almost ethereal. No one could test and beat the rough and hazards like this man. No one.

Then, as he stood 10 feet tall on the last hole, victory a certainty, all he needed to do was show some humility, play safe, a simple iron, a layup, and even three putts, while the engraver was working on the Claret Jug placing his name for history to wonder at.

But Jean Van de Velde, now filled with the sound of applause and admiration, was not just a member of the theater cast. He was the star. To hell with the gods of golf. Who are they, anyway? Let’s have one more shot at them and they will fall at my feet.

He pulled out his driver. The entire world gasped.

Slice, and yet again he defied the odds and his ball fell safely on terra firma, just a few feet from disaster.

The crowd’s roar filled his mind, his blood. And then we all saw it: disaster.

Yet when he dumped his third into the Barry Burn, he took center stage again and amid thunderous roars from the crowd, now totally out of control.

He shed his shoes and socks and debated. This was where he should have stolen the show, the world. I could see the shot. He should have splashed water and the ball would have caromed off the wall of the burn, and at 90 or so miles per hour it would have ricocheted from the other side and flown toward the green. And then a lone seagull would have appeared, plucked it out of the air and dropped it three feet from the hole.

That’s what should have happened. But the star of the show, the new upstart, showed his true self. He was not the handsome hero we thought. No, he was just the court jester of the play, a clown.

He took center stage and got filled with all sorts of dreams. He was out of place. Yes, he gave us laughter. Thrills, too. But that’s a clown’s job. He should have stayed in character.

At the final ceremony Jean tried to be very philosophical when he said, "It is just a game, and a hundred years from now no one would remember my name, even if I had won."

Maybe some truth, but now a hundred years from now two golfers will be looking at the young Scot’s name on the 1999 trophy and one will say, "Wasn’t that the year some clown almost won the Open?"

"Yeah. Some French clown, I think."