It’s history. Recorded. Done with. All that’s left is folding the tents, removing the port-a-johns and finding a book big enough to hold all the flattering things the players had to say about Pinehurst No. 2 and its creator, Donald Ross.

It’s ironic that the golfers, who lead such pampered lives that they can get upset if the courtesy car isn’t their favorite color, could find little to complain about during the U.S. Open that dodged Pinehurst for 99 years.

Even when No. 2 was kicking their butts, eating their lunches and driving them crazy with its turtle-back greens and diabolical USGA hole locations, the players were almost unanimous in their adoration.

That’s the beauty of No. 2. It demands unflagging concentration and patience. It rewards diligence and penalizes irreverence. Let your focus stray for a moment and the groundskeepers may find your battered body somewhere in the wiregrass the next morning.

Whatever else they may be, these golfers are professionals. They appreciate a masterpiece and they realize that a snide remark about No.2 would be akin to saying Michelangelo painted the ceiling the wrong color.

All of us, who have spent the last year dealing almost daily with some facet of the Open, must take some pride in the success.

The guys who’ve most impressed me during this seemingly interminable year are members of the Pinehurst Championship Management staff. You want to talk about pros? Try Jon Wagner and his wife Stephanie. Say a few words about Reg Jones. Buy a hat from Stephen Cryan. And take a moment to understand what the work of Pat Corso and Don Padgett has accomplished.

But let me tell you where my real pride lies: The Pilot. OK, maybe this is getting a little close to home, as Pilot Publisher David Woronoff signs my checks. But somebody needs to toot the horn for the little paper that did.

At this point, I have a confession. When I came to work for the Pilot just over a year ago and was told about the project of putting out a 56-page daily tabloid during the eight days of the Open, I was a tad on the skeptical side.

Well, maybe skeptical isn’t the word. I thought we were talking major disaster here. No one, especially a newspaper with the small staff of a twice-weekly, could handle such a gigantic project.

Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you a contrite but proud man. I totally underestimated the character and strength of the people with whom I was working. I have gone from a doubting Howard to one of the believers. Yes, I have witnessed a miracle.

Woronoff, if he ever pays me for that driver I "sold" him last December, is the new genius in my book. Steve Bouser, the erudite editor who painstakingly fitted our articles to the holes allotted, while stroking our egos and giving pep talks, is my new role model. When I grow up, I want to be just like you, Steve.

Hunter Chase, the Energizer Bunny of a sports editor, was a rock. Chase did everything from writing three articles a day and never letting the ice cream run out to computer repair. If this guy doesn’t deserve a bonus, there were no bogeys on the 5th hole last week.

Two real stars of the week were Brenda Berger and Melissa Breedlove. I don’t care if my wife does read this; I love those women. Forget the legend of Betsy Ross and Florence Nightingale, Berger and Breedlove were the heart and soul of this operation, working endless hours in the office putting all this stuff together.

And don’t forget John Chappell, the technician who kept our computers functioning by sticking so many fingers in the dike that we nicknamed him "Dutch Boy."

It was some week. Wish I could have lived through it.