There are many kinds of volunteers working the U.S. Open, and some of them are journalists.

For this fine publication to make the quantum leap from twice-weekly to daily it took what Publisher David Woronoff calls an "all-star cast of ringers."

I guess I’m one of the ringers. During the school year I teach photojournalism at Penn State. In the summer I write at my home in Rutherford County, N.C. For a year I’ve been looking forward to this once-in-a-lifetime "shoot," as we photojournalists call an assignment.

By the fourth day of the assignment, I had settled down to a pretty good routine and was enjoying myself immensely. Thursday, while shooting Greg Norman (he with a chiseled face of a comic book superhero), using a big telephoto lens, I was positioned on my knees at the edge of the grandstand above the first tee. As it happened, I was the only photographer in that section at the time.

Now it’s very important to this story to know that cameras are strictly verboten in the hands of unaccredited photographers during such a major golfing competition. This is totally unlike any other sport I know of, like for instance football, hockey, baseball or basketball where any yahoo with a point-and-shoot can blaze away at will, but more akin to a ballet recital by the Bolshoi: NO PHOTOGRAPHY ALLOWED.

Except, of course, by the pros — who do know the golden rule of golf photography: no snaps on the backswing — especially with flash!

To think the mere solitary click of a shutter can so utterly ruin a man’s concentration. I don’t mean noisy motor drive film advance or an eye-boggling strobe light, just a whisper of a shutter release.

Of course, if there are 20 cameras going off all at once, it doesn’t matter how quiet you are. You’ve got pack journalism at its worst, and it amounts to a clattering, chattering din.

You have to respect the need for such rules at a major international event in a sport that by tradition requires that action takes place accompanied by only a reverential hush and the lonely wind in the winsome pines.

Now back to the storyline: When Greg Norman teed off on number one, I shot my photo appropriately after he hit the ball and was all the way through his swing, so as not to distract (for stories are legion of Tiger having photogs ejected from tournaments for violating The Rule. Whether this is true or not, I can’t say.

So imagine my shock and dismay when I hear someone shouting, "NO PICTURES!" and there’s the great Davis Love pointing directly at me, berating me in front of the entire silent gallery.

I felt like Alice when the Queen of Hearts hollered "Off with her head!"

No, that’s not strong enough.

Pond scum. That’s it.

Davis, the 1996 U.S. Open co-runner-up and fellow Tar Heel, must have thought I was just a rank amateur out to get a snap for my scrapbook of golf celebs.

In self-defense I held up my press credentials for Davis to see, but it didn’t seem to do one bit of good. I could feel the glare of condemning looks bearing down. A glowering marshal approached and sternly admonished, "You should know better! I oughta throw you out!"

"I yam inno-cent!" I squeaked vigorously. "I didn’t do it!"

Your humble columnist is no spring chick, and last summer worked for National Geographic Magazine. It’s been a very long time since anyone has made me feel like a bad 4-year old.

Just then, some good folks in the gallery came to my rescue, fingering a guy with an idiot camera up in back of me in the stands. We all turned to follow the finger pointers and this goober turned beet red and shrank sheepishly behind the row in front of him. The guard shifted his awful glare from me to this bad boy fan.

I exhaled for what seemed the first time in minutes.

When things calmed down, I got my picture. Davis Love, who had mistakenly zapped me, stood up to the tee, and I took particular pleasure in squeezing off a nice shot of Mr. Love . . . ka-LICK.

Of course now it sounded to me like a load of bricks falling on a sidewalk.

But I took the photo on the follow-through of the swing. Just the way you’re supposed to. Discreetly, worshipfully, reverentially, respectfully, quietly, pianissimo, subtly, invisibly . . .

Get the picture?

Good grief, what a sport!