The Open 2019: Rory McIlroy left anywhere but home as miserable meltdown leaves him chasing the world

It took 10 minutes for Northern Ireland’s favourite child to see his homecoming descend into a collapse capable of matching his infamous Masters torture - and leaves Friday’s cut a distant dot on the horizon

Rory McIlroy walked onto the first tee at Royal Portrush at the eye of a rapture. Within the space of ten harrowing minutes and two miscued tee-shots, he was left looking up at the rest of the world. By the time he was finally able to trudge away from the 18th green in a rain-soaked grimace, there was no doubting that the entirety of the field in North Antrim had risen out of sight.

This was supposed to be the most romantic of returns for McIlroy. Instead, his opening round was marked by a tragic beginning and end that saw him stumble into the clubhouse at eight-over-par - 12 shots behind the lead - and staring down the barrel of a missed cut. On the same links he had fearlessly set ablaze and razed records as a 16-year-old, he was engulfed by angst and an altogether unfamiliar type of fire.

It began with a yanked two-iron and a jangling of nerves. Against a background of polka dot windbreakers rustling his name, his tee-shot sailed into the thick crowd lining the edge of the first fairway and smashed the screen of a supporter’s mobile phone before nestling out of bounds. Unsettled, his second attempt burrowed deep into the rough. From there, he’d discover his approach shot at the roots of thickset bracken, be forced to take a drop and watch forlornly as a four-foot putt dribbled by the hole.

A four-over-par eight had his hangdog shoulders betraying a brave face and there was no use pretending this wasn’t the work of his worst nightmare. When a bogey at the third followed, the gloom had long settled in. This was a collapse capable of matching the forgotten horror of Augusta all those years ago. And, even if it's significance is ultimately less telling, it couldn't help but feel all the more personal.

Only after a streak of wrestling pars left expectation by the wayside did McIlroy finally seem able to mount something of a fightback. At the par-five seventh, a steady putt and simple birdie brought on a wave of relief. Another fine putt at the ninth even brought an illusion of hope.

But then it became wet. So wet your feet squelched with every step and umbrellas couldn’t even mask a defence against the rain. So wet that McIlroy shuddered and haplessly hid the lower portion of his face behind a luminous blue coat. Caddies frantically towelled down grips, spectators lurched towards the underbelly of the nearest grandstands and Shane Lowry basked in the warm glow of the clubhouse. Starting in the early hours on an overcast morning, he had set the clubhouse lead at four-under-par and, if there was ever any doubt, the script to this Open is still very much being written by the weather.

The downpour robbed the sting from McIlroy’s charge. There were uncomfortable echoes on the par-five 12th as he pulled another approach shot out towards a greedy thicket before a pair of birdie opportunities splashed and spluttered short of the hole. On a soddenly disheartening afternoon, this had never been more than a story about trying to stay afloat, but as the sun beat back through the clouds and McIlroy braced for the final stretch, it was already too late to bring any glow back to the edges.

When it feels like everything is working against you, even the simplest things become a trial. On the green at the 16th, an innocuous par-putt from no more than three-feet dragged by the hole. The remnant was little more than a foot away, but as McIlroy snatched at his ball in blind frustration, all was reduced to slow motion. As his ball lipped out of the hole, the crowd's gasps formed a hiss that surrounded the green and McIlroy left with a damning double-bogey. After such a gritted attempt to cling on, his efforts lay in ashes and yet more misery was to come.

McIlroy's round finished how it started - in the rough (AFP/Getty) (AFP/Getty Images)

As the amphitheatre behind the 18th green cheered him home with pitying encouragement, McIlroy spent the serenade hacking his way in and out of the rough en route to a miserable triple-bogey seven. He opened his yardage book and stared blankly at its pages. This is a course he calls home, but as the rain battered and billowed, he might as well have been anywhere.