Maja Stark leads chaotic US Women's Open as contenders falter
Maja Stark could tell pretty early Saturday that Erin Hills would provide much more of a challenge than it had in the first two days of the US Women's Open.
Yet she found a way to avoid the mistakes that befell so many other competitors during a brutal third round. Now the 25-year-old from Sweden is in position to earn the $2.4m prize in the biggest event of the women's golf season.
Stark shot a 2-under 70 to give her a 7-under 209 total and a one-shot advantage heading into the final round Sunday. Julia López Ramirez of Spain was second after a 68, the best score of the day.
'I think I'm just going to try to play freely,' Stark said. 'I think that no one has ever played well when they've been playing scared, and I think that's been my habit before, to just kind of try to hang on to it.'
The Japanese trio of Rio Takeda (70), Hinako Shibuno (72) and second-round leader Mao Saigo (75) followed at 5 under. Top-ranked Nelly Korda was 4 under after a 73.
Speedier greens and tricker pin placements wreaked havoc with just about everyone on the course, leading to plenty of double bogeys and triple bogeys.
One example of this came on the par-4 15th, when Esther Henseleit's eagle putt from 55 feet away rolled 90 feet beyond the hole and went into the rough. Henseleit ended up with a double bogey.
'It's so hard because they tend to put holes that are right on the edges of the slopes, so you can see going into the grain and up until the hole, and then after the hole you just see that the grain is going the other way,' Stark said. 'It's just so hard to get the distances right. It's really scary when you know if you putt this five feet by, then that's gone.'
The struggles of the field helped López Ramirez make a surprising surge less than three months after an appendectomy.
López Ramirez hasn't finished higher than a tie for 29th in any of her seven LPGA Tour appearances this season, though the 22-year-old rookie was the Southeastern Conference player of the year in 2023 and 2024 at Mississippi State.
'I do believe that obviously when you're in college and you're about to win an event you have the same nerves,' López Ramirez said. 'That's the most you care in that moment. You just want to win that tournament.'
Saigo took a three-shot lead into the day but made three straight bogeys at Nos 4-6 to drop into a tie for first. She made an 8 1/2-foot birdie putt on No 12 to move back into sole possession of the lead, but Stark tied her with a 21 1/2-foot birdie on the par-3 16th. Saigo then bogeyed the last two to fall two back.
She said the pin placements caused her the biggest problems on Saturday.
'The first thing is I'd like to rest well and then tomorrow (come out) refreshed and I'd like to start from zero,' Saigo said through an interpreter.
Plenty of other contenders faced similar misfortune.
A Lim Kim, who entered Saturday in a six-way tie for second place, birdied No 1 to get to 6 under, then went 7 over for the next four holes. Kim bogeyed No 2, double-bogeyed No 3, triple-bogeyed No 4 and bogeyed No 5. She ended up with a 77.
Jinhee Im birdied two of her first three holes to get to 6 under before she triple-bogeyed the par-4 fourth. Noh also was at 6 under before a double bogey on No 3. Im ended up with a 79, and Noh shot 75.
Korda also struggled early before coming on strong late. Korda had a 40 on the front nine with four bogeys and no birdies, but rallied with three birdies on her last five holes.
'It's just a golf course where you may not hit it in the right spot and it'll go down 40 feet and instead of being almost tap-in range, now you have a 40-foot chip where it's running off the back, as well,' Korda said. 'You just know that your mentality is that you're going to make mistakes, but you can also bounce back here.'
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The Independent
34 minutes ago
- The Independent
'A huge loss.' In remote Nagasaki islands, a rare version of Christianity heads toward extinction
On this small island in rural Nagasaki, Japan's Hidden Christians gather to worship what they call the Closet God. In a special room about the size of a tatami mat is a scroll painting of a kimono-clad Asian woman. She looks like a Buddhist Bodhisattva holding a baby, but for the faithful, this is a concealed version of Mary and the baby Jesus. Another scroll shows a man wearing a kimono covered with camellias, an allusion to John the Baptist's beheading and martyrdom. There are other objects of worship from the days when Japan's Christians had to hide from vicious persecution, including a ceramic bottle of holy water from Nakaenoshima, an island where Hidden Christians were martyred in the 1620s. Little about the icons in the tiny, easy-to-miss room can be linked directly to Christianity — and that's the point. After emerging from cloistered isolation in 1865, following more than 200 years of violent harassment by Japan's insular warlord rulers, many of the formerly underground Christians converted to mainstream Catholicism. Some, however, continued to practice not the religion that 16th century foreign missionaries originally taught them, but the idiosyncratic, difficult to detect version they'd nurtured during centuries of clandestine cat-and-mouse with a brutal regime. On Ikitsuki and other remote sections of Nagasaki prefecture, Hidden Christians still pray to these disguised objects. They still chant in a Latin that hasn't been widely used in centuries. And they still cherish a religion that directly links them to a time of samurai, shoguns and martyred missionaries and believers. Now, though, the Hidden Christians are dying out, and there is growing certainty that their unique version of Christianity will die with them. Almost all are now elderly, and as the young move away to cities or turn their backs on the faith, those remaining are desperate to preserve evidence of this offshoot of Christianity — and convey to the world what its loss will mean. 'At this point, I'm afraid we are going to be the last ones,' said Masatsugu Tanimoto, 68, one of the few who can still recite the Latin chants that his ancestors learned 400 years ago. 'It is sad to see this tradition end with our generation.' Hidden Christians cling to a unique version of the religion Christianity spread rapidly in 16th century Japan when Jesuit priests had spectacular success converting warlords and peasants alike, most especially on the southern main island of Kyushu, where the foreigners established trading ports in Nagasaki. Hundreds of thousands, by some estimates, embraced the religion. That changed after the shoguns began to see Christianity as a threat. The crackdown that followed in the early 17th century was fierce, with thousands killed and the remaining believers chased underground. As Japan opened up to foreign influence, a dozen Hidden Christians clad in kimono cautiously declared their faith, and their remarkable perseverance, to a French Catholic priest in March 1865 in Nagasaki city. Many became Catholics after Japan formally lifted the ban on Christianity in 1873. But others chose to stay Kakure Kirishitan (Hidden Christians), continuing to practice what their ancestors preserved during their days underground. Their rituals provide a direct link to a vanished Japan In interviews with The Associated Press, Hidden Christians spoke of a deep communal bond stemming from a time when a lapse could doom a practitioner or their neighbors. Hidden Christians were forced to hide all visible signs of their religion after the 1614 ban on Christianity and the expulsion of foreign missionaries. Households took turns hiding precious ritual objects and hosting the secret services that celebrated both faith and persistence. This still happens today, with the observance of rituals unchanged since the 16th century. The group leader in the Ikitsuki area is called Oji, which means father or elderly man in Japanese. Members take turns in the role, presiding over baptisms, funerals and ceremonies for New Year, Christmas and local festivals. Different communities worship different icons and have different ways of performing the rituals. In Sotome, for instance, people prayed to a statue of what they called Maria Kannon, a genderless Bodhisattva of mercy, as a substitute for Mary. In Ibaragi, where about 18,000 residents embraced Christianity in the 1580s, a lacquer bowl with a cross painted on it, a statue of the crucified Christ and an ivory statue of Mary were found hidden in what was called 'a box not to be opened.' Their worship revolves around reverence for ancestors Many Hidden Christians rejected Catholicism after the persecution ended because Catholic priests refused to recognize them as real Christians unless they agreed to be rebaptized and abandon the Buddhist altars that their ancestors used. 'They are very proud of what they and their ancestors have believed in' for hundreds of years, even at the risk of their lives, said Emi Mase-Hasegawa, a religion studies professor at J.F. Oberlin University in Tokyo. Tanimoto believes his ancestors continued the Hidden Christian traditions because becoming Catholic meant rejecting the Buddhism and Shintoism that had become a strong part of their daily lives underground. 'I'm not a Christian,' Tanimoto said. Even though some of their Latin chants focus on the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ, their prayers are also meant to "ask our ancestors to protect us, to protect our daily lives,' he said. 'We are not doing this to worship Jesus or Mary. … Our responsibility is to faithfully carry on the way our ancestors had practiced.' Archaic Latin chants are an important part of the religion Hidden Christians' ceremonies often include the recitation of Latin chants, called Orasho. The Orasho comes from the original Latin or Portuguese prayers brought to Japan by 16th century missionaries. Recently on Ikitsuki, three men performed a rare Orasho. All wore dark formal kimonos and solemnly made the sign of the cross in front of their faces before starting their prayers — a mix of archaic Japanese and Latin. Tanimoto, a farmer, is the youngest of only four men who can recite Orasho in his community. As a child, he regularly saw men performing Orasho on tatami mats before an altar when neighbors gathered for funerals and memorials. About 40 years ago, in his mid-20s, he took Orasho lessons from his uncle so he could pray to the Closet God that his family has kept for generations. Tanimoto recently showed the AP a weathered copy of a prayer his grandfather wrote with a brush and ink, like the ones his ancestors had diligently copied from older generations. As he carefully turned the pages of the Orasho book, Tanimoto said he mostly understands the Japanese but not the Latin. It's difficult, he said, but 'we just memorize the whole thing.' Today, because funerals are no longer held at homes and younger people are leaving the island, Orasho is only performed two or three times a year. Researchers and believers acknowledge the tradition is dying There are few studies of Hidden Christians so it's not clear how many still exist. There were an estimated 30,000 in Nagasaki, including about 10,000 in Ikitsuki, in the 1940s, according to government figures. But the last confirmed baptism ritual was in 1994, and some estimates say there are less than 100 Hidden Christians left on Ikitsuki. Hidden Christianity is linked to the communal ties that formed when Japan was a largely agricultural society. Those ties crumbled as the country modernized after WWII, with recent developments revolutionizing people's lives, even in rural Japan. The accompanying decline in the population of farmers and young people, along with women increasingly working outside of the home, has made it difficult to maintain the tight networks that nurtured Hidden Christianity. 'In a society of growing individualism, it is difficult to keep Hidden Christianity as it is,' said Shigeo Nakazono, the head of a local folklore museum who has researched and interviewed Hidden Christians for 30 years. Hidden Christianity has a structural weakness, he said, because there are no professional religious leaders tasked with teaching doctrine and adapting the religion to environmental changes. Nakazono has started collecting artifacts and archiving video interviews he's done with Hidden Christians since the 1990s, seeking to preserve a record of the endangered religion. Mase-Hasegawa agreed that Hidden Christianity is on its way to extinction. 'As a researcher, it will be a huge loss,' she said. Masashi Funabara, 63, a retired town hall official, said most of the nearby groups have disbanded over the last two decades. His group, which now has only two families, is the only one left, down from nine in his district. They meet only a few times a year. 'The amount of time we are responsible for these holy icons is only about 20 to 30 years, compared to the long history when our ancestors kept their faith in fear of persecution. When I imagined their suffering, I felt that I should not easily give up,' Funabara said. Just as his father did when memorizing the Orasho, Funabara has written down passages in notebooks; he hopes his son, who works for the local government, will one day agree to be his successor. Tanimoto also wants his son to keep the tradition alive. 'Hidden Christianity itself will go extinct sooner or later, and that is inevitable, but I hope it will go on at least in my family,' he said. 'That's my tiny glimmer of hope.' ___ Tokyo photographer Eugene Hoshiko contributed to this story. ___ Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
Times
39 minutes ago
- Times
Stick review: Owen Wilson's golfer charms, but is this the ‘new Ted Lasso'?
Stick, shtick and plenty of heart. Apple TV+ is hoping this feelgood sports comedy is the new Ted Lasso, and although it might not be everyone's (tin) cup of tea, there's a lot to like about this show. Let's start with the stick; that's a golf club if you hadn't already guessed, and although there's plenty of green-side chat and birdies, the good news is you don't need to like or understand the sport to enjoy the show (although it probably helps). Our story centres on an ageing former golf pro, Pryce Cahill (Owen Wilson). He was once the next big thing on tour before spectacularly crashing and burning. Twenty or so years later, he's still haunted by his failure, unsuccessfully trying to save his marriage to Amber-Linn (Judy Greer), drinking a lot and working in a golf shop recommending overpriced clubs to make as much commission as possible. Pryce just can't catch a break — that is, until he spots the troubled teenager Santi Wheeler (Peter Dager) hitting colossal drives after sneaking on to the local range and sees the potential to make him a star. Like most things in Pryce's life, this isn't going to be easy, and Santi (for reasons that will become clear as the show goes on) is incredibly resistant to help with his golf and taking this big risk. However, when his mother, Elena (Mariana Treviño), realises this could be a chance to make enough money for the family to change their lives, she reluctantly agrees to go on tour in a crowded camper van owned and driven by Pryce's old caddy, Mitts (Marc Maron). So begins a very pleasing journey of discovery: a mentor who's all-in on a long shot and his cantankerous mate; a mother who knows what she wants and a hot-headed raw talent with a lot of baggage — what could possibly go wrong? • Why Ted Lasso is the best show about football That leads me to the elephant in the room, the shtick. Many people like Wilson's thing. That mild Texas drawl, loveable loser, laid-back demeanour and anything-goes easy charm. And well, some don't. I'm in the former camp and therefore the prospect of ten episodes of a Wilson-powered vehicle fills my heart with happiness — but for those who wish they'd never seen You, Me and Dupree or Wedding Crashers, to use the golfing parlance, now's the time to pick up and head for the 19th hole. And so if you're not put off by golf or Wilson, let us talk about the real star of the show: the heart. Whereas 'cooler' comedy tends to focus on the edgy and the anxiety-provoking, this is a show happy to settle in with its feelings, and there are plenty of them. From the rage against the machine relationship between youngsters Santi and the equally disenfranchised country club waitress Zero (Lilli Kay) and the quirky dynamic between middle-aged Elena and Mitts, there's a lot going on. And that's before we throw in Pryce's complicated relationships with everyone, which drive the story along at a pace. Like Ted Lasso, this is a story that is unafraid to take its flawed characters on an emotionally charged comedic flight over fairway and rough, through the woods and into bunkers, before leaving them all a putt at happiness. If you're looking for a new comedy, it's worth a shot.★★★★☆ Love TV? Discover the best shows on Netflix, the best Prime Video TV shows, the best Disney+ shows , the best Apple TV+ shows, the best shows on BBC iPlayer, the best shows on Sky and Now, the best shows on ITVX, the best shows on Channel 4 streaming, the best shows on Paramount+ and our favourite hidden gem TV shows. Don't forget to check our critics' choices to what to watch this week and browse our comprehensive TV guide
The Guardian
2 hours ago
- The Guardian
Stick review – Owen Wilson is utterly charming in the Ted Lasso of golf
I've never met a golfer in real life. I've always assumed I'm the wrong demographic – perhaps in terms of age, or class or at least tax bracket – or perhaps my lack of athleticism is so aggressive that it has prevented me from becoming friends with anyone with even the mildest sporting proclivity for all my life. Instead, I have essentially taken Mark Twain's word for it that golf is a good walk spoiled, and gone about my days. Now, however, I think golf may be the spoiler of a good new comedy drama. Stick, it's called – a deadening name – and it stars Owen Wilson as washed-up golf pro Pryce Cahill. He had a televised meltdown during a tournament at the peak of his career ('He triple-bogeyed his entire life') and is now reduced to selling golf kit, giving lessons to rich old ladies and hustling for cash in bars. He is also going through a divorce, and still living in the former marital home that his wife Amber-Linn (Judy Greer) – with whom he is still on good terms, bound as they are by a shared sorrow – now wants them to sell. When our hero (undeniably charming and eminently watchable, given Wilson's talents, which are always more subtle than you remember) comes across a teenager, Santi (Peter Dager, a lovely mix of adolescent cockiness, fragility and insubordination), sneaking into the club to hit shots every day, Pryce realises Santi is a prodigy and that he may be able to make something of him. And – who knows? – maybe something of himself again at the same time. All Pryce has to do is persuade Santi's mother Elena (Mariana Treviño) to let him take Santi on a road trip to half a dozen tournaments so he might qualify for the US amateur championships, and talk his best friend and hustle partner Mitts (Marc Maron) into driving the RV. Elena demands $100,000 and she's coming with them, while Mitts gives in without requiring payment. Pryce agrees to let Amber-Linn buy him out of the house for the required sum and, after a few minor hiccups, we are off to the races – or at least the golf tournaments. It's not really about the golf, of course, any more than Ted Lasso – whose success Apple is clearly trying to replicate here – was about football. Santi has been emotionally damaged by his now absent father, and Pryce has his triple-bogeyed life to remake. Through the magic of sporting metaphors, gradually improving communications skills and the transformation of the motley crew (to whom is added a sacked young bartender called Zero, played by Lilli Kay) into a loving found family, there is every sign that wounds will be healed and fame and fortune secured for all. All you need, really, is to take Pryce's 'Grossweiner' story to heart: all you can control is your swing, in the moment. Do your best then and there. What happens to the ball after that is out of your hands. But this is the kind of thing I am most allergic to, because what happens to the ball after that is entirely the product of what you have achieved up to then – just like in life, and the exact opposite of the lesson Pryce is purportedly teaching. Go stand in a bunker and think about things again. Look, Stick is fine. It's a pleasant, feelgood half hour every time. It never outstays its welcome, everyone puts in a solid performance and Wilson brings every ounce of energy he has to every scene he's in. But nothing takes off, never mind soars. Ted Lasso had jokes while Stick trades in mildly humorous lines. Ted had the American versus British, fish-out-of-water thing going on; Stick lacks that secondary motor. And Ted had football. Stick has golf. One of which sports has familiarity, arouses widespread passion in the real world and is inherently televisual. The other, no matter how much you do with drones and other inventive shots, has none of these advantages. It's another drag on a vehicle that isn't quite as streamlined as it should be in the first place. Stick is on Apple TV+ now.
