What matters in professional sport? The score, or the person?

This week, on the first day of The Open, we saw both. Two unusual players - the ageing hulk John Daly and wee Rory McIlroy - had brilliant rounds over the Old Course. Everyone was stunned. And just as well.

The truth about professional golf these days is grim - TV audiences for broadcast tournaments are in decline. Why? Because it's so bloody boring. For the last few years only two players have been entertaining to watch - Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson. The rest are the most dull, uninspiring group of money-saturated plodders ever to invade our screens. That's why golf as a spectator sport is in trouble.

British golf - with the glad exception of McIlroy - is hardly what you'd call entertaining. Ian Poulter wears costumes of bright, arresting colours. Perhaps Poulter's character is entertaining, but you'd never know because all you see is the costume. Westwood, McDowell, Harrington? These fellows could bore a flock of sheep to death. When did anyone last show any emotion, any temper, any flair?

Some said Nick Faldo was a cold, frigid type. Maybe so, but he was a fierce competitor, and it was hugely entertaining to watch him use his mind in the battles against Greg Norman and others. Sport must be about battles or it's nothing. And Faldo in his prime was to be feared.

Asian players? There is young Ryo Ishikawa of Japan, whose long hair and good looks are a relief from the miserable parade of nobodies from east of Cairo in recent decades. You have to go back to Tommy Nakajima and the disaster at the Road Hole in 1989 to find anyone from Asia worth watching.

The South Africans and their neighbours from Zimbabwe are a good fun gang, but only Ernie Els has provided us with anything to remember. The Big Easy, they call him for his huge, effortless swing. He's here playing The Open, but he's unlikely to do much. Still, at least he's here.

Australia and New Zealand? There is some real talent there, but they lack personality. Does anyone fear an Australian? Does anyone fear a Kiwi these days? It's an embarrassing question.

Like ironing every last wrinkle from a shirt, there is an ugly but relentless trend to sterilize our sporting champions' every utterance, their every thought. Out there somewhere exists a terrifying thought - that a golfer or tennis player with access to the media might misbehave in deed or word and somehow destroy the futures of millions of children whose hero worship makes them vulnerable to the Ebola of modern life - that a champion might say or do something wrong!

This is utter rubbish. Worse, it's wrecking sport. Of course there will be oddballs, eccentrics, and plain bastards. But let them be so. Sport is just that - sport. It isn't politics or religion. We love it, we need it, for its entertainment.

On Wednesday evening as the light grew soft here in St Andrews the Royal & Ancient Golf Club - hosts of The Open - invited all the Open Champions visiting to assemble on the first tee for a group photograph, followed by the Champions Dinner. It was a glorious sight. With the exception of Norman, Nicklaus, Price, and Miller ( Kel Nagle is not well enough to make it) they were all there, including the true greats - Thomson, Watson, Player, Palmer. There was Lee Trevino, Tiger Woods, and the rest. And John Daly, 44 years old and dressed in an iridescent jacket of bizarre pattern. Oh, no! Among the suits, jackets, and neckties, there was Daly, a terrible caricature of his own personality.

Yet no one took umbrage. Because John Daly not only won at St Andrews in 1995 in fine style, but he has never pretended to be other than his own vastly troubled self. And in a wonderful way professional golf's generous family admires this kind of humility, even if it dresses in such a crass manner. Apparently Daly is broke - again - and promotes these clothes.

But this morning Daly started off birdie, birdie, and by 9am they were uttering his name in the coffee shops in Market Street and shaking their heads. He finished with an amazing 66. However awful his wardrobe, by God Daly can play, they said.

Then there is the baby-faced McIlroy. After winning a tournament in the US last year a journalist asked him what he was going to do next. " Call my Mum," he replied in that Ulster accent. What a gem of an answer! Long, curly hair and a sweet face - this is just what the game needs now.

But there is more to McIlroy than cute looks and innocent words. He knows how to take risks, and he has a cool head on his shoulders. Many Ulstermen do. His second shot to the Road Hole green was a dangerous gamble, but perfect in its execution. He didn't sink the putt for birdie, but he did birdie the eighteenth, for a 63.

After such an astonishing start it would be remarkable luck for McIlroy to win The Open. And you need luck. As Peter Thomson says, you need to play well yourself and you need your opponents to muck it up.

Rory McIlroy and John Daly gave us what we all crave - entertainment.