At every golf tournament, on any course, in any country, one factor remains constant and highly-prized - silence. As Brian Poole and the Tremeloes sang so soothingly back in the 1960s, silence is golden, golden.
Thus, the volunteers entrusted with holding the ''quiet please'' signs inside the ropes are there for a good reason, to reduce the potential for distraction to an absolute minimum.
Not the scrunching of a plastic lunch bag, or an innocent closing of a zip or a quiet clearing of the throat. Zero noise is the gold standard. Nothing less will do.
Yet, the irony of this goal is that every round of golf has its own soundtrack, often produced by ''performers'' well outside the control of the noise ''police''.
At Millbrook yesterday, in the finger-numbing chill of an early-morning start, most of the sounds disturbing the near-frozen silence came courtesy of the usual suspects.
There were helicopters whirring above us, aircraft sweeping into position across a steel-grey sky for their approach to the runway at Frankton, the occasional hum or ''thunk'' from the many building sites (there are several mansion-type homes rising mushroom-like along the fairway fringes), traffic whizzing back and forth along nearby Malaghans Rd, the gentle splash of a centre-pond fountain, the odd squawk of pukekos or oystercatchers and, it must be emphasised, and nary a whisper from the etiquette-minded fans.
But, added to this complex mix was the wise-cracking, joke-making, fun-loving, crowd-pleasing American golfer Rocco Mediate, whose constant banter and commentary ensured the soundtrack for the opening round of the New Zealand Open was truly one of a kind.
''Stop you dog'', he yelled as his tee shot threatened to run off the 11th green, then proclaimed ''that's my partner right there!'' minutes later when former Black Cap Mark Richardson rolled in a long putt for birdie two.
When he three-putted the 18th from not that far away, he castigated himself (''I did it again!'') but then did his best to encourage Kiwi companion Michael Hendry, when he finally made a birdie a minute or two later (''that'll open the floodgates, Michael'').
But Nostradamus he is not. Sadly, the rest of the non-stop chatter was not prompted by a regular stream of birdies and/or eagles because it just wasn't one of those burn-em up days. Quite the opposite, in fact.
The two pros walked off the ninth green (their 18th hole) sharing the same score of an even-par 72. Ordinarily, after day one of a four-day event, this would not be regarded as a total disaster, more of a fair-to-middling but ''must do-better'' result.
But in the context of near-perfect, windless conditions which produced a host of sub-par scores, as low as 6-under, Hendry and Mediate's rounds amounted to numerous lost opportunities, not fatal but certainly mountain-creating, leaving a climb back into contention that might have defied even the late, great Sir Ed.
More revealing, perhaps, was the sharp contrast in demeanours as Hendry and Mediate walked back to the scorers' shed.
The latter was happy to pose for photographs with some American tourists and tell a questioner from the large public gallery: ''It was awesome out there. I can't think of a single thing to complain about''.
But the former was seething, a picture of controlled fury, with himself it must be said, for a few errant drives (one out of bounds, another only centimetres from a dead and buried lie in the bullrushes) and for a succession of putts that should have dropped but just would not.
Not even a miraculous shot to within less than 1m on the difficult 402m fourth hole, after hitting a cautious three wood into oblivion, could placate Hendry.
Nor did the suggestion that he could now put this round behind him and focus on The Hills, where he has always scored well.
''Nah,'' he said with a dismissive shake of the head.
''I'm too far back. I'll have to shoot 10-under now, on one of the next three days - so bloody annoying.''
And as for Mediate, well, considering he had never set eyes on the course before, a three-bogey, three-birdie 72 was assessed as ''it's OK, I'm still alive'' and then another castigation for not adjusting to the slowish greens which saw three three-putts.
But, still laughing, he predicted: ''Tomorrow will be better, I promise''. And then, as an afterthought: ''Well it had better be or I'll be kicking someone's ass - probably my own''.
