David is Goliath

Duval breaks through at the Open for his first major title—finally

By Dan Jenkins

September 2001

The 130th British Open was expected to be played on the links of Royal Tiger & St. Woods. It would be the same old story, right? Something similar to the majors at Eldrick National, Woods Beach, and St. Tiger. But then a saga was presented that was so crazy, it left this bureau singing a line from our familiar Marine hymn—from the falls of Monty-zoomer to the shores of similes.

Those similes, with their metaphor cousins, would be sprayed all over David Duval, of course, after he brought a dark, or Darth, calm to the championship. But not to get ahead of one's ownself. Let the tale be told in all of its wacko nutsiness. Correctly, as you may know, the course is known as Royal Lytham & St. Annes, so named, no doubt, for the other two Bronte sisters, Lytham and Anne. The layout sits hard by the Irish Sea on a blue-collar coast of England, down near enchanted Blackpool, the area where pleasure-seekers go to sunbathe in the gray mist and swirling winds.

This time, after so many warm British Opens in the past—an evil plot against cashmere, obviously—the locals were right about their weather. As one taxi driver put it, "What we say is, 'If you can see Liverpool in the morning, you know it's going to rain, and if you can't see Liverpool, it is raining.' "

Frequent tastes of goofy weather—cold, then not—made the course even more challenging. And Lytham has 197 bunkers, enough to make it look more like a moonscape than any other place on this particular planet—a small step for man, a giant step for Fred Couples and Jim Furyk. Not to forget Colin Montgomerie and Tiger, eventually.

Tiger arrived after playing fun golf and fishing with cronies in Ireland, and immediately he seemed to be trying to talk his way out of his mild slump. "I've made some small adjustments," he said, "and I'm starting to hit the ball a bit more solid." Butch Harmon, his guru, took it to another level when he said, "He could play blindfolded here and I wouldn't bet against him."

Confidence builder.

On the other hand, Montgomerie, the big Scot and crowd favorite, arrived displaying his better side and a self-deprecating sense of humor. He spoke of his past failures in majors and said there was nothing to recommend him.

Regarding Colin, it was Lewine Mair of The Daily Telegraph who explained, "He's also earned a new wave of respect by dealing so openly and honestly with his marriage problems of last year." Whether or not they are resolved depends on who you read or talk to.

But majors have a way of keeping everyone on edge, and Sergio Garcia got a bit of a jolt when a golf cart accidentally backed up and pinned his assistant manager against the clubhouse. Carlos Rodriguez' ankle was crushed, requiring screws in two places. And we thought the golf course was going to be tough. Thursday was cold, windy, rainy. You started by counting the gables on the monstrous old redbrick clubhouse, looking for all the world like a place where P.D. James might stumble upon three dead bodies.

Playing through the worst of the elements, Montgomerie carved out a glorious six-under 65 and became the dominant presence in the championship for three days. He played smartly and swung beautifully and putted like Tiger usually does. On Day 1, he seized the lead by three over any-and-all lurkers, but, more importantly, by six over Tiger.

Woods, who hadn't found a single bunker while winning by eight last year at St. Andrews, began finding plenty of sand, and was forced to dig deep to salvage a 71. It was definitely a trend. The rest of the day's fun was provided by two other Americans. Couples, paired with Montgomerie, was three under par when he landed in a pot bunker near the 14th green.