SOUTHPORT, England -- Shame on everyone who thinks Greg Norman will vanish from the weekend leader board faster than a plate full of brownies in the media center. I'm fully aware the man hasn't made a blip on the competitive radar in almost 10 years, that he arrives at this juncture bearing decades of major-championship scar tissue. I wasn't born yesterday, although Mr. Chris Evert was conceived late last month, as Norman's marriage to the former tennis star has produced a Shark of greater bite and matrimonial might.
Can't you see what is happening? Norman, whose career is defined by the big ones that got away, found himself a wife with 18 major titles, the same number as Jack Nicklaus. So what if she won them in a different sport? The lady is a champ, and regardless of whether she takes her morning eggs on one of those Rosewood platters they dish out to the winner at Wimbledon, a man can't sit with her over breakfast and not absorb positive mojo.
If it snows here tomorrow, which isn't beyond the realm of meteorological possibilities, the British summer, which can be shortened to "bummer," becomes Norman's friend. He still drives the ball wonderfully, still makes all the five-footers, and neither Bob Tway nor Larry Mize are in the field.
Among those lurking a mere three strokes off the 36-hole lead is David Duval. If I see white flakes falling from the sky when I wake up, never mind those brownies. I'm heading straight to the betting shop.