Nick Of Time

Ashen. That pretty much describes Faldo's appearance as he left the 14th green. But his mind still churned: "I said, Somehow you'd better play the best four holes of your life. I guess I did."

Wide with his irons all day, Faldo finally outsmarted the wind at the 15th, hitting a brilliant half-five-iron to within three feet of the cup to set up an easy birdie that left him one stroke off the pace. He scrambled for par from behind the green on the 16th, while Cook, on the par-5 17th, narrowly missed a 30-foot eagle putt that would most likely have settled Faldo's hash. Then the reprieve: Cook's missed neargimme birdie attempt. Had he made the putt, he would have had a two-shot lead and a burst of confidence going into the final hole. Instead, Cook was left to ponder what should have been. "At least I hit the hole," he said.

Cook's 18th and Faldo's 17th produced the final swing. With the mercurial Pate having fallen to fourth place behind late-surging Jose-Maria Olazabal, Cook drove for glory and split the fairway. However, indecision on his second shot cost him dearly. After debating whether to hit a two-iron or a three-iron, Cook took a tentative swipe with the two-iron. The most critical shot of his life ended up under a police barricade, right of the green. He made a bogey 5, which opened the way for Faldo, who had hit his second shot to the 17th green with a courageous four-iron. Faldo left his 20-foot eagle putt short by inches—"right in the jaws," he would recall with disgust—but the subsequent birdie returned the lead to him by a stroke.

That left only number 18 standing between Faldo and victory, and he responded with four shots that could have fit on a sidewalk running from tee to cup. His three-iron second shot nearly hit the pin before stopping 25 feet from the hole just off the back edge of the green. The bleacher Brits roared their approval, and constables stretched a hawser across the fairway to ward off the traditional spectator stampede. Faldo, now an emotional wreck, could manage only a few weak waves on his march up the fairway. "I mean, I still had a bit of work to do, didn't I?" he said later.

His putt from the fringe looked muffed, laboring a few turns before gliding down to within a foot of the pin with Faldo following, fanning it along. Then, standing over the one-footer, he shook. Trembled. Wobbled. "I don't think I could have made a three-footer," he said. Once the putt was safely down, he bent over, grimacing as if in pain, the tears coming, before raising his arms in triumph. Fifteen minutes later his voice continued to crack, although a smile broke through as well, just as the sun had done from time to time during the round.

Some in the gallery were offended, and others were amused, by Faldo's trophy speech, particularly his remarks about the press: "I have to thank the press from the bottom of my, well, from my bottom, maybe." Faldo rages at the press because its musings about his game are so much like the gnarly voices of doubt he hears in his own head. He knows how close he comes to "the knife's edge"—his words—when he plays.

In his performance at Muirfield, Faldo again displayed the steely resolve that has led many to liken him to Hogan. But when Faldo was asked why he had cried after tapping in for the victory, there was self-rebuke in his reply. "I'm just an emotional little old petal," he said.

Few would agree, but the unexpected crack in Faldo's facade at Muirfield invites a reappraisal of the man who is unquestionably the premier British golfer of his generation and the best player in the world today.