Yeah, right. Dent reached the same flag with driver, six-iron.
Aside from being outdriven, the Internationals were consistently outputted. The little-known Garrido, whose tournament program picture showed him with his back to the camera, looked helpless on Tres Vidas's Bermuda-grass greens for most of the week. On Friday his short misses compelled Crampton—not the cheeriest sort even under the best of circumstances—to go back to his caddie for a putter to complete two of the first three holes. And Simon Hobday, of South Africa, after practically stubbing an uphill 12-footer for birdie on number 11 the next day, berated himself vocally and subsequently muttered over his putter more than is healthy.
The U.S. team's four-ball sweep made the Cup's outcome almost a foregone conclusion, but Sunday's eight individual matches still provided some competitive interest.
Colbert won the battle of the captains, beating Charles 69-72. Dent then clinched victory for the Americans with a 71-76 battering of Henning. (The margin would have been even greater if Dent hadn't topped his drive into an inconspicuous water hazard off the 18th tee and made double bogey. "I couldn't get over the water," he later told his teammates with a grin, leading them to assume he meant the Pacific Ocean, which borders the course.) Gilbert and Murphy won by large margins, Gilbert shooting the day's low round, a 68. And Wargo saved a half against Horton with a birdie at 18, where he stuck a daring eight-iron six feet past the pin and just short of the beach beyond.
The beach figured, as it turned out, in two late (and too late) International victories. Jacklin went over the green on the 9th hole against Weiskopf, but saved par by lofting a wedge from the sand over a 15-foot-high stone bulkhead to within 15 feet of the cup. (Outcome: Jacklin, 71-74.) And Marsh, who shot 69, easily defeated Albus, who in addition to his sunburn also bore hip, rib and shoulder bruises after being mugged by a freak wave Saturday evening while swimming near his hotel.
Otherwise, all currents favored the Americans. "We didn't play worth a damn, did we?" said captain Charles, making no excuses.
As for Archer, the Cup's worrywart, his worst fears came true: He shot 76 and took a five-stroke caning from the suddenly putting-proficient Garrido. Ever the contrarian, Archer beamed as if he had shot the course record. "I've been uncomfortable over the ball," he said, assuming a clubless stance a few yards from the storm-weathered stucco of the clubhouse. "But I'm moving in the right direction now. The whole week was positive for me." He straightened and started to walk away. "My wife and I," he said with a little salute, "had a real nice time here in Puerto Rico."
Wrong resort. Right sentiment. For the Yanks, this Chrysler Cup was a Mexican holiday.