An Epic Finish

In an odd way Daly was helping us all rediscover the wonders of St. Andrews, which is maybe the only place on earth where you could see the following:

•Greg Norman, his back to the 17th green, hitting his third shot off a wall and back onto the green, then draining the putt for the weirdest 4 of the week.

•Jack Nicklaus making a 10 on the par-5 14th. It happened on Thursday when he went straight to Hell (Bunker) and couldn't find his way out with a map and a shovel. He needed four shots to get out, and then he three-putted for good measure, which allows him to tell anybody who asks how he made a 10: "Missed a three-footer for 9."

•Bill Glasson sharing the Friday lead at the 17th tee, then watching his ball register at the Old Course Hotel en route to an 8.

Even the daily flashes in the pan were flashier than usual. Saturday's hero was Michael Campbell, a roguish 26-year-old from New Zealand who put up the best score of the week—a seven-under 65—to take a two-shot lead. The great-great-great-great-grandson of a Scot, Campbell will be claimed as a native of Dundee if he keeps playing as he did at St. Andrews. "Am I overwhelmed?" he repeated Saturday night. "Well, no, not really—yes, I am. Yes, yes, I am very overwhelmed."

He had overwhelmed the field from behind. The 28 guys who teed off after him went 57 over par. He went seven under. That's how you get an Open lead to sleep with you on a Saturday night.

The next day came up so windy that for the first time all week, the bobbies used the straps under their chins to keep their hats on. And unlike the previous day, Campbell was anything but great-great-great-great. He three-putted the 5th, drove into one of the Coffin bunkers at 6, three-putted the 8th, shot 76 and finished tied for third.

Four back when the round began, Daly was feeling just right. He ate "five or six chocolate croissant things" for breakfast, he said, and then he and his wife, Paulette, danced crazily in their room to Wilson Pickett CDs. "I tell you, I love my wife probably more 'n golf," he would say later. Said Paulette, "He sure didn't seem nervous."

While the players in the two groups behind him fretted, Daly parred the first three holes, birdied the 4th, 7th and 8th, and made the turn with a one-shot lead. On a day when only two players broke 70, a charge on Daly never materialized. Not from Steve Elkington, who tied for sixth; not from Mark Brooks, who tied for third. Daly would have to come back to them.

Lord, you had to figure he would. Hadn't his whole life been a lot of heaving this way and that? As an unknown in 1991 he won the PGA at Crooked Stick out of the trunk of his car. Great, but that revealed a drunk who slept in his car, trashed his house, abused his second wife (page 62) and broke any mirror with his likeness in it. Not great, but the sobriety he was forced to adopt to save his career helped him get some control of his life. Great, except that recovery was almost too much for him to cope with, leading to amusement-park mood swings and the two suspensions. Bad, except that the suspensions gave him the last two winters away from golf, which gave him time to grow up a little, learn to play the guitar, marry Paulette, have a baby. Wonderful, except that he had not broken an egg all year on Tour and hadn't earned a single Ryder Cup point. Not that U.S. captain Lanny Wadkins would want him. Wouldn't fit the team chemistry, Wadkins suggested in May. Who knew which way the pendulum would swing in Daly's life now?