An Epic Finish

At 16 on the Old Course on Sunday, Daly began the collapse everybody expected. After all, he had the highest fourth-round scoring average on the Tour. And sure enough, he stubbed his toe with a bogey after a 325-yard drive. His lead was two going into the one hole at St. Andrews nobody wants to play, the 17th. If this hole were human, it would be Dennis Hopper.

For the week it would give up 13 birdies. To Daly it had given up a double bogey just the day before. This time he hit a six-iron that the wind dumped into the Road Bunker, the place where 65s go to become 73s. Daly had no shot forward and no way out backward. Sideways left was an option, but even that was chancy.

One thing gave him hope. Playing partner Ernie Els had nearly the same shot. "No way I could've hit that shot if it weren't for seeing Ernie do it first," Daly would say. He came splashing out on Els's heels—clearing the lip by inches—and two-putted for the happiest 5 of his life.

All that was left was to make his 4 on the 18th and see if Costantino Rocca could par the 17th and birdie the 18th to tie, a nasty order. But Rocca did par the 17th, miraculously putting his third shot from the road to within four feet. And then he hit his drive long up the left side of 18, almost to the green. With all the world watching, especially John and Paulette, who were holding each other by their haircuts near a TV set behind the green, Rocca did the unforgivable. He chunked his chip. Flubbed it like a 22 handicapper. It flew maybe five feet—not much longer than one of the linguini noodles he'd been making for friends all week—and rolled another 30.

This was the same Rocca who had missed a tiddler to turn the tide in the Americans' favor at the '93 Ryder Cup. It had been his one claim to blame, and though he had tried to live that down—"I don't kill anybody," he said last week, "I just miss the putt"—how would he ever explain this?

Behind the green, Daly's agent Bud Martin was whooping and hollering. Daly was allowing himself a little smile and a hug. But his caddie, Greg Rita, was walking around saying, "It's not over. Gotta be ready for a playoff."

Get serious. Rocca had 65 feet left from the Valley of Sin, which looks like a grassed-in Paul Bunyan footprint, only deeper and trickier. Yet here came the putt, steaming at the hole and then diving in as if it were late for a subway. The crowd shook the bleachers with its roar, and Rocca lay flat on the hallowed turf, pounding the grass with utter, disbelieving delight.

"I feel like I just got kicked in the stomach," said Paulette.

"I feel like a jerk," said Martin.

"Oh,——," said Daly.