An Epic Finish

If ever there was a sobriety-ruiner, this was it—worse than chocolates and migraines and mood swings. Daly had just been Greg Normanized. But then he pulled an anti-Shark. He attacked. Instead of letting Destiny kick his butt, he threw Destiny into the turnbuckle. He simply played his cream-centered heart out. He nearly birdied the 1st with a nine-iron that just cleared the wee burn, and Rocca three-putted from above the hole. Then Daly rolled in the sweetest 35-foot birdie putt on the 2nd, while Rocca sent his birdie putt six inches left. Then Daly made a routine par on the unparrable 17th with a 345-yard drive and a lovely bump-and-run nine-iron. Rocca, stuck in the same Road Bunker that Daly had visited earlier, left it in twice and made a 7. Finally Daly made a ho-hum par at the 18th. At one point in the drubbing, you half expected Rocca to ask, "Hey, don't I stroke here?"

Daly played the playoff in one-under 15. That 15, coupled with his final-round 71, is the only 86 this side of the Des Moines Optimist Club D-flight that is going to win you any kind of trophy. It was enough to beat Rocca by four. Destiny just got pinned.

Rocca smiled happily. He had choked horribly, recovered miraculously and finally lost to a better player. He didn't kill anyone, especially himself.

A long time ago, after the preposterous win at Crooked Stick, Daly announced, "I wanna have more majors than Jack Nicklaus." Well, who knows? This Daly breaks all the rules, some good, some bad, some he's never heard of. At 29, he has a second major. Since World War II, Nicklaus, Tom Watson and Johnny Miller are the only other Americans to have done that before the age of 30. And though Daly told the throng afterward, "I can't believe I get to come back for five more of these!" the reality is he gets to keep coming back until he's 65, whether they like it or not. Not that we want to bother anybody with rules and crap.

O.K., some starched mustaches don't see eye-to-eye with Daly—some players don't either—but you know what? Let 'em eat haggis.

Nobody ever said you have to take a lore test before you play St. Andrews. Nobody said you have to wear a coat and tie to win here either. Like him or not, Daly is tougher than truck wax. When his talents bloom, nobody is more thrilling to watch. He may be the oaf who lugs in your Baldwin piano, but he is also the guy who can play a sweet Chopin nocturne on it.

So go out and celebrate this victory John Daly-style. Find someone special and enjoy a gourmet meal somewhere.

Maybe at a nice Exxon station.