Very British Open

What happened was that his five-iron sailed left into one last trap, pin-high, many in the gallery cheering boorishly as the ball came to rest. But who's to worry? All Azinger had to do was get a golf ball up and down out of a sand trap—the one thing he could do better than anyone else in the world, even Faldo. Unfortunately, the ball was in such a position that Azinger had to take an awkward stance. He just barely blasted out and left himself a 30-footer that he hit 29. Faldo was, at last, the British champion.

"This morning," Faldo said, "I said to myself, 'This is a chance you may never get again.' I just wanted to try. In 20 years it would have been sad to hang your hat up and say, 'I was so close once, but I missed.' "

In making 18 straight pars, Faldo was not so much the champion as he was Muirfield itself—36 out, 35 back, par 71—only a backdrop against which Azinger played the real opponents, the course and himself. He fell to it, rose to it and, ultimately, fell to it. He's smart. He wants to grow from it. He will. As he stood on the 18th green in front of the ancient Muirfield clubhouse with his wife, Toni, his 18-month-old daughter, Sarah Jean, and a tear in his eye, Paul Azinger looked very much like the savior who can put the game in the back pocket of his size-32 slacks and not fall over.

It's about time. How long does the sign have to hang in the window, anyway? Counting Faldo's Open, the last 18 major championships have been won by 18 different players. Forget anybody winning the Grand Slam; maybe somebody could win two majors in one year. Maybe somebody could plod on past pretty-darn-good to sort-of-memorable.

Weren't the '80s supposed to be the age of the new and improved Big Three, Bernhard Langer, Seve Ballesteros and Greg Norman? Well, the Big Three better hurry up or the '80s better slowdown. In this decade, they have divvied up only five majors—none this year, one last year. The guys from decades defunct—Tom Watson, Lee Trevino, Raymond Floyd and Nicklaus—have 11, and Watson is threatening again.

Of course, nobody still expects Nicklaus to change water into wine at every major, except maybe Nicklaus. After his Thursday round of 74, he said he was "as down as I've been in a long time." So he drove 10 minutes along the coast to North Berwick and hit a few balls by himself. Or so he thought, until he heard a voice from the dim background.

"Agghh, Jack, you're crossin' the line," it said.

Nicklaus turned around. "What's that?"

"You're crossin' the line at the top of the swing," said a little man in a Scottish cap. His name was Doug Kaddie and he was right. That's what Nicklaus was doing. "I'd worked a couple weeks ago with Jack [Grout] on that very thing," Nicklaus said. The next day he shot 71. As it turned out, Kaddie is a 23 handicapper. On Saturday, without an evening lesson from his Kaddie, Nicklaus went out and shot an 81. Maybe Kaddie charges too much.

If St. Andrews is the most loved British course and Prestwick is the quaintest, then Muirfield is simply the finest. Its trophy case holds the names of Vardon, Hagen, Cotton, Player, Nicklaus, Trevino and Watson. That explained the sense of violation Scots might have felt when Aussie Rodger Davis fired his gaudy 64 on Thursday, a day when, early on at least, windless, rainless Muirfield was as vulnerable as, Watson said, "a naked lady." The 64 was not as garish as the man's socks, which read RODGER in argyle up one side of each leg and DAVIS down the other. Vardon winced in his grave. Hagen lifted a wee whiskey.