Very British Open

But here came Mr. Amazinger, trying to become only the fourth man in history (Lema, Hogan, Watson are the others) to win the British Open on his first go-round. His opening pair of 68s gave him the lead; to the dismay of one British tabloid, whose headline read: THE MAN FROM NOWHERE. Which was a lie. As far as the British Open goes, Azinger was more accurately the Man from the Couch, which is where he often has been during the Open, slouched in front of his TV. This year he was bent on entering even if it meant arriving early to qualify. "Is this because you feel like you're finally good enough?" somebody asked.

"No," said Azinger. "It's because I'm finally rich enough."

Rich enough as in $586,962-this-year-alone-on-the-Yank-Tour rich enough, rich from having won thrice already in 1987—from behind in Phoenix, from ahead in Hartford and from out of the blue in Las Vegas by eagling the 18th. In fact, the former boathop (he pumped gas and cleaned and painted vessels at his father's marina) could become the first man to do in one year what took Arnie more than 13 years: win a million bucks.

"It's amazing," says Azinger. "Now I come to a tournament and open my locker and there's all this free stuff in it. And I just say, 'Boy, I can finally afford all this stuff, and now I'm getting it free.' "

The Zinger, as the players call him, is as fresh as a morning scone. He can be scatterbrained (he won't be on Nicklaus's U.S. Ryder Cup Team this September because he didn't take etiquette classes to become a Class A professional), yet wise: "No matter what happens to me tomorrow," he said with one day to play, "I'll be a better player for it."

He can be a kid (he admits he has no idea what forks go with which appetizers), yet he has a soul for the game that many of the cleated M.B.A.s playing today sorely lack. "Don't let anybody tell you a major is just another tournament," he says. "They're just fooling themselves. I'm glad I'm here. I'm glad I'm in contention. This is the kind of pressure you'll never have in a PGA event."

And he can be fun. On Saturday he complained that the BBC had used only two clips of him in its 40-minute highlight show on Friday night. "Boy, I wish I was watching ESPN tonight," he said. "You kinda get the feeling these old Brits don't want the 'Am-er-i-can' to win this tournament."

Somebody asked Azinger on Friday if he would be nervous as the leader of the British Open. "Not really," he said. "I'll probably just throw up a little tonight."

It must have helped because on Saturday, a day only Willard Scott could love, he cast a Paul over the entire field, holding steady with an even-par 71. Of the 78 players who endured what was essentially playing golf in front of a 747 engine spewing ice water, four broke par. 12 broke 90 but not 80, the Scottish fans broke out their brollies, and a lot of the players' wives broke out the Vicks Formula 44, including the Zinger's, who treated him for the flu most of the week.

The day had reduced the number of players within six shots of him from 29 to 16. That was the good news. The bad news was that the group included Floyd (three back), Watson, Payne Stewart and Craig Stadler (all two back) and Faldo and South Africa's David Frost (one back). If any one of this group was going to sting Zing, it figured to be Watson, who was fixing for a sixth on the Firth of Forth. Watson's longtime British Open caddie could feel it in his joints.