That last day he one-ironed his tee shot on the 6th just right, and he addressed his second as Claudia stood nearby with two of Lee's rooters, Jimmy Dean, the entertainer, who had come down from London, and an old hustling companion from Dallas named Arnold Salinas, a bookkeeper for a chain of Mexican restaurants. Throughout the round Lee, knowing his wife and friends were close by, made his comments on various shots loud enough for them to hear. (He jabbered all week as he played his shots, something that astonished the British crowds, the British press and most of the competition. Once on Friday as he looked over a chip shot, knowing the BBC had a sound man near him, he broke up everyone with, "I wonder what old Henry Longhurst is saying about me right now. He probably thinks I got the wrong club.") Now he took a crack at the wood shot and it flew high and straight, soaring over the hill. Only Lee could know whether it was sailing in the right direction.
"Oh, my God," he shouted. Claudia and Arnold and Jimmy gasped. Then, laughing, he added, "It's perfect!"
It was, too, unless you feel that two feet from the cup is two feet shy of perfection. It was another birdie, his sixth one-putt green in six holes, the terrible par 4 beaten into submission, Jacklin erased and the championship won if he didn't drop dead—or run into Mister Lu and the sand at 17.
And sure enough, there on the 17th tee, while holding a three-stroke lead, Trevino almost got too cute. Lu had driven first, and nicely, and now Lee was in the process of aiming his drive between two giant sandhills down the fairway.
"Man, you're stronger than laundry," Lee said to Lu, as he waggled his club. "I just want to string this little beauty right down there near that left hill and cut it in there...." Only it did not cut in and it buried in the sand. His first slash at the ball—with a wedge—left him still on the sandhill. He finally blasted out but now he lay three in the rough, a long way from the green, on his way to a double-bogey 7 that could have been totally disastrous. If Lu birdied the hole they would suddenly and stunningly be all even with one hole to play. But Lu didn't. He had made nothing but putts all week, but this one, from about 12 feet, did not fall, and Trevino held on to a one-stroke lead going to the 72nd hole of the tournament.
The last hole at Birkdale was a phony par 5, a drive and a mid-iron for most hitters. Trevino had to get his birdie 4 and hope Lu did not dream up an eagle for a tie.
Trevino hit his best drive of the day and had only a six-iron left. Lu drove well but a bit too far to the left, very close to a bunker. In fact, he was almost standing in the bunker as he swung. He half-topped, half-hooked the shot, but the ball hit a lady spectator on the head and bounded back in the fairway, a stroke of luck for the scrutable Chinese and X rays for the unlucky lady. Trevino did not worry about the luck or the lady. He quickly hit his six-iron to the back of the green and watched as Lu hit a fine approach to within six feet. Even if Lu sank it for a birdie (which he did), Trevino knew that after all that had happened all he had to do was get down in two for the championship. He putted up beautifully and made the last shove-in, one-foot birdie for a 14-under 278, slung his cap and raced across the green to Claudia. In that moment, of course, he was embraced not only by his wife but by history as well.
The British crowd, which the day before had had a misunderstanding with Trevino when he was playing head to head with Jacklin (who was called "Our hero" and "Our Tony" by British telly), applauded the cheerful Mexican's victory. On Friday Lee had been hurt when spectators, apparently misinterpreting some of his comments, laughed at the wrong times. When some of the more passionate pro-Jacklin members of the gallery showed obvious elation when Trevino missed a putt, Lee said he had felt like going into the gallery with his putter. But his essentially upbeat personality prevailed, and after the tournament he had kind words for everyone. He donated �2,000 ($4,800) of his �5,500 ($13,200) winning purse to a British orphanage and that night at a victory celebration in the Kingsway casino in Southport he auctioned off his golf clubs for �600 and gave that to charity, too.
It is something of a shame that Trevino's historic success could not have had a more distinguished setting. There are only seven courses on which the British Open is played—four in Scotland and three in England—and some of the more knowledgeable British writers gave inquisitive Americans the bottom line on Royal Birkdale. "It is the worst of the lot," they whispered. Not in terms of space, cordiality, clubhouse, access, hotel rooms and the things that helped produce the record crowds, but in terms of enchantment, charm, playing quality and tradition.
"Birkdale is what you might call nouveau riche" said one journalist, referring to the fact that the course only got started in 1889. In its earlier days it was a tiny links in Southport, too short for championship play and with a clubhouse no larger than a hen shack over by the 4th green. When the Ryder Cup was played in the area in 1937, the Southport and Ainsdale Golf Club was used, not Birkdale. But then the course was lengthened and a new clubhouse erected, one that is roomier than most in Great Britain. Birkdale was to have its first Open in 1940, but the Germans postponed that and it was not until 1954 that the championship was held there. It got the tournament again in 1961, the year Arnold Palmer won, and in 1965, when Peter Thomson upset a strong international field, and again last week.