Faldo Plays Spoiler--of Great Stories

It was supposed to be Dempsey-Tunney.

How about Tyson-Spinks?

It was supposed to be the golf equivalent of a battle of the century, a heavyweight championship fight. In this corner, the Great White Shark, everybody’s favorite, all those teeth and white-on-white hair, the most famous peroxide blond since Jean Harlow. Mr. Charisma, the flashy slugger from Down Under, the crowd-pleaser, the knockout artist.

In this corner dour, dark, gloomy Nick Faldo, the guy who looks as if just got word his house is on fire and his insurance has lapsed. The cautious, counter-punching, back-pedaling ring general. Nobody’s favorite but a hard man to beat, a hard man to lay a glove on.

It was a one-round knockout, as one-sided as a Joe Louis bum-of-the-month tour.

Mr. Blah gave Mr. Charisma a lesson in heady, canny, strategic play. He knocked him through the ropes, all over the ring.

If it were really a fight, they would have stopped it. At the 13th hole. No later. By then, Greg Norman was in no position to defend himself. He was glassy-eyed, wobbly, out of it. He looked--and played--like a guy looking up at the ring clock hoping for the bell.

Nick Faldo spoiled one of the great stories of the year, one of the great matchups of golf history. We were looking for Hogan-Snead, Palmer-Nicklaus, Jones-Sarazen. We got one of the great mismatches of golf history.

Faldo-Norman were supposed to play the two final rounds of this year’s British Open toe-to-toe, trading blows, birdie-for-birdie, eagle-for-eagle.

Instead, it was Secretariat at the Belmont, the Titanic against the iceberg.

Nick Faldo made Round Four of the 1990 British Open a formality.

It won’t be a tournament, it’ll be a parade--a recital by the artist. The great confrontation got sidetracked. Norman couldn’t really answer the bell by the ninth hole. Faldo not only beat him to the punch, he turned him back with almost contemptuous ease without even looking concerned. By the time he got through, Norman wasn’t even in his twosome for today’s final round. He got shuffled all the way back to a starting time one hour before the leaders. Corey Pavin, Tim Simpson and Nick Price stood between Norman and Faldo in the pairings, to say nothing of Frank Nobilo, Paul Broadhurst and Craig Parry, all of whom shot past Greg.

On a day when someone named Paul Broadhurst could shoot a 63, Greg Norman had to struggle to break 80.

Faldo ruined the story--but he had help from Norman. Norman is a specialist at disappointing his fans, but he usually does it by having somebody chip in over his head or come flying out of a sand trap into a hole or by sinking a 170-yard seven-iron from out on the fairway.

Faldo didn’t need any of these heroics. He beat him shot by shot, hole by hole. He merely shot a nice, easy, steady 67. It so unnerved Greg he began hitting the ball all over the place, including into those little pot bunkers that freckle the place and should be as avoidable as a bore at a cocktail party.

Greg, as he often does, went looking for trouble like a sailor on leave. Faldo simply went about business like a law clerk cataloguing torts. He could play his kind of golf in a three-piece suit. Norman hits the ball excitingly. Faldo hits it straight.

He does it without changing expression. You can never tell from looking at him whether Nick Faldo has just made birdie or bogey.

Except, he never makes bogey. He’s only made two in this tournament over 54 holes. And the one he made at 17 Saturday was at least semi-deliberate. Jack Nicklaus says that hole is really a par 4 1/2, not par four. If you hit for the green over the chasm-sized bunker, you may make it--and you may also make nine from the road behind. Faldo hit his second shot short of the trouble and made his nice comfortable bogey.

That’s Faldo’s game. He won a British Open three years ago hitting 18 consecutive pars on the final round. That’s like winning a fight on clinches, a baseball game on bunts, a Super Bowl on punts or a card game with treys.

That’s all right with Nick Faldo. He plays how, not how many.

Don’t bet he won’t shoot a nice shrewd boring 72 or 73 today to smuggle his British Open into the clubhouse. He says he won’t. But Nick Faldo never shows his cards.

We now have to consider this old Nick--Nick Faldo, MBE for Member of the British Empire, stepping stone to knighthood--is not only one of the premier players of the day but the premier player.

Golf has been waiting for a monarch for a long time. Golf functions best that way. It resists mob rule, even democracy.

Faldo, it has been pointed out, in the last 12 “majors,” has won three and been in the top four in seven of them. He won the Masters this year (for the second time), he was second in our Open (for the second time) and he seems about to win his second British Open.

Those are Ben Hogan, Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus feats. Those are not posted by the cookie cutter class of modern golfers.

Nick is not outwardly impressed with all his statistics. He is a rather gray character who moves with the deliberateness of an old waiter, the singleness of purpose of a lord-high executioner. He is dogged, relentless, careful, not colorful. He is as phlegmatic as a border guard. He just goes out and shoots par golf. He’s not running for President. He leaves the smiling to Norman. Faldo seems to be operating under a permanent cloud cover.

You would never mistake him for anything but an athlete. Like Norman, he has the classic build of a Greek statue. His shoulders are broad, his waist narrow. He almost never raises his voice. When a fellow competitor, Scott Hoch, was quoted as saying of him that he “needed a charisma transplant,” Faldo readily accepted Hoch’s explanation that he never said it. Faldo didn’t really care. It didn’t cost him any shots.

It’s too bad he can’t win his Open (assuming he does) at St. Andrews. I mean, this course cannot be that hallowed cradle of golf, that wrecker of scores, that scourge of tournaments. This helpless piece of real estate is so vulnerable this week--no winds rake its promontories, no rain gales lash its fairways--that the leader board looks like an explosion in a ketchup factory. It’s full of red numbers, all but three players under par.

One of those under is MBE Faldo who has shot 199 or 17-under.

Don’t expect jubilation from Faldo. Just another day at the office. Don’t expect any theatrics. Faldo won’t go for the record, he’ll go for the trophy. Faldo doesn’t play for the ages, Faldo plays for the victories.

Even if they spoil good stories.