BRITISH OPEN : Maori Digs Himself Out of a Deep Hole

Get ready for a whole lot of punny sports page leads “The Campbell is coming, hurrah, hurrah!” or “Campbell made soup out of the British Open here today.” And so on.

In a golf tournament that had 10 U.S. Open winners or, put another way, 10 Masters winners, or nine British Open winners in it--or, in a field that had one guy who has won five British Opens--a guy who has only won things like the Audi Quattro challenge and the Memorial Olivier Barras at Crans-Sur-Sierre, Switzerland, is leading the 1995 British Open.

His name is Michael Campbell, which is seemly enough for this part of the world, but that was a legacy of his great, great, great, great grandfather who left Scotland in 1845 to seek fame, fortune and knighthood in the South Pacific.

Sir Logan Campbell’s great, great, great, great grandson has a face that looks not as if it belongs on the walls of the Royal and Ancient but in an outrigger canoe en route to Hawaii. Michael is largely of Maori ancestry, a descendant of the original inhabitants of New Zealand.

The leader board of the “British” Open Saturday night had 1) a Maori; 2) an Italian; 3) a Japanese; 4) a South African; 5) a Fijian; 6) a Briton; 7) several Australians; 8) a John Daly. It’s as politically correct as a Harvard poli-sci seminar.

Michael Campbell is not only the low Maori, he is nine under par, in the lead by two shots and proof positive that golf is the most capricious game known to man.

You all know what a contrary game golf is. Golf, like life, is not only not fair, it’s downright malicious. But it is also capable of random kindnesses.

Consider what happened on the 17th hole here Saturday. Now, the 17th hole you know, if you’ve been paying attention, is the graveyard of the golf course. It’s where your good rounds go to die. It’s St. Andrews’ electric chair.

About 160 golfers had a shot at it for two days, and three birdies resulted. On Friday, a golfer named Bill Glasson came to the 17th leading the tournament and six under par. He left the hole twenty-third in the tournament and two under par. He took an eight on the hole. What the pros call “a snowman.”

Switch reels to Saturday. Michael Campbell, the pride of Wellington, comes up to this hell hole leading the tournament by four shots, nine under par and starting to pull away from the field.

And he hits the ball in the deep, layered bunker alongside the green. His ball comes to rest only eight inches from the side of the bunker. English translation: no chance.

His play is to come out sideways and start the game all over again. Only, he can’t. His ball is too confined. He has to try to hit it straight up in the air like a pop foul to the catcher.

Every St. Andrews expert expects him to make any number--maybe the dreaded snowman. It’s that desperate.

But, because his options are limited, he has to try the shot.

The ball even hits one of the tiers of the bunker on the way up. It could come tumbling back down at his feet. It could skip backward into the treacherous “whins” (hayfields) of St. Andrews.

But, you forget the nature of golf: While it often punishes good shots, it sometimes rewards the bad. Sometimes, your ball is sitting up in the rough when you get to it.

The gods are smiling down on the Maori Campbell. They do that, you know. Every golfer knows you have these days when everything you do comes out right.

This was one of them. Campbell was aiming left. He was intent on salvaging a bogey. To hit it right was to tempt disaster.

But, because his ball did what he dreaded--hitting the side of the bunker--it veered right.

And came to rest about a foot from the hole.

He made four. It may have won him the tournament.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the game of golf. It is capable of casting a spell over your game that no amount of mis-hit shots can obliterate. Michael Campbell walked off the 17th green with his par and his lead intact.

At the end of the day, he had a two-shot lead on a player who sounds more like an opera singer than a golfer, Costantino Rocca. Costantino learned his game in that hotbed of golf, Bergamo, Italy.

But, as that eminent philosopher, Sam Snead himself, has said, “The sun don’t shine on the same dog’s tail every day.”

Will it follow Michael today? Will this Campbell keep coming?

Or, will the winds of St. Andrews turn into ill winds?

Stay tuned. This, after all, is the championship of Bobby Jones, Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, Harry Vardon and Tom Watson.

Not a Maori among ‘em. But a New Zealander has won. The left-hander Bob Charles won it in a playoff with Phil Rodgers in 1963. But, if the magnificent Maori survives the force-ten volleys from the North Sea and the pit of the bunker at 17 again, he should forget golf and go immediately to Las Vegas or the tables at Monte Carlo. That kind of luck should not be wasted on a golf course. Somebody up there likes Maoris.