Quintin Jardine's blog

Eileen and I spent yesterday afternoon glued to the telly, and she’s not even a golfer. AJ will tell you that I am the world’s worst tipster, so I eschewed from going public on my fancy, although Bob Skinner was bold enough to predict on Facebook that An Irishman would win. He hasn’t told me whether he meant That Irishman, but given his shrewdness I suspect that he did. I certainly had a sneaking fancy for him, in the conditions that were forecast.

Not all things that are meant to be will happen. This one did: the image of Big Darren holding up the Claret Jug is so right that it grabs your gut. Right for a whole raft of reasons; he’s come through personal tragedy to find another happy place, he’s secured his standing in the game, and he’s made sure that he’s not going to be forgotten with the rise of his younger compatriots, GMac and Rors. He’s up there on a par with them as a major winner, and I am sure those lads would agree that is beyond appropriate.

When it was over, I found myself trying to recall a more popular Open Champion. I can’t, and I have to go back to the eighties, to Seve and to Sandy Lyle, to find anyone on a similar level. I’d like to be able to say Nick Faldo, who,  for my money, was the best player these islands have ever produced, but he was so focused on his game that he never took the time to make himself loved. That’s the secret ingredient in the mix of greatness.