Nick Price, who endured eight years in golf’s black hole, was looking now at a white cup about 50 feet away on the 17th green at Turnberry’s Ailsa Course.
Born to English parents in South Africa, Price had dreamed of winning that silver claret jug. But he also had fought in a civil war, seen friends killed, lived to come to America, and became a husband, a father and fabulously wealthy.
So this putt Price surveyed late Sunday afternoon was neither the beginning nor the end. It might not even be enough for him to seize the British Open, because Price stood in the tire tracks of a runaway Swede, Jesper Parnevik, the kid in the bicycle cap who had been blowing stop signs for a couple of hours.
“I knew only one thing,” Price said. “I had to make it to have a chance.”
After consultation with his caddie, the also rich and famous Jeff “Squeeky” Medlen, Price stroked the ball. It traveled, as they anticipated, on a slight left-to-right path, breaking only about 8 inches over those 50 feet toward Shangri-La. When the ball disappeared, Price jumped toward the sky. The eagle had landed, and soon, so did he.
At the time, Parnevik was signing his card in the scorer’s tent. It read 3-under-par 67 for this final round, with a fairly unconscious 32 for the back side, and until news of Price’s miracle shook the bleachers, sun-splashed spectators presumed they had already coronated a new champion. And in 123 years of this revered tournament, Parnevik surely would have been among the most unlikely.
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But then Price came around the bend, with Squeeky huffing at his side. The world’s best golfer knocked his favorite club, the 7-iron, 25 feet from the 18th and last flagstick. Price had twice as many strokes to spend as he thought he could afford when he was putting before, and half the distance. When it was over, the blood and sweat gave way to tears. Price and that silver claret jug were united.
“You never know when you work so hard for something whether it will happen,” Price said. “I’m blessed.”
So is golf. With every victory, Price enhances not only his net worth, but the very sport he plays. Before he could find a seat in the locker room, Price had a stack of congratulatory messages. From fellow golfers on the grounds, from Greg Norman in his private plane. Such is the nature of Price, as genuine in the 1990s, when he has won 12 events, as he was in the anonymous 1980s, when he won but once.
Price had a swing that, he said, “made we want to throw up” when he dissipated a three-stroke lead over the closing six holes at the 1982 British Open. He wasn’t much better when Seve Ballesteros took it away in 1988 at Royal Lytham & St. Annes. But Price inventoried frustration, and he threw the book of experience at Parnevik, who left No. 17 earlier with a two-shot advantage. If only he had bothered to notice.
Last month at the U.S. Open, foreign prodigy Ernie Els knew not where he stood in the chase. Incredibly, Parnevik said he also refrained from studying scoreboards. He thought No. 18 demanded a birdie, so he aimed for the pin at front left instead of the fat of the green. His wedge approach pulled up short and into the scruff. He bogeyed. A par at least would have meant a playoff.
“I always want to know where I am, because that influences my tactics,” said Price, who started the day one shot off the lead, finished birdie-eagle-par for 66 and a 268 aggregate. He passed Greg Kraft at the Western Open wire two weeks ago. Price caught Parnevik when the Swede wasn’t looking with poise and that putt.
Jack Nicklaus, Larry Nelson and Hale Irwin have won majors in recent seasons after similar snakes, now Nick Price sinks from nowhere to win the British Open. While so many other sports struggle with image problems, golf’s silver claret jug is in the best of hands.