Scott Murray's Blog, page 220

US PGA Championship 2013 – first round as it happened | Scott Murray and Tom Bryant

Hole-by-hole report: Jim Furyk and Adam Scott tie for the lead after a low-scoring day. Scott Murray was watching

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The Open 2013: Phil Mickelson wins at Muirfield – as it happened | Scott Murray

Phil Mickelson claimed his fifth major title, storming home with a final-round 66 to take victory at Muirfield

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The Open 2013: round three – as it happened | Scott Murray

Hole-by-hole report: Lee Westwood shoots 70 to take a two-shot lead into the final day. Scott Murray was watching, typing, and mainlining strong tea

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The Open 2013: second round – as it happened | Scott Murray

Hole-by-hole report: Miguel Angel Jimenez leads the way at the halfway stage, as Muirfield continues to bare its teeth. Scott Murray was watching, as the clock went all the way around

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The Joy of Six: defensive blunders | Scott Murray and Jacob Steinberg

From Clodoaldo's 1970 Brazilian gaffe to a Bobby Moore howler, via Laurent Blanc and Gerry Young tripping himself up

1) Clodoaldo (Brazil 4-1 Italy, World Cup final, 1970)

What has made Brazilian football particularly enchanting through the ages is its tendency to veer seamlessly from the sublime to the ridiculous and back again. Silky samba syncopations occasionally give way to four-to-the-floor clumpishness. Carmen Miranda finds herself bundled off stage by the guy who sung Mule Train while banging a metal tray on his head.

There are plenty of examples of this. Take the national team's rollercoaster results in the 1950 final pool; the constant striving for a higher aesthetic (eg 1958, 1982) set against the occasional lapse into cartoon bone-headedness, the spirit of '45 and 1974; Gilmar, then Felix. But the 1970 World Cup final is perhaps the best case in point. Brazil put on arguably the greatest soccer spectacular in history, the cherry on the cake of the most storied and glamorous World Cup ever. And yet the performance is intermittently punctured by some of the most ludicrous play ever witnessed at the very top level. Rivelino in particular makes a proper show of himself in the first half by blootering one free-kick a good 30 miles over the bar, then shanking a corner out on the full, a good 30 miles over everyone's head.

Brazil's third goal is a glorious mix of glamour and galootery. Gérson finds Pele in the move for Jairzinho's clincher with a 40-yard wandwave from the halfway line, a pass of such teasing accuracy that Tarcisio Burgnich – catenaccio mainstay and integral part of the miserly Grande Inter – appears to have been momentarily overtaken by the spirit and positional sense of Paul Konchesky. As if to set a seal on Brazil's schizophrenic performance, once Pele heads down for Jairzinho, the striker takes an ugly fresh-air swipe as he attempts to finish his close-range bundle with a stylish swish.

But it's Clodoaldo who really did his best to highlight the beautiful contradictions in the Brazilian game. The young midfielder made two huge contributions to Brazil's triumph in Mexico: a stunning equaliser in the semi-final against Uruguay when the ghosts of 1950 were circling overhead, then in the final, a mazy dribble deep inside his own half at the – cue retro Mexican TV caption – 41' mark. It was the booster shot of adrenaline that shook Brazil out of time-management mode and sparked the move which ended with Carlos Alberto's famous fourth. If you accept that Brazil's 1970 triumph wouldn't be half the same without this iconic flourish, then Clodoaldo deserves a large dollop of the credit for starting off the whole process and elevating a common-or-garden victory into the realms of high art.

So it's something of a shame that he's mainly remembered for the astonishing aberration that could easily have lost Brazil the cup, a needlessly baroque backheel inside his own half which let in Roberto Boninsegna for an equaliser. Doubly so, because it wasn't all his fault. Sure, there's a time and a place for fancy flicks, and a goal up in a World Cup final might not be it. But Piazza (floating a lazy chip across the back line) and Brito (heading inside to Clodoaldo with Boninsegna lurking) were fannying around too, while Felix came rashly flying out of his box and clattered into Brito in the silent-movie style, allowing Boninsegna to stroke home into an empty net. In fact, the only man in danger of stopping the Italian striker was his team-mate Luigi Riva, who with the goal gaping nearly couldn't get out of the road in time. Brazil, to a man, were wholly brilliant that day, and yet right here they were all over the shop. Which is exactly why everyone loves them. SM

2) Jim Holmes (Airdrieonians 3-0 Falkirk, Scottish First Division, 1989)

From the sublimely ridiculous to the ridiculous. Falkirk's 1988-89 vintage may not be compared to Brazil c.70 very often, but here's their defence huddled together at Broomfield, embarrassed and out of position rather like Everaldo, Piazza and Brito were at the Azteca 19 years earlier. And rather like Clodoaldo, Jim Holmes - running back to make a half-arsed fist of hacking the ball clear, and failing dismally - cops for the lion's share of blame for this one. Only this time he fully deserves it. Look at the state of it. What a carry on.

It's worth noting that, three games from the end of the season, Falkirk were chasing promotion to the Premier Division. They missed out by two points, but still had a better goal difference than the eventual champions Dunfermline Athletic. As this was the opening goal in an eventual 3-0 defeat, it's not a huge stretch to say that it went a wee way to costing the Bairns a place alongside Scotland's elite. Oh Jim! At least Clodoaldo has a World Cup winner's medal to keep him warm at night.

It's also worth noting that this goal was given a new life after being featured on a bloopers VHS narrated by popular 1990s comic Rory McGrath, who took the opportunity to showcase some material skewering "Jocks" and their predilection for "battered pizza". Well done, Rory! Working class folk and their deep-fried food! Glad to see that Oxbridge education didn't go to waste. In his later years, Peter Cook became good pals with McGrath, which is rather like Lenny Bruce going round Russell Howard's for supper, the dinner party music penned by Stock, Aitken and Mozart. SM

3) Sol Campbell (Arsenal 2-3 West Ham, Premier League, 2006)

The 2005-06 season was a strange one for Arsenal. It was their last season at Highbury before their money-spinning move down the road to the Emirates Stadium, they wore a redcurrant strip instead of the traditional red shirt with white sleeves and, for the first time under Arsène Wenger, they were forced to regard Tottenham as genuine rivals, battling with Martin Jol's side for the fourth Champions League place until a dodgy lasagne intervened on the final day.

It was an awkward time for Arsenal, who were at the start of their post-Invincibles decline and utterly incapable of dealing with a Chelsea side that was giddy on Roman Abramovich's billions and José Mourinho's swagger. They beat Manchester United on penalties in the FA Cup final in 2005 but were rarely in touching distance of Chelsea in the league, eventually finishing 12 points behind Mourinho's side, and the failure to replace Patrick Vieira, who left for Juventus, ensured they would not challenge for the title. When Chelsea won 2-0 at Highbury in the middle of December, Arsenal were in eighth place, five points behind Tottenham.

Injuries in defence did not help their cause. Ashley Cole missed much of the season and his young deputy, Gael Clichy, was often unavailable too. When Arsenal lost 1-0 at Everton in January, Kerrea Gilbert made his debut at right-back, Lauren played out of position on the left and Kolo Touré's absence meant Sol Campbell was partnered by Phillipe Senderos, a man whose default facial expression makes him look like he's worried he's left the oven on at home. A week later, Senderos and Campbell, 31, were both at fault when Jason Roberts scored the extra-time goal that took Wigan to the Carling Cup final at Arsenal's expense.

All was not well and when West Ham arrived at Highbury on a Wednesday night, they glanced across at a defence of Gilbert-Djourou-Campbell-Senderos: the infamous Arsenal back four.

They still had Dennis Bergkamp, Thierry Henry and Robert Pires, though, and West Ham were under the cosh for much of the opening period. And then things got surreal. After 25 minutes of incessant pressure, Matthew Etherington played a pass to Nigel Reo-Coker, whose path was blocked by Campbell. Everything was under control. Or so we thought. In one bizarre moment, Reo-Coker managed to toe-poke the ball past Campbell who, bamboozled by a bobble, swung wildly in a manner more befitting of a player on Hackney Marshes than an England international. Reo-Coker raced away and coolly gave West Ham the lead.

The bobble was enough to make us momentarily give Campbell the benefit of the doubt. It didn't last long. Seven minutes later, Paul Konchesky lifted the ball over the Arsenal defence for Bobby Zamora to chase. Campbell came across, looking to strong-arm Zamora away from goal, only to be unceremoniously barged to the floor by the West Ham striker, who doubled the visitors' lead. Once? It happens. But twice? In the space of seven minutes? Something had to be up. Something was up – when the teams emerged for the second half, Sebastian Larsson had taken Campbell's place and the defender did not even stay to watch the end of a match which Arsenal lost 3-2 (incidentally it was their last defeat at Highbury).

"He felt guilty," Wenger said. "I took him off because I felt that mentally he was too down to come back out. I knew it would be better for him personally. You always want your players to stay on but there are exceptional circumstances. He did not mean to be disrespectful to the club or the team, but he is very down. His confidence is not at the highest at the moment."

Campbell disappeared the next day and, with a depressing inevitability, the rumour mill cranked into action, though he had recently admitted to doubts about his form. "Sometimes you end up thinking, why is this not happening?" he told the Guardian a few months earlier. "The relationship with my body and the ball, my positioning on the pitch, the timing and touch, is just not right."

It had all become too much on that Wednesday night and Campbell did not play again until the middle of April. When he returned, he helped Arsenal finish above Tottenham on the final day, scored the opener as they lost the Champions League final to Barcelona and even earned a place in England's squad for the World Cup in Germany. Another blow landed in football's brave fight against logic. JS

4) Laurent Blanc (Middlesbrough 2-0 Manchester United, FA Cup fourth round, 2002)

Manchester United had a tricky, sometimes farcical, relationship with the FA Cup in the post-Treble years. In 2000, instead of defending their trophy they jetted off to Brazil to play in the Club World Championship as part of the FA's foolproof scheme to secure the 2006 World Cup. They went out in the fourth round a year later, losing 1-0 at home to West Ham after Fabien Barthez failed to fool Paolo Di Canio with his special taxi trick and, in 2003, they lost 2-0 to Arsenal at Old Trafford, Ryan Giggs missing an open goal and Sir Alex Ferguson taking out his frustration by accidentally booting a boot at David Beckham's forehead. Brazil, Barthez, a boot and Beckham – quite the collection.

To it, though, we must add Laurent Blanc, whose main crime was standing around and doing nothing as Manchester United lost 2-0 at Middlesbrough in the fourth round in 2002, a defeat which brought an abrupt end to Ferguson's dreams of a second Treble in what was supposed to be his final season before retiring (he happened to change his mind on that one, by the way).

After winning three successive league titles, United were woefully inconsistent in the 2001-02 season. The signing of Juan Sebastián Verón threw the midfield off-kilter, while the defence was a mess after Jaap Stam was sold to Lazio in August and replaced by Laurent Blanc. Ferguson was a long-time admirer of the 35-year-old, who arrived on a free from Internazionale, but it soon became apparent that he was past his best and too slow for the Premier League, where his elegant style merely looked lackadaisical. There was particular amusement when United lost successive matches to Bolton, Liverpool, Arsenal, Newcastle and Chelsea before Christmas: B-L-A-N-C. Barthez was in full blundering mode too, even giving himself a punishment wedgie after his errors against Arsenal in November.

In his valedictory season, Ferguson was also hellbent on reaching the Champions League final, which was held at Hampden Park in Glasgow. As such, he rotated his squad heavily and put out a reserve side when United played Arsenal in the third round of the League Cup; they were rewarded with a 4-0 thumping.

He also gambled, albeit to a lesser extent, when United went to Middlesbrough in the FA Cup in January. Without the injured pair of Beckham and Verón, Giggs and Ruud van Nistelrooy both started on the bench and United toiled for much of the match.

The game was heading for a replay at Old Trafford when, with five minutes to go, Mark Crossley booted a goal-kick up the pitch and towards United's area. Under no pressure, all Blanc needed to do was head the ball back from whence it came. But instead he decided it was time to be cool, ducking under the ball with the intention of letting it run back to Barthez and failing to realise that Noel Whelan was on to his ruse. The Middlesbrough striker stole in, scored and with a minute left, Andy Campbell made it 2-0. Blanc used to kiss Barthez's bald head for luck before matches but the ritual sadly failed to create a telepathic link between them.

There have been worse and more significant mistakes. But what makes this great is the sheer nonchalance, the breezy assumption that the best course of action has been taken – it's not easy making it look this easy – and the way that Blanc ducks under the ball with all the insouciance of a man flicking a cigarette out of his car window. Essentially a Gallic shrug disguised as a piece of defending. JS

5) Gerry Young (Everton 3-2 Sheffield Wednesday, FA Cup final, 1966)

Tofiq Bahramov's decision to award England their third goal in the World Cup final against West Germany wasn't the worst error made in a 1966 Wembley final. Instead that honour goes to poor Gerry Young, whose howler against Everton was the sorry culmination of Sheffield Wednesday's abject collapse in the FA Cup final two months earlier. After 57 minutes, Wednesday were cruising, two goals up and on their way to winning the trophy for the fourth time, but 33 minutes later, Young was weeping on the ground after one of the more traumatic defeats in the competition's history.

The day could hardly have started better for Wednesday, who stormed into the lead after four minutes thanks to Jim McCalliog's goal and when David Ford made it 2-0, history was on their side – no team had ever lost an FA Cup final in normal time from that position against a team without any injured players.

However, with John Lennon and Paul McCartney watching on from the stands, Everton were undeterred and they were soon level thanks to two goals in five minutes from Mike Trebilcock, which was the cue for a pitch invasion from one Toffees fan, Eddie Cavanagh, who left one hapless policeman trailing in his wake before being rugby tackled by a second.

The drama did not end there, though. With 16 minutes left, a long, aimless ball was pumped up into Wednesday's half. There should have been no danger. "Gerry Young had ample time to and space to collect a loose ball in midfield," wrote Hugh McIlvanney in the Observer, "but somehow he missed it completely." It was a catastrophic error. Trying to trap the ball, Young succeeded only in tripping over it, allowing Derek Temple to race away and blast it past Ron Springett. Young, frantically chasing back, collapsed as the ball soared into the Wednesday goal to seal Everton's third FA Cup. Remember kids, there's no place in the world as safe as Row Z. JS

6) Bobby Moore (Poland 2-0 England, World Cup qualifier, 1973)

Even as he lifted the World Cup in 1966, England's captain, Bobby Moore, might have suspected that it would not always be like this, that one day he would know humiliation, that one day people would question his place and wonder whether it was time for him to call it a day. That time did not come for a while and at the next World Cup in Mexico in 1970, Moore produced the most famous tackle of all time, expertly dispossessing Jairzinho in a magnificent game between England and Brazil. At the end of the game, which Brazil won 1-0, there was that iconic embrace between Moore and Pele.

Yet by 1973, with England struggling to qualify for the 1974 World Cup, the doubts were starting to build up. Placed in a qualifying group with Poland and Wales, England made life difficult for themselves by drawing 1-1 with Wales at Wembley, meaning that there was little margin for error when they travelled to Poland in June. At the age of 32, Moore's form was showing signs of decline and there were those who wondered whether the increasingly beleaguered manager, Sir Alf Ramsey, had fallen prey to sentiment by persisting with his captain.

The doubts proved well-founded. After seven minutes, terrible defending from England enabled Poland to take the lead, although there is some debate over whether the goal belonged to Robert Gadocha or whether it was an own goal by Moore. Either way, worse was to come. "The second was the result of a rare and calamitous error by Bobby Moore," David Lacey wrote in the Guardian. With Moore dithering in his own half, Wlodzimierz Lubanski took advantage of his indecision to nab possession and seal the points.

England were in a hole and when the must-win return match came around at Wembley in October, Ramsey dropped Moore and played Norman Hunter instead. The ploy failed to work. A mistake by Hunter allowed Poland to take the lead and Jan Tomaszewski secured Poland the point they needed to reach the World Cup. Ramsey was removed as manager and Moore won his 108th and final cap in a friendly against Italy at Wembley a month later. Fabio Capello scored the only goal in a 1-0 win for the visitors. JS

• You may also like to read – The Joy of Six: goalkeeping calamities .

Scott MurrayJacob Steinberg
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The Joy of Six: The Open at Muirfield | Scott Murray

From Tiger Woods being floored to Lee Trevino ousting Tony Jacklin, via John Cook's crumble and Nick Faldo's odyssey

1) Tiger's meltdown (2002)

Ever since Arnold Palmer came up with the grand wheeze of the Grand Slam, a quirky modern take on Bobby Jones and the majestically titled Impregnable Quadrilateral of Golf, only three men have got as far as winning the first two majors of the year. First up, Arnie himself: upon winning the Masters and US Open in 1960, a lightbulb came on over his head, which was when he spruced up the old IQoG arrangement by replacing the old British and US amateur titles with the Masters and PGA for this new Grand Slam malarkey. And then set about three-putting the Road Hole at St Andrews three times in four rounds, to hand the Open to Kel Nagle by a single stroke.

Next was Jack Nicklaus, who headed to Muirfield in 1972 with that year's Masters and US Open, plus the previous season's PGA, already in his bag. You'd think that it qualifies as a spoiler, because one of the following entries in this article concerns the 1972 Open, informing you that Nicklaus, despite a final-round 66, came second, his quest over, like Arnie a dozen years before him. You'd think that, but it doesn't. Big Jack was only a shot away from becoming the first player to hold all four major titles at once, and yet his is not even the most memorable story from that particular Open, which just goes to show the greatness, perfection and infinite complexities of golf.

And then, 30 years later, again at Muirfield, came Tiger. Now, he'd already squared off an Impregnable Quadrilateral in the eyes of most rational and non-rabid observers by winning the 2000 US Open, 2000 Open, 2000 PGA and 2001 Masters, but for some folk, landing all four majors consecutively in the modern professional era, the most amazing achievement in the history of All Golf, still wasn't good enough. So 12 months later, Woods embarked on another Grand Slam campaign, this time making sure that he contained everything in the same calendar year to placate the purple-faced pedants, who had taken to denouncing Tiger's slam with a moral certainty that was impressively resolute considering nobody, not even Arnie, had sat down to write any hard-and-fast rules.

Having won the 2002 Masters and 2002 US Open, Tiger stood on the first tee ahead of his third round, two off the lead and in prime position for Moving Day. And oh, he moved all right. Pushing his first shot into the thick stuff, it was all he could do to power back out on to the fairway and, while up on the green, he nearly drained a 25-footer for par, the tone was set with an opening-hole bogey. With winds whipping in off the Firth of Forth and horizontal rain arrowing into his grim coupon, Tiger was a dimple away from stroking home a 50-footer on 3 for birdie, but the resulting ironic grin would be his last for some time. Short and right on the par-three 4th, he failed to get up and down; another bogey. Then a double on 5 after finding rough from the middle of the fairway and sending a hot one through the green. After five holes he was four over for the day; by the turn he had shed two more shots, out in 42.

Mark O'Meara, his good friend and playing partner that day, later noted that despite suffering a rare meltdown, Woods "acted appropriately … like a champion" and "didn't act like a spoiled little brat". That wasn't 100% true – Tiger redesigned much of the 10th with one hilariously petulant scythe after coming a cropper in the rough – but given that he was on his way to a worst-ever round (as either professional or competing amateur) of 81, he did pretty well to keep his counsel in the face of a battering from rain, wind and course. By the 13th, all appetite for anger had gone; after duffing a sand shot straight into the face of the bunker, Tiger simply stared at the grooves on his club, totally defeated by the game of golf, as even the greatest of all-time occasionally are. Then, on 17, he made a birdie which ensured he'd only be +10 for the day. Seeing the funny side, he raised both arms in mock triumph, fist-bumped O'Meara, and waltzed off the green smiling broadly, stopping only to doff his cap and take an ostentatious and thoroughly theatrical bow.

There was still time, needless to add, for him to play the 18th – arguably the hardest closing hole in golf – almost perfectly. After creaming an iron from the tee down the middle, he hit his second pin-high to six feet, then watched in horror as – the final insult – his putt lipped out. No Grand Slam, then, though ol' wise O'Meara had certainly called it correctly. For Tiger certainly did respond like a champion. Another player buffeted by Muirfield that day, starting like Woods two off the lead after a second-day 64, was Colin Montgomerie. He shot 84. And followed it up with a final-day 75. Tiger, on the other hand, bounced back from his 81 with a 65, finishing only six off the lead. The mark of a champion indeed. Oh Tiger! Oh Monty!

2) Trevino's luck, and Jacklin's lack of it (1972)

It's hard to think of another player whose major championship career burned supernova-style in the manner of Tony Jacklin's. After a top-five finish in the 1967 Open at the age of 23, he became the first British winner of the tournament for 18 years in 1969. Less than 12 months later, he recorded the largest margin of victory at a US Open for nearly half a century. Then, beginning the defence of his Open title at St Andrews in the immediate wake of his victory at Hazeltine, he went out in 29 shots. This wasn't a total domination of golf – as we've already seen, not even Jack or Tiger could manage that – but it wasn't looking too far off it.

But Jacklin had reached the turn in more ways than one. It was all downhill from that very moment, the beginning of a two-year crash-and-burn narrative, a decline which would have been imperceptible at the time, but snaps into sharp focus when viewed in the rear-view mirror.

Jacklin took 38 strokes coming back, and signed for, given his flyer of a start, a slightly underwhelming 67. He was still in contention come the last day of that 1970 Open, but a final-round 76 did for him, allowing Jack Nicklaus and the unfortunate Doug Saunders to contest a play-off which the former would win. To the 1971 Open, and despite benefitting from highly vocal partisan support at Royal Birkdale, Jacklin contested with but could not overcome Lee Trevino. Supermex, who had also made off with Jacklin's US Open title while the defending champ had missed the cut, had comprehensively supplanted the Englishman as golf's form horse by becoming only the fourth player in history (behind Bobby Jones, Gene Sarazen and Ben Hogan) to win US and British Opens in the same year. Only Tom Watson and Tiger have managed to pull off this trick since.

Then, a year later at Muirfield, the denouement to a brief rivalry, and to Jacklin's time at the top table. Trevino went into the final day a shot ahead of Jacklin, thanks to a jaw-dropping run towards the end of his third round: a 15-footer for birdie at 14, a 30-footer to pick up another shot at 15, a thinned bunker shot on 16 which zipped into the hole for a one-bounce birdie; one turn from an eagle at 17; and a fifth birdie in a row at 18 thanks to a spectacular chip-in. Presumably Trevino had used up all his luck? Ah no.

On the 71st hole, the par-five 17th, Trevino and Jacklin stood level, both knowing that a pair of pars would take them past the clubhouse leader, Jack Nicklaus, who had carded a final-day 66 despite missing five putts between five and 12 feet on his way round. There goes that slam! And in its slipstream, at pace, wheeched Jacklin's major-championship career. Trevino bunkered his tee shot, powered out, hit a wood into rough, short and left of the green, then sent his fourth skittering through the putting surface and onto a bank at the back. Jacklin, meanwhile, found himself just short of the green after two solid shots.

But Jacklin left his chip a good 15 feet short. Trevino, who had trudged through the green with the funk on, stepped up to his and clipped it towards the hole without a moment's consideration. It scampered into the cup for a par, the ball having not rested for a nanosecond at any point on either fairway or green. Jacklin, whose trademark skill was his unerring accuracy with the flat stick from short distances, suddenly crumbled, three-putting for a bogey six. Trevino then parred the last to land the title by a stroke, while Jacklin slipped back into third with another bogey. Poor Jacklin never recovered from this whammy, and would have to wait another 11 years before regaining his relevance as Ryder Cup captain.

"It is a pity about the Slam," said Trevino after the tournament of his life, "but golf isn't a game of lying down so that some other guy can win." For once, though, someone other than the talkative Supermex would deliver the zinger of the day. "You forget, sir," his compatriot Dave Marr told a Muirfield member bemoaning Jacklin's luck in the clubhouse, "that God is a Mexican."

3) Cook's crumble (1992)

It's almost always the way in sport, this. Here's Nick Faldo, the perfectionist, the relentless grinder, the unemotional automaton. He's revisiting the scene of perhaps his trademark performance – closing out the 1987 Open with a final round of 18 pars, of which more anon – and he's opened with a superb 66 followed by a 64 which gave him a 36-hole Open record of 130. "It wasn't quite the perfect round of golf," he said. "I hit poor shots at 7, 8 and 17, but I'm not trying to achieve the clinically perfect round of golf. Nor am I lessening my search for perfection – it's just that I'm being less hard on myself when I fail to achieve it."

So naturally, this is the only major championship of the six he won in which he made a royal-standard bollocks of closing out, nearly letting a 54-hole, four-shot lead slide. And the only one in which he let his emotions seriously get the better of him upon sinking the winning putt.

Faldo sent his opening drive whistling into a bunker, a sandy harbinger. He dropped a shot, though memories of that Paul Azinger-bothering 71 in 1987 came flooding back when he followed that shaky start with eight consecutive pars, although not in the typically Faldoesque style. He did marvellously well to extricate his plugged ball from a bunker on 5 so that he could make it down in two from 50 feet, then got up and down from a bunker 30 yards short of 8 to scramble again. Most abnormal behaviour.

At the turn, Faldo was three ahead of Steve Pate and four from John Cook. At which point it all started to go very wrong. He dumped a simple approach to 11 into a bunker, then three-putted 13. Cook, a group ahead and moving in the other direction, joined him in the lead. Faldo then drove into a bunker at 14, on his way to a third bogey in four holes, while Cook was busy draining a 25-footer on 16. The American was suddenly two clear.

And then the 17th hole gave a little something back to English golf after the events of 1972. Cook had sent his second shot to within 20 feet of the hole on the long par-five, a birdie almost certain. But he flew his first putt two feet past, then Jacklined the one coming back. Par instead of the birdie that would surely have delivered the title. Which left the door open for a determined Faldo, who birdied 15, then picked up another on 17. And with Cook pushing an appalling approach to 18 deep into the crowd, bogeying at the death, Faldo came up 18 needing only par. He creamed a 3-iron, his favourite club, into the heart of the green, and two-putted for the win before crumbling into tears. "Tell me what to do," he begged his playing partner Pate, who guided him into the hut to check his card.

Faldo used his winners' speech, wholly inappropriately and therefore rather splendidly, to thank the press "from the heart of my bottom". Spluttering hacks were not the only ones Faldo had upset, though. It turned out he had been playing the entire tournament in a totally nondescript pair of brown brogues, causing the suits at his sponsor Stylo Matchmaker temperature-based issues around the temple. "We have bent over backwards to help him, supplying him with hundreds of shoes!" spluttered the incredulous MD of the aforementioned clog company. Faldo's camp responded by claiming that their client was a "perfectionist" who wasn't happy that the firm had "changed their craftsmen working on the shoe" – though having taken the moral high ground, wisely straight-batted reports that several pairs of Faldo's gratis £100 loafers had been spotted at jumble sales.

4) Faldo's odyssey (1987)

Faldo had looked the part for his first Open at Birkdale in 1983, where he was in contention on the final day after reaching the turn in 33, at one point tying for the lead. But the old adage of major tournaments only starting at that point rang true for the young man, and he came back in 40 strokes, finishing in a disappointing eighth spot. Accepting that his game was not solid enough to resist the white heat of battle, he went off to rebuild his swing with David Leadbetter. "I went to Dave because I believed my game was not good enough to play 18 holes with an Open Championship at stake," he explained four years later, after his relentless 18-par final round had ground Paul Azinger into dust at Muirfield. "When it came to it today – and here's a crazy quote – I knew I'd do it."

Faldo had not looked at the leaderboard all day. Which was probably just as well, because until Azinger missed from 30 feet with the penultimate stroke of the tournament, he never once topped it. But he parred his way round a misty Muirfield, while the American succumbed to atmospheric pressure. One up on 17, he found a fairway bunker and was forced to chip out sideways. Unable to reach the green in regulation, he bogeyed. Up ahead, Faldo was about to play the shot of his life to date: finding the sweet spot of his 5-iron to send his second at 18 into the heart of the green. Par. Azinger, following, dumped his second into a greenside bunker, and a bogey-bogey finish was assured.

The relative lack of drama – coupled with Faldo's failure to connect with his public in the charismatic manner of a Seve or even a Sandy – means that this victory is often referred to in mildly disparaging terms, as though 18 pars in a row is something to be sniffed at. Well, perhaps, if you like. But then look at it this way: they represented the final four hours of a four-year odyssey from which Faldo, having totally deconstructed his swing in a desperate last throw of the dice, was never certain to come back. The scale of the gamble, and the bravery required to take it, was breathtaking. His wife Gill embraced him greenside and told him he deserved every reward likely to come his way. "You've worked so hard," she said, arguably the greatest understatement in Open history.

5) Watson bests Isao Aoki's 63 with a 64 (1980)

The elephant in the room with Muirfield, of course, is that the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers still won't admit women as members. Private clubs with their own long-standing traditions and all that, but these lads really need to sort themselves out. It's a risible carry-on.

Otherwise, it's a stunning course, a punishing test with tight fairways, hellish rough, and a closing hole which Jack Nicklaus reckons is the hardest test in championship golf. Here's the legendary Pat Ward-Thomas in this paper before the 1980 Open: "A beautifully balanced exercise between attack and caution … there is no lastingly favourable wind direction ... the greens are fittingly swift ... the finest and fairest championship course in the land."

That year, however, it was arguably too fair. "In breathless calm with hardly a murmur of breeze and greens holding any range of approach, Muirfield was as harmless as it could possibly be," wrote Ward-Thomas midway through the tournament. Lee Trevino, returning to the scene of his footpaddery eight years earlier, shot 68 in his opening round, then followed it up with a 67 to build a healthy halfway lead. On the second day, Horacio Carbonetti, an unheralded player from Argentina, broke the course record with a 64. (Another record: he sandwiched that with two hapless rounds of 78, and missed the cut for the final day.)

Then, on day three, Isao Aoki made off with Carbonetti's record, sinking a 20-footer on the last to sign for a 63.

Aoki's stunning round wasn't, however, the most resonant blow of that calm afternoon. Tom Watson – who at the halfway point was three shots behind the leader Trevino – shot 64, coming back in 30 strokes, another Open record and one that still stands. Having earned himself a four-shot lead after 54 holes, the greatest links player of all time was never going to give up the chance of winning a third Open. Drama free. Weekend weather request: wind, please, gods of golf!

6) Jack Nicklaus's slam (1966)

We finish as we started, with reference to the Grand Slam. Muirfield might have scuppered a couple of attempts at a calendar-year Impregnable Quadrilateral, but at least the storied old place has allowed someone to complete their career slam. Step forward the Golden Bear, who, upon his first visit to these shores in 1962, was considered nothing more than an insolent cub. He'd just won the US Open, his first major, though acquired little respect in doing so, having had the temerity to brush aside everyone's favourite, Arnold Palmer. Considered nothing more than a gauche brute, and fat to boot, it would take a while for crowds on both sides of the Atlantic to warm to Nicklaus. Shame on us all. Shame shame shame.

Nicklaus's love affair with the Open wasn't immediate, either: his opening round at Troon that year took him 80 strokes, 10 of them at the 11th. But the young man was nothing if not a fast learner, and the following day he shot 72, allowing him to sneak inside the cut and learn the ropes on the links. A year later, at Lytham, having by this time won his first Masters, he equalled the course record with a 67, but on the final day stumbled over the closing holes – Adam Scott wasn't the first, and won't be the last – to miss out on a play-off with Phil Rodgers and the eventual champ Bob Charles (still, incidentally, the only lefty to win an Open Championship).

Another year on at St Andrews, having bagged the PGA in the interim, he started poorly with a 76, but still finished second behind Tony Lema thanks to final rounds of 66 and 68 - at that point the best finish to an Open in history, and one that would be bettered only by his famous Duel in the Sun with Tom Watson at Turnberry, 11 years later. The penny having long dropped in America, the British crowds were beginning to work out what all the fuss was about, too, and not before time.

A fine sequence of Open performances, but Nicklaus still needed a win to complete his career set. A workaday show at Birkdale in 1965 - by his standards, he still finished tied for 12th spot – meant that by the time the championship moved to Muirfield in 1966, the omission on his CV was glaring. Not least because he had since added back-to-back Masters titles, his fourth and fifth majors. It had to happen at some point. Didn't it?

Yes, it did. On the 71st hole, Nicklaus was neck-and-neck with clubhouse leaders Doug Sanders and David Thomas of Wales. The wind was behind him, literally and figuratively. He clattered a three iron straight down the middle of the long par-five, then powered a five iron 238yds to 15 feet. A five iron! The crowd erupted as he two-putted for birdie. A staunch par at 18, and the auld claret jug was his at last. As was the career slam. Only Gene Sarazen, Ben Hogan and Gary Player had completed it before; only Tiger has managed it since. The modern-day Quadrilateral, of course, has remained impregnable, with no little thanks to Muirfield.

The Open 2013The OpenGolfScott Murray
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"There are a lot of good teams out there but with the squad we've got, we have great players and a great mentality here, we can do very well this season" – Kolo Touré gives it the big talk at his Liverpool unveiling.

SPENDING OUR DAY WATCHING THIS ON REPEATScott Murray
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