Monday, April 10, 2000
Singh yawns to win
BY PAUL DAUGHERTY
The Cincinnati Enquirer
AUGUSTA, Ga. — Nobody is going to nominate Vijay Singh for classic Masters champion of the millennium. Even if Singh is the only Masters champion of the millennium.
Masters champions are dashing, swashbuckling heroes. If they weren't golfers, they'd be winning Academy Awards. Clark Gable would have been a good Masters champion.
They win by daring greatly and tempting fate and surviving disaster better than the next guy. They die with their boots on. They approach the back-9 on Sunday as if it were the gates of hell. Then, they whistle.
They make 30-foot putts. They cause sportswriters to write bad poetry about dying sunlight filtering through tall pines. At least Vijay Singh spared you that.
It isn't Singh's fault he isn't Jack Nicklaus. Or that he won the Masters by three shots. Or that no one seriously challenged him in the twilight. Or that he turned the legendary back-9 on Sunday into a two-hour yawn.
Paying his dues
Singh is a grinder and an erstwhile nomad. To get to his green jacket, he grew up in Fiji, where he says golf is as popular as cricket is here. He was a club pro in Malaysia and played on the Asian and European tours. He has paid his dues, and he deserved to win Sunday.
By the time he reached the 14th tee, winning was practically in the bag. Singh made his putter sing. He isn't a great putter; he claims to have 1,000 of them at home. This week, he was Ben Crenshaw. Combine that with his long-ball habit off the tee and his ice-cube demeanor, and he was impossible to beat.
They say the Masters tests a player's character as much as his game. Singh passed that test during the first nine holes. But nobody squeezed him on the back nine. Nobody took his heart and yanked it to his larynx. Nobody demanded he be heroic.
“Anything can happen on the back nine on Sunday,” Tiger Woods said. It is the High Noon of golf holes, its own, little Stephen King novella. Anything can happen. Only this year, nothing did.
No suspense
David Duval, Singh's playing partner, was a shot behind after 12 holes. If anyone could match Singh for bloodless poise, it was Duval. Duval stood over his second shot at the par-5 13th for what seemed like weeks. Then he hit a 5-iron into the creek in front of the green.
He made bogey. Singh made birdie. The electricity left the Masters like somebody cut the power.
Funny things happen here on Sunday. Fred Couples won a green coat in '92 because his ball stayed on the bank at No. 12. Maybe David Duval lost one Sunday because at No. 13, his ball did not.
Singh drowned his approach at No. 11, but got lucky with where he was allowed to drop. On 12, his tee shot landed in the flora behind the green (messy shot), then rolled into the back bunker (less messy).
Then came 13. Drama's last hope died with Duval's ball, in Rae's Creek.
The Masters doesn't guarantee Sunday drama. But it's what we've come to expect. Singh took care of that. “When I'm walking between shots I get butterflies. When I'm over the ball, I'm pretty comfortable,” he said.
That's how he played it Sunday afternoon. Comfortably. Only Sunday afternoon here is not supposed to be about comfort. Not at all.
Paul Daugherty welcomes your comments at 768-8454. Fair Game, a collection of his columns, is available at local bookstores.
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