Why I hope Padraig Harrington rises from ashes to snuff out Tiger Wood's flame

Matthew Norman
15 Jul 2009

Many questions pose themselves on the eve of The Open at Turnberry, and most inevitably concern Tiger Woods, but the one that intrigues me is this.

Is Padraig Harrington, seeking to become the first man for more than 50 years to win three in a row, certifiably insane?

Ten months ago, the reticent Irishman (right) was the planet's greatest golfer on two legs. Admittedly, Tiger was on just the one after cruciate knee ligament surgery.

Even so, Harrington had just won the US PGA - his second major on the spin, after defending his Open title, and his third out of six. Such statistics are rare enough for deities like Woods and Jack Nicklaus, let alone for one widely disregarded, until taking his first Open in 2007, as a journeyman. Quite some journey.

And then, bless his perfectionist heart, he decided to restructure his swing. Imagine Leonardo glancing at the Mona Lisa and concluding that his brush work wasn't quite up to scratch.

Golf's 'Tinkerman' was the sort of lad, he recently explained, who took machinery apart just to put it back together and, needless to say, the dismantling was easier than the reassembling.

He has missed many cuts since and dive-bombed down the rankings. Despite winning a meaningless Irish event at the weekend, he has as much apparent chance of another Claret Jug as Peter Alliss has of starring in a lesbian porn film, as portly transsexual minx Petra-Alice, with the Dagenham Girl Pipers and the late Tallulah Bankhead.

Even in perplexity, one has to admire Harrington's refusal to rest on such fragrant laurels and we must hope for a speedy resurrection. With world No2 Phil Mickelson back home with his unwell wife, this Open certainly needs a dramatic story to prevent Woods monopolising the spotlight entirely.

Woods's major form over recent years can be crudely summed up as follows. Either he leads at halfway and grinds the field down with mechanical brilliance or he starts poorly, spends two-and-a-half rounds hauling himself into contention and fades over the closing holes to miss out by a couple of strokes.

With The Open coinciding with the more eagerly-anticipated Second Ashes Test at Lord's, the BBC will be praying that he is at least tied for the lead after the third round [he's never won a major, as everyone knows, when trailing after 54 holes].

Last year, in his absence, only about four million watched Harrington's stirring defence - about a third of the audience for Roger Federer's Wimbledon defeat by Rafa Nadal a couple of weeks earlier.

There is another reason for the poor figures, of course. The Beeb's unconscionably smug and lifeless coverage is cunningly designed to minimise the audience by scaring off all but the Werthers/Stringback Driving Glove demographic.

Mr Alliss performs the role of the bouncer on the door of the Darby & Joan nightclub, turning away everyone under 55. He and his posse of giggling sycophants make Sanatogen seem as naughtily exotic as amyl nitrate.

Those willing to endure the twittering nonsense will tune to the BBC with hopes of a British winner. In the decade since Paul Lawrie fluked The Open, no subject of Her Britannic Majesty has won a major.

If anyone is poised to end the drought, perhaps it's a slimmed-down Lee Westwood. He has the form, talent and experience, though whether he has the bottle is another matter. Ian Poulter, whose dress sense will one day land him in a dock at The Hague, certainly does have the self-belief, while Belfast's Rory McIlroy, prodigy though he is, may not be ready at 20.

None of the other native contenders look like potential winners. Of the non-Brits, no one ever got fat by backing Sergio Garcia in grand slam events, German form horse Martin Kaymer is untested at the highest level and while I have a sneaky feeling for the American Jim Furyk, the prospect is gruesome. Who can gaze upon that angular face without hearing an oak door creaking open, and Igor turning to an unseen presence lurking within the gothic mansion to announce: "Earthlings again, Master"?

There are many others with a vague chance, as always, the terror being that another obscure American with the charisma of a commode will follow Ben Curtis and Todd Hamilton onto the Who The Hell Was That? Open honours board.

The event could well do without another of those. It needs the Tiger burning bright over the final nine holes, ideally pushed all the way by a Brit. What it perhaps needs above all is Padraig Harrington answering the question posed at the start in the negative, shaking off the spectre of the psychiatrist's couch with a recovery to make Lazarus look like a malingering ponce gingerly shaking off a mild cold.