History alley separates champions from bluffers and mere money-makers

THE 18th tee at Muirfield, history alley, is one of the epic finishing holes of world golf, where all players sense a deep meaning to what they do.

THE 18th tee at Muirfield, history alley, is one of the epic finishing holes of world golf, where we hope that even the largest, shallowest egos in the modern game sense a deeper meaning to what it is they do.

In the the final of the Open Champion those 470 theatrical yards made them pause yet again, testing their dreams. You could see it in the body language: the rookies who dared; the old lions whose hips suddenly ached a little less; the bluffers who tried to tell themselves it was just another hole; the losers who spat in disgust.

Last night's final scenes, running the gauntlet between the towering grandstands to a green defended by an increasingly cold east wind and bunkers so hostile they sustain their own islands, was a classic thriller.

The nearer the end it got, the higher and narrower grew the alley.

It fell to a man who understands well the deeper meaning. Phil Mickelson is not safe or predictable; he proved his heart was big and warm enough for the romance. He attacked the 18th with nerve and courage, not as a money-making robot.

The greatest golfers in the world confess that their hearts beat a little faster when they address the ball there. Peter Alliss says that from the tee, the hole looks claustrophobic, the green impossibly small and protected. The trick of the trade, he says, is to look through the telescope the other way, imagine you are behind the green, seeing how big it is, feel its space inviting you in.

From there, we watched how some of them did just that. We saw Jimmy Mullen, the gawky Devon amateur with Boris Johnson hair, 19 but looking 15, play with great verve. And then Matt Fitzpatrick from Sheffield, the 18-year-old who looks like a 13-year-old in his gym kit, who had the glory of a round with Fred Couples. Like a kid playing with his dad. Or possibly, with all due respect to Fred, his grandad.

Couples, shorter than you might expect, still a handsome devil, still with an aura, walked like a Highland laird and was kindly to the boy, bumping his arm, high-fiving him as they sank their par putts and left the course.

Mullen and Fitzpatrick, men-boys, will remember that journey up the 18th, and will come again, growing golfing muscles and mental resilience, remembering the roar and then the Armistice Day silence that descended when they putted.

Winners have winning body language. The journeymen are interesting to study at the final hole. They're the ones who spit languorously, who throw their clubs down rather than hand them to their caddies. The jerks who pick up their ball and scowl at it, like it was the ball's fault they missed the hole. The South Korean players who prefer their caddies to prostrate themselves to read the greens.

Some amble, some waddle. Some, like Bubba Watson, wear mischievous pink trousers and have a big doll as a driver cover. Many of the middle-rankers seem perpetually dissatisfied. They moan at their caddies: the serfs, half-shut knives with the nut-brown calves who, when their masters are being petulant, go deaf and survey the horizon.

So the 18th hole at Muirfield demands greatness; and knows not to reward men like this. Over two days, you could count the number of birdies made there on one hand, so how fitting that Mickelson chose himself for greatness by achieving one.

It is just a bit of seaside with short grass but it holds magic. Billy Payne, the chairman of Augusta, Sir Nick Faldo, Jack Nicklaus: all have named this place their favourite. Club members say every time they play the 18th hole, it's like doing it for the first time.

One member played after the grandstands were erected, just before the course was closed, and swears that as he walked he could hear the echoes of applause even when no one was there. So those who play in future will continue to raise their caps to the ghost crowds, as he did; and wonder how they do it - these golfing giants who sink birdie putts when 700 million are watching.

After the hurly burly had stilled, the swifts reclaimed their territory, sweeping low over the 18th green again, quartering the low air for evening flies. The seagulls swarmed the stands for scraps of food.

Everyone had gone, but another layer of romance had been created.

The Times