Columnist Dean Juipe: British Open ends with a dull thud

Dean Juipe

Monday, July 23, 2001 | 10:30 a.m.

Dean Juipe's column appears Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. His boxing notebook appears Thursday. Reach him at juipe@lasvegassun.com or 259-4084.

It was a moment he had waited for all his life, and this was his opportunity to soak up the applause and share his good fortune with the huge crowd that surrounded him.

Yet David Duval, even at the pinnacle of his golf career, barely budged from the dour expression he routinely carries in public. With only the trace of a smile, he acceded to tradition and removed his cap and wrap-around sunglasses for a brief bow on the 18th green before disappearing into the scorer's tent.

And, with that, a British Open that looked for three days as if it might be one for the ages, was, instead, won by the least intriguing man on the course.

The stone-faced Duval deserves plaudits for his play, yet still another chance to ingratiate himself with the fans slipped away. His victory Sunday at Lytham St. Annes rang hollow for the simple reason he seemingly failed to enjoy it.

Sports fans love to see athletes having fun and reacting to the twists and turns of performing on an open stage. Those recollections can be priceless.

But Duval appears committed to a stoicism that leaves everyone cold. In place of a logo on his shirt he might as well have a sentence that says "Don't bother me."

There's businesslike and there's sour, and he's sour.

William Perry, the lovable former Chicago Bear, should turn over the rights to his nickname to Duval -- because he's the real Refrigerator.

The shame of it isn't so much that Duval will never be widely popular, as he's indifferent to acclaim. It's that this British Open had so many genuinely likable characters in contention that it's unfortunate the claret jug went to the man who, based on his outward appearance, was the least appreciative of the honor.

The big crowds roared through much of the tournament's four days as the fans showed their fondness for such stalwarts as Colin Montgomerie, Darren Clarke, Ian Woosnam and Jesper Parnevik, as well as such long shots as Alex Cejka, Greg Owen, Niclas Fasth and Pierre Fulke.

Americans watching on TV familiarized themselves with these men, each of whom is personable, forthright and a bit self-deprecating. Had any of them won, all of Britain would have been ecstatic.

But the final round lost its drama as the difficult course took its toll on Europe's favorite sons while Duval was functioning with machine-like precision. Lacing a shot from the knee-deep rough at No. 15 to within 15 feet and escaping that hole with a par curtailed what little suspense remained.

Up by three strokes with three holes to play, Duval coasted in to win his first major.

There was nothing scintillating about it. The man who played the best won fair and square, yet it would have been far more exciting to see the championship go to a whipping boy such as Montgomerie, or a blue-collar grinder such as Woosnam, or a fresh-and-happy-to-be-there personality such as Cejka or Owen.

They were bubbling with an enthusiasm that seemed contagious. But they didn't win.

Duval did, and it was a terrific letdown for anyone who bought a ticket or had spent the weekend amused by so many happy men with so many delightful stories to tell.