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Shane Lowry, a bearded 32 year old Irishman from Offaly County, drove four hours from his hometown of Clara to the resort of Portrush to compete in the 2019 Open. He played four courageous rounds on a challenging links course, in torrential rain and wind, against the best golfers in the world, and with all of Ireland on his shoulders. In the end, he walked off the 18th green having captured the Claret Jug and having given sportswriters everywhere a storyline so compelling that they could actually write an article without Tiger Woods name anywhere in the title.

The tournament coverage began with the usual lame predictions. McIlroy will carry the torch for the Irish. Wrong. Spieth would return from his doldrums. Nada. Tiger Woods would roar again. No way. And Brooks Koepka would contend. A legitimate but uninspired prediction because picking Koepka in a major is like predicting toast will come out of your toaster. Shane Lowry did not crack the top 15 on any expert’s list and the Las Vegas Super Book had him at 29th.

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Fortunately, John Daly added some unique pre-tournament news when he was bitten by a brown recluse spider and rushed to the hospital for treatment. A witness said that when the spider bit Daly, beer came out. Authorities were able to identify the spider that bit him, because it was the only one in the wooded area that had a .121 blood alcohol level.

The 148th Open was returning for the first time in 68 years to Portrush, a small resort town on the shores of Northern Ireland. The Royal Portrush Golf Club was hosting the tournament at their Dunluce Links and over 200,000 avid golf fans from all parts of the world had bought tickets.

Portrush is a quaint town with a population at last count of 6,454 people, including several sheep, a goat, and a cow named O’Reilly who, due to the lack of voter ID, served two terms as the town mayor. This may just be folklore. However, it is true that Portrush does have a castle that was not built by Walt Disney. The Dunluce Castle is an ancient and majestic structure built around the time of Darren Clarke’s birth. It sits precariously on the bluffs overlooking the North Atlantic Ocean. Although the seaside cliffs are beautiful, I wouldn’t want to vacation anyplace where the only way to get to the beach is by an accidental fall.

Dunluce is a links style course with dramatic elevation changes and spectacular ocean views. However, playing the course is more nerve wracking than walking across the nearby rope bridge connecting the mainland to Carrick-a-Rede Island. At first glance, the fairways look like carpeting rolled out over an abandoned lot. They are narrow and treacherous. And the shrubs and grasses in the rough are so high that golfers are often forced to decide whether to hit an 8 iron or a 5 sickle. Any errant shot is unmercifully punished and can transform a round of golf into an off road adventure. Blind shots, deep bunkers, and ball eating plants make playing Dunluce the equivalent of walking through a minefield in a pair of big orange clown shoes.

Even more daunting is the weather. On Sunday, the wind was blowing at 26 miles per hour and gusting so hard my television was wobbling. One gust was so forceful Ricky Fowler nearly lost his hat and his mustache. And I could have sworn I saw Tommy Fleetwood’s caddy lying on the ground and holding Tommy’s ankles as he hit his shots. It was not just a test of golf; it was a test of one’s manhood.

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Only one man was up to the challenge. McIlroy, the oddsmakers favorite, suffered a technical knockout on day one with a quadruple bogey on the first hole. Woods, Mickelson, Scott, Day, and other favorites didn’t even make the cut. Koepka and defending champ Molinari struggled but failed to gain ground. And JB Holmes, the early leader, shot a mindboggling 16 over par on the final day, which is inconceivable for a professional unless he had been attacked by flying monkeys. Only Shane Lowry had the grit to prevail.

On Saturday, Lowry produced one of the greatest rounds in Open history as he broke the Royal Portrush course record with a score of 63. But his final round was even more impressive. Teeing off on Sunday, every golf fan in Ireland was counting on him to win. He was surrounded by a hardy crowd that looked more like the cast from the Game of Thrones than your average spectators. These are people whose ancestors wielded swords and stormed castles. They would not accept excuses, only victory. Lowry was under more pressure than Oprah Winfrey’s spanks.

He stood firm in the wind and rain. His low screaming drives cut through the elements and his well measured lag putts and chips enable him to slay the dragon called Dunluce. No one else was up to the task. No one could gain an inch of ground. Compared to the rest of the field, Lowry looked like a lumberjack amongst baton twirlers. He faced down the best golfers in the world, the toughest conditions, and the crushing pressure of expectation, and finished the job in a commanding fashion. This is what heroes do.

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With the tournament in hand, Lowry absorbed the emotional walk down the 18th fairway. He walked proudly in an environment soaked in Guinness and wrapped in Irish culture. There was no polite applause emanating from corporate tents, instead there was a rowdy and robust crowd of Irish folk roaring his name, singing songs, and shouting familiar football chants.

Lowry graciously accepted the Claret Jug and held it high in the air for all to share. And unlike a misguided Rapinoe or Kaepernick, he did not use his stage to disrespect his country. Instead, he united it with his deeds. He did not insert politics into sports, the very thing we watch to get away from politics. He let us fully escape into the purity and joy of athletic competition.

And it was satisfying and comforting to imagine him giving his tough old dad a bear hug, climbing into his car, and driving home with his pretty wife and daughter at his side, with the Claret Jug in his trunk, and with a bumper sticker reading “Champion Golfer of the Year”. Thank you, Shane. Thank you, Ireland.

Cover Image Via Instagram