Faldo v Norman | The Masters 1996
Nick Faldo and Greg Norman had been the dominant forces in the sport for a decade.
Norman, the Great White Shark. World number one, a serial winner around the globe. Two majors and should have had more. Rarely out of contention. He played aggressively, attacked courses and looked to dominate the field.
Faldo, former number one. Five majors, although four years since his last. At his best, his game was flawless. A winner’s mindset, applying cast-iron mentality with unerring accuracy from the fairway. A strategist who plotted pathways to success.
In ’93, at The Open Championship at Royal St George’s, Faldo took control on the Friday with a 63, nobody has ever gone lower in a major. Still leading on Sunday, his 67 should have been enough. Norman, playing in the group ahead, had other ideas, shooting 64 to take the lead and claim a second claret jug.
At Augusta ’96, they came together again.
The Background
Sunday at the Masters. One of those fabled annual sporting events, like Wimbledon, the Grand National, Super Bowl or FA Cup Final.
Like a lot of things, The Masters first appeared on my radar in the mid-80s. Although, coming from a family of golfers, it was always in the background, never far from conversation.
I knew the names: Watson, Trevino, Palmer, Player and Nicklaus.
I fell in love with Seve at The Open . St Andrew’s ’84 as he duelled and finally vanquished Watson. The Ryder Cup in ’85, swept up in the euphoria of European victory.
But once it had my attention, it was compulsory, compulsive viewing. Spitting Image, Hale and Pace and Alan B’stard could have the night off.
Mize’s giddy skip after chipping in to beat Norman in the playoff in ’87. Peter Alliss’ avuncular chuckle as Lyle rolled in his birdie to win in ‘88.
Faldo, flawless through back-to-back wins in ’89 and ’90. And Woosie, the Welsh world number one, who I followed around Whitchurch, my own club, just a few years earlier, a crouching punch in the air as his putt dropped on eighteen, claiming victory in ‘91.
Shrubs, Creeks and Iconic Settings: Augusta National Golf Club
Of the four majors, The Masters is the only one to have a permanent home.
Augusta National, just a few miles inside the state of Georgia’s border with South Carolina.
The flowers and shrubs that give each hole their name: Magnolia, Azalea, Flowering Crab Apple. Trees that line lush fairways and the small lakes and winding creeks that cast perfect reflections in the crystal water.
Iconic features: Rae’s Creek , Eisenhower’s Tree , and Amen Corner , the stretch of holes from 11 to 13, that so often have shaped the outcome of the tournament. Where unlikely victors have begun the charge, where leads have crumbled and hopes have faded.
The back-nine on Sunday
The holes and the moments they’ve created. Daunting par-4s down ten and eleven, Hoch missing a tiddler to win on ten, Faldo sinking a monster on eleven. Mize’s chip from right of the green to best Norman.
The broken-hearted who’ve trudged off twelve; a simple wedge coming up short and wet; or adrenaline charged into the sand or shrubs at the back. The prospect of chipping down a glass like slope leading to the lake.
The chances presented on thirteen and fifteen, where eagles and bogeys can determine first from nowhere.
Risk and reward everywhere. The pin placement on sixteen, the same every year. Balls that land high and right, rolling to the hole. Tiger’s chip from the back in ’05, meandering down, taking a moment to look around before dropping.
Those who’ve got tight, whose swings have faltered with the closing line in sight — pulling it into the water or tugging it right.
Norman’s Conquest — Taking Control of the Field
Norman fired 63 on the Thursday.
By Friday night he led Faldo, in second, by four shots. Paired together on the Saturday, Norman took control, extending his lead to six.
A birdie on seventeen meant Faldo remained in second place on his own. It meant he’d be paired with Norman again on the Sunday.
But nobody was looking at second or lower. All eyes were on Norman, and his procession to a long-overdue Green Jacket.
Calling the race early
Back in those days I played golf every Saturday. A regular group, including my brother, my cousin and some close friends. We’d gather around midday, play in the club competition and reconvene in the bar to talk about our awful luck and woeful putting with some beers and a mountain of crisps.
The Masters was a on our minds, a consensus forming that Norman’s lead was unassailable. Playing out of this world, no chance he’s getting caught, the gap was already too big.
No soothsayer am I, but I wasn’t fully sold on the notion.
On his game, Faldo was formidable and unrelenting.
Norman may yet have a question or two to answer.Or, maybe I just wanted a closer contest to enjoy for my Sunday pleasure.
Reeling the Shark In — Masters Sunday, 1996
Norman bogeyed the first, the lead cut to five.
On the fourth, he came up short, made five. Faldo clawed another one back.
Norman could only manage par on the par five eighth. Faldo birdied.
The lead was three.
The back nine loomed. Amen Corner was, well, around the corner.
Faldo was hitting the fairways and finding the greens with routine consistency. The pressure was on the Shark.
He dropped a shot at nine and another a ten. A short putt slipped by the hole at 11. The lead had evaporated, Faldo pulled level.
The ball hit the bank, anyone who’s ever watched The Masters will tell you what tends to happen next. The gallery of fans around the tee groaned, an audible response in keeping with the event unfolding. The camera zooming in on Norman’s ball, resting in the shallows beneath the water.
He made five. Faldo, two-under par for the day, led by two.
Faldo remained two ahead.
Two shot leads with five holes to play are precarious and can disappear in an instance. But to all watching, witnessing a swing of eight shots in Faldo’s favour, the gap seemed wider.
Both men parred fourteen, both birdied fifteen.
Faldo fired across the water on sixteen, finding the green. Norman, pushing to close the gap, pulled it, the ball plunging into the water left of the hole, a tauntingly high splash briefly disturbing the calm before settling once more.
Another double-bogey on the card, and Faldo led by four.
Norman gathered himself on the closing holes, parring both. Faldo hit his second to eighteen to around twenty, maybe twenty-five feet, then rolled the ball into the centre of the cup.
A closing birdie, a final round 67. This time it was more than enough to win.
Arms aloft, Faldo savoured the moment of a third Masters crown, a sixth major; before embracing his rival, whose precession had been derailed by Faldo’s precision.It was a last hurrah for both. Two extraordinary careers that would continue on for a few more years, but whose time at the very pinnacle of the sport effectively concluded on that Sunday, with a Tiger waiting in the wings.
