So much for the US Open being golf's show of brutality. In a year that's seen a few displays of the merciless and uncompromising — Nadal-Federer in Paris springs readily to mind — Birkdale was something else entirely. Short of playing in an actual hurricane (and there were times where that didn't seem far off), conditions couldn't have been less inviting — and yet where Shinnecock Hills, the previous benchmark for bringing professional golfers to their knees, got a dreadful reception, Royal Birkdale produced a Major tournament that was quite unforgettable, for all the right reasons.

With the defining figure of modern golf missing from the tournament, the course and weather combining for a murderous gauntlet, and the final day down to a dogfight between an injured Irishman, an Australian pensioner, and an Englishman celebrated for his wardrobe more than his golf, this could have been the weakest of Majors. Instead, Tiger's absence was barely noticed in the raw theatre of the final day, with Birkdale's stage increasingly hypnotic as the day wore on.

Greg Norman winning the Open at 53 would have made for a remarkable finish; in the end, it was just too much for him, but he still produced four days that defined this tournament just as much as Harrington, if not more. The old champion managing one last, unexpected flourish taps directly into the seam of romance and sentiment that fuels so much of our sporting passion, and even Harrington conceded that a Norman victory would have been quite a story. But a tie for third was still an astonishing achievement for a man who last played at the South African Open at Pearl Valley in December, and whose major sporting role now is as new wife Chris Evert's tennis partner.

A Poulter victory would also have made for dramatic conclusion (and sent the British press absolutely berserk), in light of his comments at the start of the year that he was capable of taking on Tiger. Winning the Open would have underscored that suggestion most convincingly; there was still enough in his Sunday performance to confirm that there's more to Poulter than lurid outfits and a surfer haircut.

Poulter's finish would have been enough for a win on most other days; he stayed in contention long enough to keep the afternoon's drama going. Stenson, Norman, Wakefield (described by The Times on Sunday morning as "not even the most famous sportsman in his only family", that honour falling to uncle and former England wicketkeeper Bob Taylor) and Poulter bobbed and weaved with the course, each taking turns to suggest a charge to the title; ultimately, though, none of them could match nine of the finest holes ever played in a Major Championship.

The length of the course, the ferocity of the wind, the pin placements, the sheer pressure of Major golf... Royal Birkdale reduced the game to an act of survival. Or it did for everyone except Padraig Harrington, who wobbled a little before the turn, but then came home in the manner of a true and worthy champion. Just 32 shots were needed in those closing nine holes, a stretch that had destroyed the rest of the field, publicly humiliating men who normally make golf look so simple. Thankful just to hit greens, celebrating pars with relief, playing more with hope than certainty, Birkdale didn't give an inch over four days — making Harrington's triumph one to savour all the more.

As one of the few Irishmen in history not to drink, Harrington won't wake up with a hangover this morning; there'll be others in the field who drank away the pain inflicted by Birkdale, wondering just how the champion managed to produce the finish that he did. For the rest of us, there's simply a fabulous tournament to reflect on, a most deserving champion, and a vivid illustration that for golf, there is life without Tiger Woods.

  • Contact Dan at dan@metropolis.co.za

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