Tim Glover: How quiet American became a big noise

As Ben Curtis was living the American dream in winning The Open at an English fortress, it is understood that senior executives of the mega-management company IMG were shrugging their shoulders when asked to explain the background of the mystery guest.

"Hey, who is this kid? Find out everything about him. If he hasn't got an agent, sign him. If he's got an agent, sign him anyway.'' "But boss, he's one of ours.''

Curtis? Strange business. His achievement, which rendered most commentators speechless, has been compared to that of Francis Ouimet, the young caddie who beat Britain's finest, Harry Vardon and Ted Ray, in a play-off at Brookline 90 years ago to win the US Open. Ouimet, however, was playing on his home course against a couple of gents in tweed suits who probably took an age to travel to Boston. What Curtis did at Royal St George's last week shattered the mystique of The Open: you had to be an experienced links player to stand a chance, you had to understand the vagaries of the wind and the terrain, you had to manufacture shots that are only required in "real golf'', you had to have paid your dues to lift the claret jug. Royal St George's, "a course for heroes'', would sort the men from the boys. That was all BC - Before Curtis.

The rookie was playing in his first Open, his first major and on his first links course. In the world rankings he was 395 places below Tiger Woods. For crying out loud, he had no coach, no psychologist in his corner. Indeed, but for finding Andy Sutton, a man of Kent, the Hollywood script would have had him employing his fiancée, Candace, to caddie for him.

The great links courses on which The Open is always held like to boast of their heritage by pointing to the thoroughbreds who had taken possession of the jug as if preordained. Sandwich had its list of bluebloods, to which is added the name of Curtis, the only player to finish under par when the sun was setting last Sunday. From tin cup to claret jug in one easy lesson; it is just not done.

So how did he pull off the biggest upset in the history of the Championship? Although he had no record to speak of in professional golf, he was a fine amateur with a solid grounding. His grandfather built a golf club in Ohio, and his father is superintendent of the public course. When Curtis walked out of the front door he landed on the practice putting green.

Aside from the fact that gentle Ben played the smartest golf of his life, he was the first player to arrive at Royal St George's and had the deserted links to himself. He did his homework, which should be a lesson, not only to the complacent members of the European Tour, some of whom are overpaid, overweight and overindulged and who treat The Open like any other tournament, but to Team Woods. It was Tiger's first visit to Sandwich, and he did not exactly put in the overtime. Even so, compared to most, Tiger's preparation is usually meticulous. In the last round, Curtis shot 69, Woods 71. The lower order should take heart. The gap is closing.

It could be argued that the enormity of what he was doing didn't faze Curtis because he had never experienced anything like it: Father forgive him, for he knows not what day it is. There was no baggage, no expectation. After his 72 in the second round he said: "Hopefully I can finish in the top 15 and get myself back next year.'' Curtis also had a few strokes of luck, which any champion needs. In the final round, three birdies in a row from the ninth gave him a two- stroke lead at five under. When he had four bogeys over the back nine, the consensus was that normal order had been restored and Curtis had met his match.

The only player to take advantage was Thomas Bjorn. Back home at the Silkeborg Golf Club, where the walls are adorned with Bjorn memorabilia, the members were getting ready to toast the first Dane to win a major. Apart from Bjorn's exploits, the little town's claim to fame is that it was mentioned in the film The Day of the Jackal, the assassin posing in Paris as a Danish schoolteacher. "No, I'm not from Copenhagen, I am from Silkeborg,'' said Edward Fox, choosing somewhere suitably anonymous.

When Bjorn moved to four under with four to play he led by three, but then, of course, he got trapped in the bunker at the 16th. Quicksand for Bjorn, a lifeline for Curtis, who also, I believe, benefited from the disqualification of Mark Roe.

As Roe says, he can only dream in a nightmarish sort of way about what would have happened had he taken his rightful place alongside Woods near the top of the leaderboard. Roe, a man who loves centre stage but is usually confined to the orchestra pit, would have been in his element. "A 68 would have won it. Maybe, just maybe...'' he said.

If there is one thing IMG (their client has already appeared on the David Letterman show) and Curtis would have changed in the fairytale, it is that Roe would not have been disqualified after shooting 67 in the third round. It generated a huge debate, still raging, and deflected some of the limelight away from the champion golfer. Roe, after forgetting to exchange scorecards with Jesper Parnevik on the first tee in the third round, held his hands up, admitted responsibility and was the only person to emerge from the sorry episode with an enhanced reputation. Everybody else was vilified, particularly the R & A blazers.

This was Parnevik: "It's the dumbest thing ever. I don't know why they still have that stupid scorecard rule. Everybody in the world, including me and Roey, knew what he shot.'' One reason they have such rules is not because they doubt the honesty of the players, it's just they doubt whether they can be entrusted to observe or even understand them.

The rule book is a minefield, and the vast majority of players haven't a clue where the mines are. The modern golfer is mollycoddled from the on-site crèche to the players' lounge. Like royalty, they have no need to carry cash and are not encouraged to think for themselves. One of their biggest concerns is the time of the next courtesy car or sponsorship deal. Parnevik again: "In America they give me my opponent's card. Here you get your own card and you have to exchange it. I thought the caddies did that, so did Roey probably.'' The caddies? They get blamed enough for all sorts of mistakes made by their employers, but a failure to exchange scorecards is a new one. As people accustomed to carrying the can, the only cards they are not unaccustomed to seeing are the ones telling them they are dismissed.

Announcing a thorough review, the R & A, who like to think they have all bases covered, admitted: "We have checking procedures in the recorder's hut which broke down. We have to take part of the blame, but not the responsibility.'' That lies with the players, whether it be The Open or the club fourball. There was no question of the disqualification being revoked, although the ban on prize money was waived, Roe and Parnevik being awarded £8,250 retrospectively.

In the recorder's hut, a player checks that it is his card, identified by his name and signature, and that the score on each hole is not lower than that actually scored. If it's higher, it's allowed to stand.

Had the error been spotted before it was too late they could have rewritten the scores so that Roe's numbers appeared under his own name. As it was, there was nearly a get-out clause. On only one hole Parnevik bettered Roe's score, otherwise the Englishman could have remained in the Championship, but with the 81 that the Swede had scored. Pardon me? But for a mathematical quirk, Roe could have adopted Parnevik's score and carried on playing with an 81 to his name instead of the brilliant 67 he actually produced. Now that really is preposterous.

A question remains. If it had been Woods and Roe who did not exchange cards, would they have thrown the world No 1 out of The Open?