Golf: Zoeller fails to whistle up a storming finish: American's mission to enjoy himself is expressed through his relaxed bearing and non-stop harmonising en route to third place

IF BRAD FAXON had a sleepless night yesterday it probably had nothing at all to do with his blowing his chance of becoming the 1994 winner of the Open Championship. A more lingering thought would have been a piece of tuneless music he had been tortured by all day.

Faxon had partnered Fuzzy Zoeller in the final round of the Open Championship here, which meant he had been accompanied by a whistle that would have driven any sane man into wrapping his one-iron round his fellow- American's neck on the 18th green.

When Zoeller got a birdie he whistled, when he got a bogey he whistled louder. If he had won yesterday he might well have broken into song. No one could divine what the piece of music was but it would be a better than even bet that Faxon was banging his head on the bedroom wall last night trying to rid it from his mind. His missed putts during a three-over-par round of 73 will have been erased far more easily from the memory banks.

The whistling was not false bravado because no one could accuse Zoeller of being twitchy under pressure. He just likes whistling, like other golfers like haranging their caddies in moments of stress. A round with Zoeller is like 18 holes with Whistling Jack Smith.

His appearance, with his full figure and dark glasses, suggests he spent the last 20 years shooting Mafia targets instead of rounds of golf, and he walks with the calm assurance that Hollywood bestows on such characters.

He says he does not suffer from nerves - 'Hell, I'm 44. I just enjoy the challenge of playing on an occasion like this' - and his swagger implies confidence. He does not exactly fidget over his strokes either, just a quick look and then a swing so smooth it ought to be wrapped in silk. If he actually tried to hurry he could probably have raced round the Aisla Course in two hours.

This sang froid stems from recent relief from a back problem which was incurred when he played basketball as a teenager and has plagued him ever since. Two years ago an operation cured the severe spasms and the joints have become more lubricated with the passing of time. 'I'm a different kind of player now,' he said. 'The surgery means I'm a winner whether I finish first or 70th. Every day I'm out there I'm a winner.'

He began the day as a potential winner of the 123rd Open, too, but to watch him you would think he was about to embark on a Sunday morning fourball at a dollar a hole. On the practice green he spent a full five minutes chatting and joking with Britain's Mark Roe although he was due on the tee in less than 20 minutes. Even when he got there he had officials laughing, which is not something you can accuse Nick Faldo of very often.

At the second he rolled in a birdie putt from 40 feet to go two shots clear but his demeanour did not alter one jot from the moment at the next hole when his approach had an unkind kick and went away instead of towards the flag. 'Doesn't know the way to the green that ball,' he said to the crowd, 'it bounced the wrong way.'

It was the same on the sixth when a putt for birdie from 30 feet became a bogey with a miss from 18 inches. His charge had been halted and his hopes dashed for the day but he reacted with a quiet 'Ahem' and then carried on with his mission to enjoy himself.

He succeeded, even though his golf was not at the heights it achieved when he won the 1979 Masters and the 1984 US Open. 'With Brad and I,' he said afterwards, 'it was like sitting in a room watching paint dry. Nothing happened. It was boring.

'But it was a wonderful experience. I put myself in contention in the Open Championship which is something not many Americans will experience because they don't have the guts to come over here.'

Was he being facetious? an American enquired. 'Larry, why would I lie to you?' he replied. 'Hell, I'm not married to you, why should I need to lie to you?'

He finished his round of 70 with a 23-foot birdie putt that ensured third place and a cheque of pounds 74,000 but a more pressing need was playing on his mind. As soon as he finished his round he dashed off to a portable toilet and announced. 'Stand back, I'm not sure how big the flow is going to be. There are no facilities out on the course and the bushes are not big enough. I was desperate to go.'

One reporter had a pressing need, too. 'We've had lots of letters,' he began, 'what exactly do you whistle out there?'

Zoeller replied: 'I don't know, anything that comes to mind. I just looked out there and saw the sunshine and sea and started whistling something.'

Faxon would probably like to put a name to the tune, too.

(Photograph omitted)