The Cruel Calculus of Major Championships: What the Game’s Greatest “Nearly Men” Reveal About Golf’s Hardest Test

I’ve been covering professional golf for 35 years now, and I’ve learned that winning on the PGA Tour—even winning a lot—doesn’t necessarily define your legacy in this game. What does? Major championships. It’s a hard truth, but it’s the truth nonetheless.

I was caddying for Tom Lehman when he won the Open in ’96, and I remember the difference it made immediately. Not just to him, but to how people talked about him. Suddenly he wasn’t just “a great tour player”—he was a major champion. That distinction matters more in golf than in any other sport, and it’s worth examining why some of the most talented golfers ever to play the game never quite cleared that particular hurdle.

The Paradox of Excellence Without Victory

What strikes me most about this list of golf’s great “nearly men” is how it exposes a fundamental truth: consistency and quality don’t always translate to major championship success. Lee Westwood, ranked number one in the world, won everywhere except where it mattered most to history. That’s not a critique of Westwood’s talent—it’s a commentary on how brutally selective major championships are.

Having spent 15 Masters tournaments in the press room and countless others at the Opens and the US Opens, I’ve watched the difference between a good week and a legendary one come down to inches, mental fortitude, and sometimes just plain luck. Westwood had the game. He proved it on five continents. What he didn’t have was the one thing you can’t manufacture: a major championship trophy.

Consider his concentrated run of heartbreak:

“Between 2008 and 2013 he was particularly close to glory, collecting eight top three finishes in just 21 starts. His greatest run started in late 2009 when he was tied third in both the Open and PGA Championship then opened 2010 with second at the Masters. After T16 at the US Open he was second in the Open. Yes: four near-misses in just five starts.”

That’s not bad luck. That’s systemic near-misses at the worst possible moments. And it tells you something important: major championships aren’t just won by the best players—they’re won by the players who can compartmentalize pressure in ways that most of us simply can’t.

The American Curse: Why Montgomerie’s Story Still Stings

Colin Montgomerie’s narrative has always fascinated me, particularly because it reveals golf’s geographic fault lines. Here was a player who dominated the European Tour—31 wins, eight Order of Merit titles—and was absolutely magnificent in the Ryder Cup. His singles record alone (eight matches, never beaten) speaks to a fierce competitor.

But he couldn’t win majors in America, and majors were predominantly played in America back then.

“He finished second in the US Open three times, including 2006 when a par at the last would have won it and a bogey would have earned a play-off. He made double bogey after hitting the fairway with his drive.”

In my experience, this kind of breakdown—hitting the fairway and still making double—speaks to something deeper than poor execution. It speaks to the weight of expectation. I’ve seen it happen to great players before. The pressure becomes so enormous that their mechanics fail them precisely when they need them most.

What particularly strikes me is the timeline. Montgomerie had his best chance early in his career at the 1992 US Open. Jack Nicklaus congratulated him on winning. He finished third. Imagine if he’d won that day. History might read entirely differently. Instead, that near-miss may have haunted him for decades.

When One Putt Changes Everything: Doug Sanders and the Weight of History

I’ll be honest—Doug Sanders’ story at St. Andrews in 1970 still makes my stomach turn a little, even after all these years. Not because Sanders is some tragic figure (he had a wonderful career with 24 tour wins), but because it perfectly illustrates how major championships strip away all the other accomplishments and reduce a career to moments.

“At the 1970 Open in St Andrews he only needed a par at the short par-4 final hole to be triumphant – and he was only 75 yards from the pin after his drive. Three blows later he had 3-feet to win the Claret Jug. Before his attempt he nervously leaned down to remove debris. And then he wafted his putter at the ball in a manner that left those watching gasping in horror.”

That’s 75 yards from victory. That’s a junior golfer’s distance. And it cost him everything—a playoff with Nicklaus, a loss, and permanent residence in golf’s tragic hall of fame.

The Forgotten Ones: Why History Needs Multiple Perspectives

Harry Cooper and Macdonald Smith represent an even older heartbreak. Cooper finished top-five in majors 11 times. Eleven! And yet his nationality quirk kept him off Ryder Cup teams. Smith had his brothers—both US Open winners—watching from the winner’s circle while he accumulated 25 tour wins without ever winning a major.

These men built tremendous legacies within professional golf, but major championship drought has a way of reshaping narratives. It’s not entirely fair, but it’s how the game works.

What This Tells Us About Modern Golf

Here’s what matters: The fact that this list exists at all tells us something healthy about professional golf. These weren’t mediocre players who happened to play poorly in majors. They were world-class competitors whose success elsewhere proved their fundamental quality. The major championship remains genuinely hard to win—hard enough to humble the greatest players.

That’s actually something to celebrate. In an era where we sometimes worry about parity or depth of talent, these near-misses remind us that the majors still separate the great from the greatest. They still matter. They still define careers.

After 35 years of covering this game, that’s still the most compelling story golf has to tell.