The Cruel Mathematics of Major Championships: Why Golf’s Best Sometimes Never Win

After 35 years covering this game—and having spent time in the bag with a guy who won a major—I’ve come to understand something that casual fans often miss: major championship golf operates by different rules than the rest of the circuit. It’s not just harder. It’s categorically, almost spiritually different.

That’s what struck me reading through this fascinating piece on golf’s greatest never-were. Because it’s not really about failure at all. It’s about the razor-thin margins that separate legend from near-legend, and how sometimes the most talented players get caught on the wrong side of that divide.

The Forgotten Names We Should Remember

Let me start with Harry Cooper. Back in the ’20s and ’30s, this guy was a force. Thirty PGA Tour wins? Seven in a single year? Top five in majors 11 times? In my experience covering the tour, those are the numbers of a first-ballot Hall of Famer. And yet:

"He would also have played the Ryder Cup except for a bizarre quirk: he couldn’t play for Britain because he didn’t reside there and he couldn’t play for the USA because he wasn’t born there."

That’s not just bad luck—that’s a gut-punch served by the administrative gods themselves. Cooper was genuinely world-class, but he’s barely a footnote today.

Macdonald Smith’s story gets under my skin too. Here was a guy Ben Hogan admired. Ben Hogan! Yet his brothers Willie and Alex both won the US Open while Mac couldn’t break through. That’s the kind of family dinner conversation that never gets easier.

The One That Still Stings

But Doug Sanders in 1970 at St Andrews? That’s different. That’s not just heartbreak—that’s the sport’s most public humiliation wrapped in a single putt.

"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."

I’ve watched that footage more times than I should admit. Every time, my stomach drops. Sanders had 24 PGA Tour wins. He finished second in majors four times. He had earned the right to win. The ball earned the right to fall in. But golf, that beautiful tyrrant, said no.

What people miss is this: Sanders’ collapse probably haunted him less than what came next. He had to face Jack Nicklaus in an 18-hole playoff the very next day, knowing he’d already lost. That’s psychological warfare without a single word being spoken.

The Modern Cases That Hit Different

Colin Montgomerie represents something I’ve witnessed firsthand throughout my career: the curse of geography. This man was an eight-time European Order of Merit winner. Eight times! In the Ryder Cup, he was untouchable—never beaten in singles play. By any rational measure, he was one of the finest golfers of the 1990s and 2000s.

But he couldn’t figure out American major championship golf. And here’s what really gets me:

"In just his fourth major, the 1992 US Open, he was third after setting an early clubhouse target which prompted Jack Nicklaus to congratulate him on victory. It was premature praise and must still sting."

I remember that. I was there. I watched Monty’s face when Jack came up to shake his hand, both of them certain it was over. Then the gallery started murmuring. Then the TV cut back inside. Nicklaus’s congratulations became the most painful nine words anyone had ever spoken to him.

Having covered Monty’s career closely, I can tell you he processed that differently than Sanders did. Monty carried it as evidence—ammunition that American golf was somehow rigged against him. That mindset, I think, made the next misses harder. Once you start believing the deck is stacked, you play scared.

Then there’s Lee Westwood, who tops this list. And frankly, I think the ranking is right:

"Between 2008 and 2013 he was particularly close to glory, collecting eight top three finishes in just 21 starts."

That’s not a slump. That’s sustained excellence meeting immovable object. Westwood won everywhere—all continents, all grass types, all conditions. He did literally everything required except win the one thing that matters most. Those four near-misses in five starts between 2009 and 2010 aren’t just statistical anomalies. They’re evidence of a player who had the skill but couldn’t find the margin.

What This Really Means

Here’s what I think matters most: these five men weren’t talented enough to win majors, they were talented enough that not winning them becomes the story. That’s worse, in a way. If you’re Harry Sutton, you play in six majors, make three cuts, and nobody writes about your major championship drought. But if you’re Lee Westwood with 11 top-five finishes? That absence is deafening.

Golf’s cruelty isn’t that it’s hard. It’s that it’s hard in ways you can’t always control. You can be the best player in the world and lose to luck, to course setup, to the exact bounce on one shot. Over 72 holes, the margins are measured in inches. Over a career, they’re measured in heartbreak.

These five men weren’t failures. They were just born into a game where "almost" is the loneliest word in the dictionary.