Le Golf National, a place so imposing it feels like it was designed by a committee of particularly grumpy gargoyles, has a knack for really putting a golfer through the wringer. Matt Fitzpatrick, bless his steady heart, seemed more interested in testing the patience of those stony-faced fellows with a final-round 70 that, while technically a victory, felt more like a prolonged yawn.
Fitzpatrick, already sporting a five-shot lead, managed to maintain an air of polite, almost apologetic, superiority. He sauntered to the turn with the sort of calm resolve you usually see in someone deciding between brie and camembert. His scorecard, however, told a slightly more adventurous tale, featuring a mere two birdies and a single bogey. Honestly, it was a display of self-control that would make a Stoic philosopher weep with sheer, unadulterated boredom.
This kind of steady play, I suspect, is less about taming the beast of golf and more about politely declining its more dramatic temptations. While Eugenio Chacarra and Angel Hidalgo were busy duking it out in their own little donnybrook, Fitzpatrick was a picture of stoic, if utterly unexciting, command. His lead, once a vast canyon, shrunk a bit here and there, but it never quite looked like it would become a mere puddle.
Frankly, the most thrilling part for many probably came from the brief resurgence of the challengers, only for them to unravel with the predictable cadence of a community theater production gone awry. Chacarra’s rather unscheduled dip into the water on the 13th, for example, was a welcome splash of unintentional slapstick in an otherwise rather parched affair. It was a stark reminder that even the most composed performance can be derailed by a wayward tee shot.
Fitzpatrick’s subsequent birdies on the 13th and 15th felt less like daring conquests and more like a gentleman confirming his afternoon tea reservation. That final bogey on the 18th, a small offering to the golfing gods perhaps, merely served as a footnote to what was, by any measure, a comfortable cruise to victory. He’d ‘got over the line,’ as they say, a phrase that perfectly encapsulates the mild exertion involved.
This win marks his first DP World Tour victory of the season, a rather understated addition to what’s already been a pretty darn good year. I can only assume the champagne, if it’s uncorked, will be of a vintage best suited for contemplating the finer points of a well-played, albeit slightly sleepy, Sunday afternoon.