By MONTE DUTTON

Brian Harman is a small, bald man from Savannah, Ga., who came from just this side of nowhere on Sunday in Hoylake, England, to win his third PGA Tour event ever.

It was a major. The Open Championship, or, since we have an Open across the pond, too, the British Open. He is 36 years old. He’s not going to rival Tiger Woods when all is said and done. This is the greatest achievement of his life, and it’s probably going to wind up that way.

The greatest golfers on earth separate themselves from thousands of others, who are merely excellent, with intangible sorcery. They are all supremely skilled. They have all dedicated themselves to the game. Nonetheless, in the majors – Masters, PGA, U.S. Open and British – it is not uncommon for the Cinderella story to ride the final round in a pumpkin. One in which the wheels go poof!

Harman was having a good year when he arrived at Royal Liverpool – have you noticed that the King has a lot of properties? – but hadn’t won an actual tour event since 2017.

He won by six strokes. In the final 36 holes, the lead never got smaller than two. He attempted 50 puts from 10 feet or less and made 49 of them.

I think it helps a writer to have played a sport, or at least tried it. I was a lousy golfer – come to think of it, I was lousy at most physical pursuits – but at least I know what it feels like to stand over an eight-foot putt, knowing you need to make it. Pros don’t know what it’s like to play a par-five and use a wood on every shot till the hole is near.

I enjoyed watching major-league baseball over the weekend. For the first time in about 25 years, I can’t watch the Boston Red Sox any time I want. I didn’t subscribe to the MLB package this year. Also, my satellite package doesn’t include whatever channel (or channels) it is where the Atlanta Braves are showcased, and as a result, the Braves are blacked out elsewhere except national networks.

Even though Milwaukee won the Saturday-night game on Fox, 4-3, it was memorable. A player making his major-league debut, Pep Streebek (oops, Sal Frelick), rapped three hits, lofted a sacrifice fly and made two diving catches in one inning for the Brewers. I saw enough to see how fast and powerful Atlanta is, and I’m fretting about the two-game series at Fenway Park this week.

The Red Sox defeated the New York Mets on Sunday night. Rafael Devers hit a 415-foot home run, and Boston had many more hits (15) than runs. I’m starting to regain hope. I doubt the Sox are going to make the playoffs this year, but I feel for the first time they’re putting the pieces in place for a strong team in the future. Meanwhile, the Red Sox and Yankees are running neck and neck … to avoid the cellar.

Double bonus question: Who was Pep Streebek? Don’t you wiki it.

I thought Denny Hamlin’s tactics were a little ornery en route to his victory up in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. It’s the state of the art nowadays. Whereas, it once was mainly the state of Dale Earnhardt’s art.

As the fictional Harry Hogge once said, “He’s mean, Cole. He’ll wreck you.” As a country boy sang of a woman, “Don’t blame her. Life turned her this way.”

Or, in NASCAR, this way and that way.

The accepted rule used to be “race the other guy the way he races you.” Earnhardt observed that rule. The difference with Earnhardt was that he’d run over anybody until he stood up to him. Now they all just race like lunatics.

In the NASCAR fandom – and most every other, for that matter – my guy tells it like it is, and your guy is a whiner. My team is made up of exemplary young men; yours are vicious criminals who cheat, steal and kick their dogs.

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