Excerpt from The Majors by John Feinstein, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Just before the ball got to the cup, it began to veer left. "Another inch and it's wide," O'Meara said.

But that inch wasn't there. The ball caught the left side of the cup and disappeared. O'Meara's arms were in the air, a wave of disbelief and relief pouring over him. He never smiled. His game face was so set that the smile didn't come until later. Higginbotham was pounding him on the back and Couples was congratulating him. O'Meara was more stunned than thrilled. He had never once led the tournament in four days. Until now. On his final putt, on the final hole. The only time when it mattered.

In the Jones Cabin, there was a brief silence when the putt disappeared. Jack Stephens, having finally seen someone make that putt, stood up and shook hands with Duval. "Well, David, great playing," he said. "We'll look forward to seeing you again next year."

Duval stood there, his eyes blank. He felt as if someone had kicked him very hard in the stomach. He had finished second on tour seven different times. Each time it had been disappointing. But not like this. Two months later, retelling the story, he leaned forward and took a deep breath. "I swear to God," he said, "just thinking about it again makes my stomach hurt all over."

Duval now knew the difference between all other golf tournaments and the four majors. The pain. "Never, ever, have I felt like that at the end of a golf tournament," he said. "It was as if every bit of adrenaline and energy I had ever had just went right out of me. Right then I understood what the majors are all about. Really and truly understood for the first time."

Several hours later, Mark O'Meara also understood. He had gone through all the rituals of victory after making his putt: the green jacket ceremony in the Butler Cabin; the public ceremony on the putting green; talking to the print media, then the TVs. He had sat at the victory dinner in the clubhouse that night, accepting congratulations all around, proudly wearing the green jacket. As dessert was being served, O'Meara sat back in his chair and a wave of exhaustion came over him.

Suddenly, something occurred to him. He had no idea how much money he had made for winning the tournament. "First time in my life," he said. "I won the golf tournament and six hours later, I didn't have a clue how much the winner's check was for."

The check was for $576,000. But if it had been for $576 or $5.76, O'Meara wouldn't have cared. Most of the time, professional golfers play for money. It is how they are measured at the end of each year. But four times a year, the money becomes completely irrelevant. They are playing for history.

© 1999 by John Feinstein