[PHOTO: Stuart Franklin/R&A]
Preachers cannot control how their congregations interpret sermons. Each listener brings personal experiences, beliefs and struggles that inevitably shape the intended message. For proof of this dynamic, look no further than the varied reactions to Scottie Scheffler’s comments on Tuesday at Royal Portrush. His words revealed not a man searching for purpose, but one who had already found it – words that could help his fellow superstar return from an existential rut.
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For those who missed it, Scheffler – one of golf’s sharpest minds, particularly when a question strikes him as worth genuine consideration – was asked about the longest he’s either savoured a victory or suffered from defeat. Over the past three years, Scheffler has consistently articulated a paradox: while grateful for his extraordinary career, he derives surprisingly little satisfaction from winning. The euphoria, he insists, dissolves almost instantly – a philosophical thread he picked up again before delivering what would become the week’s most provocative statement:
“At the end of the day, it’s like, I’m not out here to inspire the next generation of golfers,” Scheffler said. “I’m not here to inspire somebody else to be the best player in the world, because what’s the point?
“This is not a fulfilling life, It’s fulfilling from a sense of accomplishment, but it’s not fulfilling from a sense of the deepest places of your heart. There’s a lot of people that make it to what they thought was going to fulfil them in life. And then you get there, then all of a sudden you get to No.1 in the world, and they’re, like, what’s the point? I really do believe that because, you know, what is the point? You are like, what? Why do I want to win this tournament so bad? That’s something that I wrestle with on a daily basis. It’s like showing up at the Masters every year. It’s, like, why do I want to win this golf tournament so badly? Why do I want to win the Open Championship so badly?
“I don’t know, because if I win, it’s going to be awesome for two minutes.”
On the surface, those words invite misinterpretation as nihilism – a charge that has shadowed Scheffler before. Most notably last year, when asked at the Olympics about the significance of winning gold, he offered what seemed like philosophical resignation: “I don’t focus much on legacy. I don’t look too far into the future. Ultimately, we’ll be forgotten.” Five days later, after claiming that very gold medal, Scheffler broke down on the podium in tears, appearing to contradict everything he’d just said.
But here’s what the golf world missed: what it dismissed as nihilism, or worse, as hollow athlete-speak designed to deflect pressure, revealed that Scheffler had achieved something far more sophisticated – a healthy detachment from outcome. For him, this means refusing to allow external validation to define his internal worth, because that path leads not to fulfilment but to psychological destruction.
It sounds deceptively simple, and in theory, perhaps it is. But the execution proves anything but elementary – evident in the bewildered expressions of seasoned reporters and the dismissive “Yeah, right” chorus echoing across social media. What makes Scheffler’s revelation striking is how it has begun surfacing in the voices of his peers, as if he had given them permission to speak an uncomfortable truth they’d all been carrying.
Just hours after Scheffler spoke, defending Open champion Xander Schauffele admitted he had no idea where his trophies are at. “What am I going to do with it? I don’t really invite people over to my house. Am I just going to go look at it myself? That’s the way I feel about it. I don’t want to walk into a trophy room like look how great I am. I was just raised to think that way, and it’s kind of stuck. I really don’t sit at home, you know what I mean?
“My wife hung up some pictures of me in my gym of like me winning the Olympic medal, and she put it so high up I can’t reach it. I have to get a ladder now, and it bothers me. Like, if anything, put up like me in a Masters jacket, like that would piss me off, you know what I mean? Something like that is more motivating than like, all right, that’s not great. I don’t want to look at that.”
Then on Wednesday, reigning US Open winner J.J. Spaun discussed the comedown after his Oakmont triumph. “You do have these high aspirations, these dreams to accomplish things in golf at the highest level, and then you do and it happens so quick. Then you’re so elated, and then all of a sudden it’s like, Now what?
The most famous example of this lesson was David Duval, who famously asked, “Is that all there is?” after winning the 2001 Open. It cut into his motivation, what he thought mattered; what was supposed to open his career turned into his coda.
But Scheffler’s words resonate louder than ever because of Rory McIlroy’s current plight.
Photo: Andrew Redington
The past three months were not what anyone envisioned for McIlroy. The Ulsterman had finally been liberated from the exhausting quest to prove he could reclaim his former greatness. The career Grand Slam was complete, lifting a burden whose true weight only he could measure. Instead, McIlroy’s post-Masters victory lap became a disorienting spiral – marked by media confrontations and behaviour that seemed jarringly out of character. When he finally acknowledged his frustration with press coverage, insisting on his right to act as he pleased, it felt like watching someone burn down the very foundation of their public identity. For a player whose enormous popularity rests largely on the perception that he serves as golf’s moral north star, it appeared to be not merely incompatible with who we think he is but almost wilfully self-destructive.
Much has been dissected about McIlroy’s recent months – waves of criticism, indignation, disappointment and concern washing over a sport struggling to understand what is up with Rory. This is emphatically not the player, the person, that golf has proudly positioned as its standard-bearer. Yet perhaps insufficient attention has been paid to the direct line connecting his green jacket triumph to the chaos that followed. As McIlroy himself has acknowledged, this pursuit had consumed him for so long that he never contemplated what would happen afterwards. What was meant to be his ultimate destination instead stripped away his navigational compass. For all the grace McIlroy has extended to the game throughout his career, the golf world may have failed to offer him the same patience as he grappled with fundamental questions: what comes next, what truly matters and why any of it should matter at all?
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Which brings us to this week at Royal Portrush, in McIlroy’s childhood backyard – a place where his relationship with vulnerability has been tested before. The last time The Open was held here, McIlroy wept openly after his valiant Friday charge to make the cut fell agonisingly short before his countrymen. It was one of those moments that crystallised why McIlroy is beloved: his willingness to let us witness his heartbreak, his refusal to hide behind the armour that insulates most elite athletes. But this week, McIlroy admitted he wasn’t prepared for the torrent of affection that greeted him – a revelation that might explain why he sent his opening tee shot screaming out-of-bounds en route to a disastrous Thursday 79. Reflecting on that previous visit, McIlroy identified his mistake: he had built walls around himself, shutting out the very energy that defines this place. This time, he’s determined to tear them down.
“I think it’s better for everyone if I embrace it. I think it’s better for me because… it’s nice to be able to accept adulation, even though I struggle with it at times,” McIlroy said on Monday. “But it’s also nice for the person that is seeing you for the first time in a few years. It just makes for a better interaction and not trying to hide away from it. I think it’s more of an embrace everything that’s going to come my way this week and not try to shy away from it or hide away from it, and I think that’ll make for a better experience for everyone involved.”
The crowds will move heaven and earth to will McIlroy to a second claret jug. It’s what he desperately wants, and what they desperately want for him. But if he believes a victory will serve as his next Everest, he may be setting himself up for another fall – because no matter how many mountains he conquers, there will always be another peak beckoning. What will ultimately define this week for him has nothing to do with his final score. Simply being who he is – who he has always been, who people need him to be – will be enough, and perhaps the very purpose he has been searching for all along.
