Graeme a worthy Major champion.

Pebble Beach is a harsh place, it lures you in with its sloping hills and shushing waves slaloming across its rocks and then spits you out with its murderous greens and needle-eye pins. One by one the superstars of the game fell to the course last night. Els, Woods and Mickelson briefly caught fire but were quickly cooled. The cruel implosion of Dustin Johnson, leading coming into final round was difficult to watch. He seemed in utter control in the previous three rounds but the mental strain of leading a major told. He left the door ajar and an steady Ulster man marched through.

Graeme McDowell never really features on anyone list when it comes to possible major winners. He is the steady Eddie of Irish golf. Padriag Harringtons extraordinary run of major success combined with the pyrotechnics of Rory Mcllroy consigned McDowell to the background.Even his excellent Ryder Cup performance two years ago at Tory Pines has been largely forgotten.

But last night will be remembered and how. It was not just the way he held his head while all around him seemed to be losing theirs. It was his nerves or lack of them. Strolling up the eighteenth McDowell chatted into the camera, wished all the dads a happy fathers day before sinking the two putts to etch his name in history.

Steady joins the superstars.

Mad Ray the man to blame for France.

Schadenfreude, that wonderfully efficient word to describe taking joy in others misfortune was bounded around many a water-cooler or deli-stand this morning. Perhaps not the German form more of an Irish version of Nelson's "Ha Ha!". It is difficult analysing the French from an Irish perspective. The hand of Gaul has joined Saipan in our hellish lexicon and colours any neutral view of them. But there could be no arguing about their defeat to Mexico on Thursday night.

Eccentric would be a mild and frankly bland description of their coach Raymond Domenech. A man known to favour players based on the star signs conjures up team and tactics seemingly based on the paranormal. The decision to go with Nicholas Anelka as a lone striker was baffling. Anelka has been in fine form for Chelsea for the best part of eighteen months now but to use him on his own completely miss-reads him as a player and wastes his talent. Anelka is not the man on the shoulder as he was in his Arsenal days. He now drifts into space, often in midfield, turns and begins to prompt moves.

When he did this on Thursday. France were left playing with a 4-6-0 formation, something pioneered by Luciano Spalletti at Roma and copied by Sir Alex Ferguson at Manchester United. There Totti or Rooney would drop as Anelka did but whereas Roma had Mancini and United Ronaldo to burst into the space vacated by the striker, France had no-one. Govou and Malouda stuck rigidly to the sidelines while Franck Ribery was marooned in midfield.

Domenech had already been castigated for his squad selection but the one he had picked had enough quality to emerge from a gentle group. His demeanour on the sideline, leaning on the dugout unwilling or unable to change the outcome said it all.His improbable run to the final four years ago was instigated by Zinedene Zidane. In the four matches in international competition since France have failed to win, football's version of the gallows awaits. Try and not laugh.

Happily stuck in the middle with these two.

I always found it difficult to warm to Rafael Nadal. His prowess as a tennis player of enormous talent, one who is creative and destructive could never be disputed but the sheer mundane machinery of his game only brought my admiration, never my affection. His slowness in delivering a serve, and his now trademark tugging at his shorts copper fastened my detachment from team Rafa.

At least that is what I’ve been telling myself these past couple of years. For you see the reason I didn’t like Rafa was I was infatuated with Roger. He is the antidote to the Spaniard. A player of such regal grace and charm who represents and embellishes his sport like no other. If you want any proof of that don’t bother consulting the endless records, merely watch the latest Gillette advert where Roger is on his own, the last beacon of sporting morality with the dastardly Tiger presumably off somewhere with one of his disposable blades. He is the greatest of all time yet whenever he meets the devious Nadal on the court he is broken. That jarring sight of Federer’s tears drenching the courts of Melbourne eighteen months ago was a high point in my Nadal irritation. How dare he stop him from creating history? How dare he shatter my illusions of Fed’s invincibility?

It is that simple. It always is. It’s White or Hendry. Tiger or Phil. Ali or Frazier. Individual sports come down to how you perceive a player’s character and how you define their talent. Nadal, to Fed aficionados is a defensive player who relies on athleticism to win. While with each swish of his racket Federer creates a sonnet, Nadal’s stamina makes for a lousy stanza.

Well now I am down the middle. Watching Nadal destroy Robin Soderling yesterday I was struck by the range of ways in which he broke his opponent. I had lost my Fed tinted specs and could finally see what is blindly obvious, that my problem with the bull in the china shop was he smashed the prettiest plate. So join me Rafa-phobes in staying neutral for Wimbledon.

As long as Murray doesn’t win.