Randall Clark knows exactly when his son became a man. It was August 12, 2013. Just ten days prior, breast cancer took Lise Clark at 55. Instead of grieving in a dark room, Wyndham boarded a plane. He flew to Massachusetts for the U.S. Amateur. He played big, just like his mother always demanded.
Thirteen years later, Randall saw that same stubborn grit. He caught a last-minute redeye to surprise his kid for Father’s Day at Shinnecock Hills. From the safety of the clubhouse, he watched Wyndham battle. It wasn’t just a golf tournament. It was a street fight. Wyndham was playing against the field, the course, and thousands of screaming New Yorkers who wanted anyone else to win. “He was a warrior today,” Randall said, tears hiding behind dark sunglasses as he finally embraced his son greenside. “Toughest round you’ve ever played.”
He brought the hate on himself. Let’s be honest. Clark has a temper, a nasty streak that has boiled over on national television. Last year, he snapped his driver at the PGA Championship. Then came Oakmont, where he kicked in antique locker doors like a petulant teenager. He paid for the damage. He apologized. But golf fans have long memories, and the internet never forgets. He plummeted from third in the world rankings to outside the top 75. He missed the Ryder Cup. He was in a dark, self-pitying hole.
Then came the rebuild. He shortened his swing with Pat Coyner. He hired mental coach Julie Elion to stop the mental bleeding. He found stability with his girlfriend, Emily Tanner. The results followed: a win in Dallas, a strong showing at the Memorial. By the time he arrived on Long Island, he was ready. He opened with a blistering 64, survived the fog, and built a six-shot lead by Saturday night.
Sunday was brutal. The Shinnecock crowd wanted Scottie Scheffler. They sang “Happy Birthday” to the world number one. They treated Clark like a trespasser. “Canada hates you!” one fan screamed before his opening tee shot. When Clark missed left on the second hole, the grandstands erupted in cheers. When his ball rolled off the green on the sixth, they roared. It was ugly. It was relentless. Security guards were tossing hecklers left and right. “Can’t throw a whole grandstand out,” one cop muttered. Elion actually fled inside because the toxicity was too much to stomach.
Clark survived by laughing. Every time a fan jeered, he whispered something positive to his caddie, David Pelekoudas. “Oh look, there’s one person who likes me,” he joked. He kept his head down. Sam Burns surged with a 67 to finish second. Tom Kim threatened but faded to third. Scheffler stalled out. Clark slammed the door on the tenth with a tap-in birdie, then iced it on the par-5 16th, draining a 25-foot putt and unleashing a savage fist pump.
A bogey on 17 set up a tense finale. On the 18th green, facing a 52-foot lag putt, Clark told himself he was the best in the world. He rolled it close. He tapped in for a 73, finishing 4-under for the week. During the trophy presentation, he looked at the crowd. “New York didn’t love me,” he said, “but I love you guys.”
Does this win erase the broken lockers and the tantrums? Clark hopes so. He doesn’t want to be the tour’s designated villain. But if he has to wear the black hat to win majors, he’ll take it. Bad press beats no press. And on Sunday, the villain was the only hero standing.
