My name will be written in fiery letters on the Champs Elysees.
Everybody wants to defeat the defending champs.
More than anything else, though, to anyone who would write about it, golf offers a four-hour drama in two acts, which becomes memorable even in the tape-recorded reminiscenses of old champs, and which - in the hands of someone like Herb Wind - can become a piece of war correspondence as artfully controlled as Alan Morehead's account of Gallipoli.
It just feels good to beat the world champs to be the world champs.
When you have a chance to take the ball for the world champs, you take the ball.