By all accounts, Charley Hull should have collapsed again, physically or metaphorically. She said herself she came into the AIG Women's Open thinking she wouldn't make the cut. That's not just false modesty; she collapsed at Evian, suffered a back injury that limited her practice time, and still showed up at Royal Porthcawl like she'd just fought off an adder with a long iron.
And yet, there she was on Sunday afternoon -- the crowd surging like the tide, the wind sweeping through with the rhythm of a Dylan Thomas verse, moody and irregular -- finishing runner-up in a major she supposedly had no business contending in at all.
Hull's round was a feast of nearly. Nearly pure. Nearly birdie. Nearly glory. But not a drop of regret on the plate. Watching the coverage, one could see her standing in the mixed zone afterward, giving the kind of interview that makes media hover nervously and a certain type of fan lean in.
"I didn't even hit a bad shot on 16," she said, with the conviction of someone who knows. "I hit it so pure the wind didn't even move it an inch."
Golfers can lie, but Hull? Hull might be the rare one telling too much truth. No fibbing about misreads or nerves. No humble bragging about grinding it out. She hit it well. The Welsh wind didn't care. The goddesses of Avalon shrugged. So she moved on.
On 17, she missed a putt she struck well. On 18, she had a high chip over a bunker that would give anyone but Grace Kim flop sweats. She got it close, didn't hole the putt, and signed for a round that any rational player would be proud of. Yet rationality and Major Sundays don't mix.
"I felt like I was in control of my game today. I don't feel like I mis-hit any shots. I hit it pretty pure."
And then, the shrug. Not literal, she's professional and too composed for that, but the verbal equivalent came later, wrapped in adrenaline and her dry delivery:
"At the end of the day, it's just a game."
Of course, that's a lie, too. But a necessary one. Because this just a game nearly turned into her game. She got within one shot twice and didn't know it because she never looked at a leaderboard.
"Was I even in the lead?"
Had she asked any louder, someone might've howled the scores from the ropes. But Hull's never been one to need numbers to trust her instincts. She plays like someone raised on turf, who learned to spin wedges by feel, and prefers her caddie point out the hole locations like he's holding a map drawn in pencil. Visualizing links shots, she admits, is not her thing. She prefers targets. Trees. Something there.
So of course, she found herself in contention beside Rest Bay, her deeds anything but frail in a place where the target is often "that ragged tuft beyond the dune" or "one bounce shy of the gorse bush left of the TV tower."
"I don't really like links," she said in May. She doubled down on that post-round. "It doesn't suit me. I find it hard to visualize shots."
Watching Hull is like watching someone play poker while forgetting the rules halfway through and still walks off with a straight flush. Her strategy is unconventional, her swing aggressive in the way tavern arguments are aggressive, and her commentary refreshingly unfiltered.
She's also, by her own admission, "kind of insane sometimes." But maybe you have to be? Chasing a major, riding the crowd, three collapses behind you, and the cut line forgotten.
"I hit wayward shots," she said. "But I can get up-and-down and stuff."
That's not just a quote. That's a philosophy. Embroider it on your jumper.
Charley Hull won't be satisfied with another second place, and neither should you. And if you're looking for a true soul of women's golf, the kind that will not go gentle into that good night (or press tent), she's out there plumbobing her putter: a little chipped, a little cheeky, and unmistakably alive.