TROON, Scotland — How did Stefan Schauffele’s wildest dreams look?
Something like the scene on the 18th green at Royal Troon on Sunday.
There, in the distance, was Xander Schauffele, two shots clear of the field and his second major championship victory in three months firmly within grasp. And there, on the back of the green surrounded by friends and loved ones, was Stefan.
Even in a crowd of 10,000, Mr. Schauffele is hard to miss. The eponymous and decidedly extroverted father figure behind this year’s two-time major champion stands all of 6-foot-3, a safari hat hanging from his head and an ensemble of old-western beige draped over his body.
Over the years, Stefan has proven himself a colorful antagonist to his son’s staid, steady demeanor — the sort of prodigious talker every golf media member dreams about, unafraid to dish explosive opinions about his son, his son’s profession, or his son’s colleagues.
But as his son appeared before the cavernous 18th-hole grandstand at the Open Championship, Stefan was reduced to silence. After a lifetime of dreaming, decades of practicing, and many more years of heartbreak, the moment had finally arrived. He kept his gaze forward as Xander finally appeared on the horizon, his eyes unmoving even as the reality began to sweep through Team Schauffele, sending his daughter-in-law Maya and wife Chen into a fit of furious applause.
In May, Mr. Schauffele missed Xander’s maiden major triumph in Louisville, overseeing work on the to-be-completed Schauffele family compound in Hawaii while sleeping in a shipping container. Now, he was witnessing the mania in Troon in the flesh, and his focus was singular.
He held his stare upon Xander for every stride of his walk up the 18th fairway, as if by watching he could ensure that this scene — this feeling — would be burned into his memory forever.
And then, just when it seemed like he would not break his stare until it was over, something strange happened. Stefan Schauffele started to cry.
EVEN IN THE AFTERMATH, Xander was unmoved.
As he waltzed up the 18th fairway with the victory secured, he hardly paused to take in the scene, removing his hat for only a beat before striding, stone-faced, up onto the green. Later he would describe the scene on the 18th as “my moment.” Fitting, because he’d handled it exactly how he handles everything else: quiet, steady, intense.
And revealing too, because nothing about the 71 holes that had preempted that walk had been casual. If Schauffele’s victory at Valhalla in May was a shootout, his win at Royal Troon was trench warfare. Xander plodded his way around in the worst conditions we’ve seen in pro golf in 2024 without blinking, scrounging up a 54-hole score of three under despite all manner of ugly breaks. When the wind finally died on Sunday afternoon, he feasted — pouring in four birdies on the back nine to set himself two shots clear of the field. It was a vintage major championship performance, nothing like the knee-knocker five-footer he needed to win the PGA Championship in May, and everything like the kind of cold-blooded Sunday-at-a-major stuff we’ve grown used to seeing from dudes named Woods and Scheffler.
After he teed it up at the Masters in April with zero major victories, Schauffele leaves Royal Troon halfway to the career grand slam — and having reinforced one of golf’s core laws: the majors come in bunches.
“I had this calm — a calm I didn’t have at the PGA,” he said Sunday. “I think winning the first one helped me a lot today on the back nine.”
No kidding. About the most stressful moments of Schauffele’s Sunday came in the seconds before his post-tournament speech, an Open tradition, when he read feverishly from a cue card handed by the R&A with a bulleted list of people to thank. When it came time to address the crowd, he forgot most of the list, delivering an endearingly awkward champion golfer of the year speech.
He stepped off the podium to raucous applause from the Scottish faithful anyway, the truth being that he couldn’t have said anything that his game hadn’t already told the people of golf’s ancestral homeland. His game is crossing-oceans great, shape-shifting great, accomplishing-life-dreams great. And that goes for two people.
“I decided to take golf seriously when I was 13, maybe,” he said afterward. “I sat down with my dad when I was maybe 15 and 16, and we started to really hash out some goals and dreams of what I’d like to do. I was on the couch with my dad watching other guys win majors and win big tournaments.
“My dad and I, we’ve definitely talked about this,” he said. “We’ve watched that walk up 18 pretty much every year until I’ve played in the Open. It’s something that we’ve both dreamt of.”
BACK ON 18, Stefan Schauffele pulled a flask from his pocket.
“I’ll have to see if I can get my hands on any good wine,” he said. “But if not…”
He pointed towards the flask.
“Slainte.”
As he staggered around the 18th at Royal Troon, the weight of the moment settled upon Stefan. Xander was a two-time major champion. He was halfway to the grand slam. His life had changed … again. As he pondered the possibilities, the elder Schauffele couldn’t help but grow giddy.
“He’s only halfway there,” Stefan said. “I would say the one with the greatest potential for the career grand slam.”
He paused as that last part came out of his mouth.
“How about that?”
Stefan was back to bluster, but his eyes were still red from the back of the 18th green. The golf world’s attention had been placed in the foreground for that scene, where Xander Schauffele was tapping in for a career-defining second major win, but the real story had been in the background.
That’s where Stefan was, his stare long and serious, as Xander faced the tap-in putt to clinch his major championship dreams. When his ball hit the bottom of the hole, Stefan nodded slowly, his heart slow to believe what his brain was telling him.
But it was real, and this time, he had seen it with his own eyes. And so, with his son celebrating on the green before him, Stefan Schauffele reached under his sunglasses and wept.
“What can I say?” he said with a gentle smile. “I always melt.”
You can reach the author at james.colgan@golf.com.
