Here's what should've happened on an eerie Sunday, shrouded in San Francisco fog, at the United States Open.
Pennsylvania-tough Jim Furyk should've won a deserved second Open, and cemented his place among the best players of his era.
Or the gregarious, popular Graeme McDowell, who's every bit as pugnacious as Furyk, should've done what he did down the Pacific Coast Highway at Pebble Beach and been sipping Guinness from the US Open trophy for the second time in three years.
Or Ireland's Padraig Harrington should've birdied the final hole to at least force a playoff and give himself a shot at a fourth major; a feat only Phil Mickelson's accomplished in the Tiger Woods era.
Or Ernie Els, who shot into contention with a brilliant eagle at the par-four seventh on Sunday, should've held his nerve and won a fourth major, and embraced his autistic son on the green on Father's Day, and told him that his daddy might have not made it to the Masters but is far from finished as a golfer.