Golf is a sport of whispers and understatement. Its heroes are supposed to let their clubs do the talking and their eyes do the boasting. Wyndham Clarke never got that memo. He moves through fairways and press rooms alike with a boldness that refuses to be quiet.

And that’s what makes him both fascinating—and, to some, impossible to stomach.

Because golf fans are perceptive. They can sniff out a faker a mile off. They know the difference between true humility—the understanding that this game can strip you bare in a single afternoon—and the kind that’s just for the cameras. And they know there’s a certain je ne sais quoi when it comes to greatness—an intrinsic quality you can’t fake, a quiet gravity that draws people in. It’s the polar opposite of entitlement. Clarke’s problem is he doesn’t seem to possess that quality—and what’s worse, he doesn’t appear to realize it either.

Think back to Los Angeles in June of 2023. The U.S. Open. Clarke, sleeves snug around his biceps, locked into a duel with Rory McIlroy beneath the marine-layer gloom. On the 18th tee, he sent a towering high cut into what was arguably the widest fairway in U.S. Open history—a fairway so wide it might have doubled as a runway at LAX. It was a stroke of fortune as much as it was skill. Without a doubt, that drive would have been dead on any other U.S. Open 18th hole, and he knows it. You can certainly forgive the final-hole nerves, but had that fairway been tighter, maybe there’s a universe where Clarke emerges from L.A. a touch more tempered, instead of carrying himself through the rest of the season like his place among golf’s immortals was already secured.

Instead, Clarke proceeded to carry himself as though he’d been permanently welcomed into golf’s inner circle. It was as though he’d adopted what you might call greatness by association. But there’s a sizable difference between truly belonging—and merely assuming you belong. Clarke seemed to blur that line, carrying himself with the authority of a man whose name was already carved into the game’s history.

But golf has a way of sniffing out assumptions. It doesn’t let you bluff forever.

In early 2024, Clarke arrived at Pebble Beach determined to silence doubts. On Saturday, he scorched the Monterey Peninsula with a round so incandescent it felt mythic—a twelve-under-par 60, rewriting the course record books. The next day, storms rolled in like an exorcism: wind howled, hail fell sideways, and the tournament was called after 54 holes. Clarke was handed the trophy—and I’m sure plenty of fans felt shortchanged.

Fast forward to the 2025 U.S. Open at Oakmont, a place that doesn’t suffer fools—or those leaning too hard on bravado. Clarke stumbled to twin rounds of 74, missing the cut by a single shot. Yet the real damage wasn’t on the card but in the locker room. Reports surfaced that Clarke, seething with frustration, smashed two historic locker doors in a clubhouse sacred to names like Hogan, Nicklaus, and Miller. He later apologized, calling it “a mistake I deeply regret,” but the damage was done. For many, the meltdown confirmed the suspicion: beneath the bravado was volatility—and perhaps insecurity.

Part of Clarke’s enigma lies in the same weapon that made him a U.S. Open champion: his Jailbird putter. At LACC, he rolled in clutch bombs, triggering a mini-run on pro shop inventories as golfers everywhere chased the magic. Jailbird sales soared. But as ever in golf, magic is fleeting. Clarke’s Jailbird has grown fickle. One week it’s a laser-guided wand. The next, it’s a hunk of lead betraying him inside five feet.

Since lifting the trophy at LACC, Clarke’s form in the majors has been nearly non-existent. In the eight majors since, he’s missed four cuts outright and hasn’t finished better than 33rd in the others. For a man eager to claim his place among the game’s elite, the numbers paint a different story—a harsh reminder that golf doesn’t grant lifetime membership for a single week of brilliance.

This is where Clarke’s path diverges from the game’s true giants. Despite launching missiles off the tee—averaging over 311 yards—he’s gaining only about +0.116 strokes on the greens. Enough to stay on leaderboards, but not enough to dominate them. It doesn’t need to be said but I’ll say it… drive for show, putt for dough.

Compare him to Scottie Scheffler, World No. 1. I was at Riviera in February 2024, watching Scheffler during the Genesis Invitational. Scheffler was firing at pins with a proximity I’d never witnessed with my own eyes—shots dropping in tight, over and over, like they were laser-guided. His ball-striking was superhuman; only the putter betrayed him. I followed him and watched as he missed what felt like a half-dozen ten-footers on Friday, frustration creeping across his face each time the ball grazed the edge. Yet even then, he was unflappable, carrying himself with that quiet gravity golf fans recognize as the mark of true greatness.

But here’s the difference: Scheffler didn’t sulk. He switched to a mallet putter, rebuilt his stroke, and put in the work. Since then, he’s gone on a rampage, gaining nearly a full stroke a round on the greens and stacking trophies like poker chips. That’s the difference between believing you belong—and proving it every week.

My dislike for Wyndham Clarke is countered by my fascination with him. I sincerely empathize with his emotional struggles, because there’s something raw and recognizably human in a man so visibly tied to the highs and lows of his craft. But I also see those same emotions wrapped around an identity tethered too tightly to the game itself—to winning—as if his entire self-worth depends on validation from the scoreboard.

That’s the paradox. The same fire that fuels ambition can become a prison when the sport isn’t just what you do but who you are. I love underdog stories, and I’d love nothing more than to see Clarke transform into one of golf’s greats. But for that to happen, he’d need to untangle his sense of self from the game’s approval, to find a steadier center that can survive the inevitable failures. And that would require a complete reinvention of Wyndham Clarke as we know him.

Maybe I’m dreaming a little. Leopards rarely change their spots. He has the talent, but so does every other guy out there on the Tour.

Wyndham Clarke is standing at a crossroads right now. His career could break either way. And in the end, only he can decide which way he wants it to go.