Fleetwood, of a fashion

We watch, from a safe distance, as the famously astute Grey Goatee Fashion Committee goes about its work. There is much at stake: nothing less, today, than the Champion Dresser of the Year.

We wonder, right along with the rest of you, about the committee and its members and their deliberations and discourse, like, what in the name of Brandt Fucking Snedeker are they thinking?

It’s uncanny how often the Committee’s conclusions match our own.

Of Snedeker, they laugh. Looks like Alfred E. Neuman, with as much fashion sense. He was not on the short list for Champion Dresser of the Year. Can’t somebody dress him better?

The usual contenders were out of sorts and out of contention.

The Big Swede out of Sweden didn’t make the weekend. Out of sight, out of mind.

Young Jordan of Spieth looked lost in his 77 today. He did not boldly go.

Martin Kaymer and his Boss duds were nowhere.

Bernhard Langer, our 2015 Champion, didn’t even play.

Rickie Fowler wore orange on Sunday, but, like, big deal.

So where did our esteemed Committee look? Not to Shane Lowry — nice guy, great player, doing what he can with what he’s got as a frame for fashion.

In the end, it was Tommy, Tommy Fleetwood, the hirsute Brit, rocking on his lean, athletic physique the Nike polo with design-y splashes of black on white evoking scenes from Gaelic folk tales.

He spoke softly afterward, looking wind-chapped and exhausted, with words of praise for Lowry and regrets over his missed opportunities and still managing the crinkliness about the eyes that is his fashion trademark at least as much as his clothing.

“It’s a little bit sore right now,” he said, “but overall it was a very good week.”

Even better now, wouldn’t you say? It is decreed, by our famously insightful Committee: Fleetwood, for Champion Dresser. Here, and only here.