Twenty years after his first of back-to-back U.S. Open wins, we reveal what made Curtis Strange tick

A generation later, his speech remains sweetened by the South, but the man himself has mellowed, softened by time and experience. In the intervening years, the intensity cooled while the resume thinned. There were Ryder Cups (humility and heroics) and a stint in the tower as a respected commentator for ABC. But after 1989, he never won on Tour again.

Armchair analysts have furnished several theories. An equipment switch in 1990, inspired by a fat contract Strange signed with a Japanese clubmaker. ("That's just silly," Strange says. "I made that change in a day.") A parting of ways with instructor Jimmy Ballard (a subject Strange would rather not discuss).

A better explanation is basic burnout.

"Looking back," Strange says, "after Medinah, I left the tournament and never really regained my edge. Why? I don't know. My kids were an age where family took precedence. But I'd also been going at it so hard and for so long. It's difficult to keep that up. In golf, longevity is a blessing and a curse. The good news is, we can play forever. The bad news is, we can play forever."

Says Jay Haas, a college teammate at Wake Forest and long-time friend: "It reminds me of what [British Open champion] Bill Rogers once said. There comes a point when you wonder whether the sacrifices are worth it. You want to slow down, relax, enjoy it more."

Strange had been firing full-bore since boyhood. His father, Tom, a former Virginia state golf champ who qualified for seven U.S. Opens and died of cancer when Curtis was 14, owned the White Sands Country Club in Virginia Beach, where Strange and his identical twin Allan cut their teeth. Allan, who himself briefly played on Tour, matched Curtis in talent but not as a turf-gnawing range rat.

"Curtis was always practicing, playing, improving, and it wasn't long before he leapfrogged everyone else," Allan says. "He played the same way at age 14 as he did when he was 34. He'd go out for a round, and come back with a few less clubs in his bag."

Those type-A traits followed Strange to Wake Forest, where he secured both team and individual titles with a 10-foot eagle putt on the final hole of the 1974 NCAA Championship. Off the course, he was one of the guys, a fraternity brother, drinking beers and beating golf balls from the Kappa Sig roof. But when he stepped into a tee box, Strange transformed.

"He was the most competitive guy I'd ever seen," Haas says. "He wanted to beat you so badly. But what stood out even more was how hard he was on himself."

Roommates on the road, Haas and Strange became close friends, balancing each other with opposing personalities: Haas relaxed and chatty, Strange spring-coiled. The combination made for comic moments. Once, on a car trip between tournaments, Strange was stewing in the back seat over putting problems, the offending flat-stick resting in his lap. "It was a beautiful Bulls Eye," Haas recalls. "Probably worth a thousand bucks today."

When Strange complained that the club had betrayed him, Haas played straight man. "I said, 'You're right. You should get rid of it.' So he chucks it out the window of the moving car."

Haas then told Strange he'd been kidding — the putter was fine. "You can't print his response," Haas says with a laugh.