LOS ANGELES – The eruption came from the Sunset Suites.

It was enough to make Scottie Scheffler back off his bunker shot.

It was enough to make fans hastily throw on their radio headsets. 

And it was enough to make Rory McIlroy believe again.

Here at the Los Angeles Country Club, affluent Angelenos were luxuriating in the double-decker hospitality tent off the second fairway, about 100 yards from where the 123^rd U.S. Open was about to be decided. They were watching on TV as Wyndham Clark, in the group behind, rimmed out a 6-foot par putt on the 16^th green that cut McIlroy’s deficit to a single shot with two holes to play.

“You’re still alive, Rory!” someone yelled.

And now he could sense it, too.

Having seemingly blown his latest major bid a half-hour earlier, McIlroy now charged up the bridge to the 18^th tee. There wasn’t a single fan waiting; just 15 scribes, a half-dozen cameramen, a handful of volunteers, a few USGA officials. Needing one last nuclear blast, McIlroy hammered a 321-yard drive up the hill, into the setting sun, and then started noshing on a protein bar. His mindset was obvious: He was girding himself for more than just the next 15 minutes. There was plenty of daylight remaining for a two-hole playoff. And he planned on being part of it.

Winning a major is hard, even if McIlroy once burnished his legacy with major performances that appeared effortless and energizing, that felt dominant and demoralizing. It’s been 3,295 days since his last major title, an eternity ago in professional golf. That was before Brooks Koepka had even completed his first season on Tour. Before Scheffler and Jon Rahm had graduated from college. Before McIlroy had a wife and a daughter. Before men were measured by their millions. Before board meetings and conference calls and crash courses in geopolitics – back when simply being a world-class golfer was enough.

Until last month, at least, Clark hadn’t needed to trouble himself with such weighty matters. He was a rank-and-file Tour member, talented but apparently so tortured in crunch time that he contemplated giving up the game. The 29-year-old was winless until six weeks ago, and now all of a sudden he was three shots clear with four holes to play in the U.S. Open.

Clark doesn’t have a swing coach, but the most important part of his team might be his mental guru, Julie Elion. On a day when Rickie Fowler, McIlroy and Scheffler were all in the mix, Elion reminded her pupil to “get cocky” every time Clark heard a fan cheer his opponent’s name.

“Go show them who you are,” she said.

But to the fans, at least, Clark was simply the last man standing between McIlroy and that long-awaited fifth major. And so they turned up the volume when he made a bogey on the 139-yard 15^th. They cheered when he drove into the bunker on 16. They roared when he lipped out the 6-footer for par – the miss that backed off Scheffler, that tightened the leaderboard, that made McIlroy believe.

After a tidy par save on 17 to preserve his one-shot lead, Clark found the last fairway and then the final green. Needing to two-putt from 60 feet, the volunteers dropped the ropes, allowing fans to envelop the green, phones out, eager to capture The Winning Moment.

Up ahead, McIlroy sat in the scoring tent, having signed for his even-par round of 70. The doors were closed. No cameras. Police standing sentry. There was nothing else to do but wait.

“You don’t want to wish bad on anyone,” McIlroy said, “but you’re really hoping for a three-putt. You’re rooting for one guy, and that guy is yourself at that point.”

Needing to steady his breathing and calm his hands, Clark rapped his putt up the hill and deftly lagged to 17 inches.

That was all McIlroy needed to see. The doors popped out.

Clark marked his tap-in, prolonging the inevitable, and so McIlroy stood outside the scoring tent, a water bottle in his right hand, his left hand on his hip, and stared at … nothing. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, waiting, waiting for the cheer to let him know that he’d officially been denied. Again.

What was he thinking in that moment?

“Get through this,” he said, “then go home and regroup.”

Once the final cheer rang out, McIlroy charged up the 12 steps to the TV interview podium and waited a few moments to go live. On the monitor in front of him flashed that once-familiar celebration.

McIlroy looked pained as he took in all of the images: Clark hugging his caddie, his brother, his girlfriend.

The red light flipped on.

“I’m right there,” McIlroy said. “It’s such fine margins.”

That was a phrase he’d soon repeat in the press tent, as he processed his pain in real time.

“I fought to the very end,” he said. “I obviously never give up. And I’m getting closer. The more I keep putting myself in these positions, sooner or later, it’s going to happen for me.”

McIlroy offered little explanation other than to rue two mistakes. The first was when he didn’t hit the hole from 4 feet on the eighth green, a three-putt par (from the fringe) that kept him two shots behind Clark. The second was a misjudged third shot into the par-5 14^th. Walking to his ball in the fairway, McIlroy felt the wind freshen. Instead of trying to hammer a sand wedge from 124 yards, he opted for a three-quarter gap wedge, the shot drifting right, ballooning into the wind and plunging into the grassy lip outside the edge of the bunker, leading to a bogey. “I might have just had to wait an extra 15 or 20 seconds to let that little gust settle,” he said.

McIlroy didn’t make a putt longer than 7 feet in a round that felt eerily similar to his final-day effort last summer at St. Andrews. Tied for the lead at the 150^th Open, McIlroy hit all 18 greens in regulation that day but carded just a pair of two-putt birdies. He got lapped by not one but two players, the loss leaving him so devastated that he slumped into a cart next to his wife and wept.

This one stung, too, of course. His lone birdie came courtesy of a two-putt on the first hole, his speed control just a touch off on increasingly crispy greens. He had what he thought was the perfect game plan – fewer drivers, accurate approach shots, a reliance on his other gifts – and it still wasn’t enough. His 271 total was the lowest 72-hole score by a non-winner in U.S. Open history.

“When I do finally win this next major,” he said, “it’s going to be really, really sweet. I would go through 100 Sundays like this to get my hands on another major championship.”

As the trophy presentation unfolded on the 18^th green, McIlroy ducked into the locker room to gather his belongings. About 10 minutes later, he emerged in a T-shirt, sans hat, and with three bags slung over his shoulder. Outside the USGA player hospitality he smooched his wife, Erica, and then headed toward the champions’ parking lot, those familiar feelings of sadness and frustration and disappointment gnawing at him again.

The Netflix cameras were waiting for him. So, too, were his caddie and his manager and his longtime friend. McIlroy summoned a smile while posing for a selfie with his uniformed cop for the week, and then said goodbye to his crew.

He and his wife climbed into their Lexus SUV, just the two of them, alone. Another Tour event was set to begin in four days, another major in 32. It was exactly what he needed: Another reason to believe again.