The Curious Case of the Two Murrays: A Golfing Tale of Mistaken Identity, Spittle, and the Open
It began, as these things often do, with an email from an enraged stranger in Arizona. “I don’t know what it is like in your country, sir,” the message read, “But here in America we SPIT!!!” The subject of this furious missive? Tiger Woods, who had just audibly cleared his throat and deposited the results on a putting green in Dubai, with three groups waiting behind him. The recipient of this righteous indignation? Ewan Murray, a Guardian journalist. The man who had actually uttered the offending commentary? Ewen Murray, his Sky Sports namesake, separated by a single vowel and a lifetime of experience.
The two Murrays—Ewen, a former professional golfer who played in the Open, and Ewan, a self-described erratic amateur—have spent the better part of fifteen years as unwitting co-conspirators in a grand mix-up. They joined Twitter within days of each other in October 2010, and from that moment, the digital ether decided they were one and the same. A furious golf fan in Phoenix would tweet at Ewan about Ewen’s on-air criticism, while a sentimental viewer in Surrey would congratulate Ewen on Ewan’s award-winning football writing. It was a confusion so persistent, so gloriously absurd, that it eventually became a point of fascination rather than frustration.
At the heart of this tale is a moment of genuine journalistic conviction. When Ewen Murray saw Tiger Woods spit on the green, he did what few broadcasters dare: he called it out, live, knowing the blowback would be seismic. “There was no bigger supporter of Tiger than me,” Ewen recalls, “but if I don’t say anything, people close to me are going to ask why I didn’t comment.” He switched off his microphone immediately, bracing for the storm. The emails came, as did the threats, the accusations of heresy, and the inevitable confusion with his Guardian counterpart. It was a reminder that in the world of premium sports coverage, even a single syllable can set off a ripple that lasts a decade.
The two finally met in person at the Scottish Open, where Ewan recounted the Arizona email to Ewen, who was genuinely concerned about the impact of the tirade. Ewan’s response was a shrug—a nod to his day job covering Scottish football, a domain where even mild opinion fuels a lifetime of abuse. “Water, duck’s back,” he said. It was a philosophy that would serve both well. Now, as they sit together in the Open Championship’s media centre in 2026, the irony is not lost on them. “If only we knew,” Ewen muses, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
What makes this story so compelling is not just the mix-up itself, but the elegance with which both men have navigated it. In an age where identity is a commodity and reputation is currency, the Murrays have turned a simple coincidence into a shared brand—a living, breathing example of how grace and humour can transcend the chaos of modern media. For the ultra-wealthy, who often pay a premium for bespoke experiences and curated narratives, this tale is a reminder that the most valuable possessions are often the intangible ones: a good name, a quick wit, and the ability to laugh at the universe’s little jokes.
As the Open Championship unfolds, the two Murrays sit side by side, a testament to the strange paths that bring people together. They are not rivals, nor do they share a byline. They are simply two men, one letter apart, who have learned to embrace the confusion. In a world that increasingly demands precision and clarity, their story is a charming anomaly—a reminder that sometimes, the best things in life are the ones we never planned for. For the collectors of rare experiences, this is the ultimate acquisition: a friendship forged in the crucible of mistaken identity, and a story that will be told for years to come.
