Ah yes, there might be a big age gap but he knew all about Mr Norman, got a beating from him once. It wasn't the type of thing that Harrington forgets. He recounted a tale from Doonbeg, a fine links course in County Clare. "When he's interested," said Harrington, "Greg can really play. He knocked the socks off me there. You could see he wanted to play golf that day."

The rematch is on but for slightly higher stakes. Much has been made of Norman's age, the fact that he hasn't tasted life at the sharp end of major championship golf for many years, but none of that washes with Harrington.

"Greg hasn't lost any of his ability. At Royal St Georges (when Norman won the Open) the tougher the shot got, the more he enjoyed it. Greg is back thinking about golf this week."

Harrington rarely stops thinking about golf. As he made his way around Birkdale yesterday, grinding for all he was worth, was there one person watching who thought of his damaged wrist, the injury that supposedly threatened to remove him from the field this week? Maybe one or two mystified souls, perhaps. One or two left perplexed at the miracle in our midst. On Wednesday evening, Harrington rated his chances of completing the Open at 50-50. Now you could say that 50-50 are his chances of winning a second Claret Jug. Truly this has been an odd week.

It took on new levels of strangeness in the third round. What with all that wind causing destruction on the leaderboard, we saw some bizarre things, some huge scores, some amount of dejection. From Harrington, we saw none of that. We saw the attitude of a champion, the stamp of a winner.

"It was probably one of the toughest conditions to putt in I've ever experienced," said Harrington later, echoing the cries of the field. "You hadn't any clarity on how hard you were going to hit the putt because you weren't sure what the wind was going to do to it. When it's windy like that you battle one hole, one shot at a time"

Harrington saved his bacon many times yesterday, scrambling like there was no tomorrow. He dropped a shot at the second and followed it with two quick birdies, one a chip-in after his tee-shot was carved into the heavy rough. Focus and guts kept him alive through a horrid spell either side of the turn, four shots going in five holes. It was a huge effort, a study in concentration and character.

For a man who is considered divine in his own country, Harrington has been moving in mysterious ways this past week. The build-up to the defence of his Open championship title has been laced with caution, every word he has spoken carrying cautionary tales of former heroes of the links whose careers went awry the moment they took the Claret Jug in their hands. Harrington has interpreted the sad demise of the Ian Baker-Finch set as having something to do with the intolerable burden of expectation placed upon them, by their supporters and by themselves. One thing was sure. It wasn't going to happen to Harrington at Birkdale.

He has been playing a strange game. The first-degree strain of the pronator quadratus – damage to the soft tissue that stabilises the wrist in layman's language – became the talking point of the championship. Reporters were mobilised to track his every move; his grimaces, his body language, his spoken word.

Harrington was as forthcoming as ever. Bad news, boys, he said. "If this wasn't the Open I wouldn't be here." That was Tuesday. He played nine holes of a practice round and his wrist felt "fuzzy tingly" afterwards. Fuzzy tingly. A new expression was born there and then.

Overnight, his odds drifted like nobody's business. One of Ireland's most popular sportsman was now friendless in the unforgiving world of the gambler. On the betting exchanges he was quoted at 100-1 for victory. Just after midday on Wednesday, he teed off at the 10th hole at the beginning of his practice round. He hit 2-iron, 6-iron and walked off the course. He went to get it iced. He got anti-inflammatories and painkillers and had "laser-like" treatment before getting the wrist all soothed and strapped. Later he said he was 50-50 to play. His caddie, Ronan Flood, said he was 100% certain of playing. His physio, Dale Richardson, said there was no problem with him playing.

Confusion reigned. Richardson was asked a pertinent question. "Dale, are you saying that this wrist injury is one that actually improves the more strain Padraig puts on it." "Er..." answered Richardson, not knowing what to say for the best. The feeling hardened that Harrington's issues were, perhaps, more in his head than in his hand. It wasn't that he was trying to con people, more a suspicion that he was trying to get himself mentally right for what lay ahead. Was he playing up the wrist so as to play down his chances of winning? Golfers are the high priests of mind games. Their sport, after all, is one of psychology as much as skill. With Team Harrington offering conflicting messages it was easy to conclude that something odd was going on here.

On Betfair, his price eased to 150-1, odds that reflected both his apparent state of health, state of mind and the fact that even if fit he was due off at 7.58am on Thursday morning, precisely the time the weather was supposed to be at its most foul. On Wednesday evening he stated he was fit and ready to play. Like a switch being flicked, he was good to go. We saw a new man now. Harrington was up for it. His wrist? Oh, he didn't feel it. Not at all? Nah, not once. Too busy focusing on staying out of danger. Friday was the same. He birdied the 15th, eagled the 17th and birdied the 18th for a 68. He was right bang in the hunt. He was a changed man. No downbeat messages about his fitness now. That was all gone. What came in its place was fighting talk directed at his rivals. The wind is going to blow like crazy on Saturday, Padraig, how do you feel about that? "Really good," replied Harrington. "You're probably looking at close to 40% of the field that aren't prepared to play in weather like that."

How right he was. He is much closer to the lead this morning than he was this time last year and we all know what happened then. Nor does he need any telling of what another victory would mean. Leaving the 18th green last night he smiled again. A broad smile that said "I am where I want to be". And he'll take some beating.