Tom Terrific Turns Back Time At Turnberry—And Helps Heal Sports Along The Way

There he sat, weary, emotionally devastated, gut-punched, the wrinkles standing out on every aspect of his face. There he sat, in front of a bank of microphones, facing what was sure to be an onslaught of questions about why he suddenly became too old, about why he could never make the crucial five-footer. There he sat, defeated, a Cinderella story gone wrong, the toad who turned into a prince and then back again, the golden-slipper-turned-pumpkin, the guy who came up just short of history. No one would have blamed him for wanting to duck out early, to sneak back into his life out of the spotlight, to hug his wife and wink at the Scottish coast and not have to answer all the inevitably stupid questions that were certain to come his way, that were waiting for him behind every pad and pen.

Except what he did was look around at the silent and morose reporters gathered in front of him, put a grin on his face and say, "This ain't a funeral, you know."

Tom. Freaking. Watson.

At some point, the story became bigger than the moment and the matter of whether he won or lost the Open Championship in Turnberry, Scotland, became moot. Here was a man two months shy of 60 years old, eight months removed from hip replacement, playing at a spot where he won one of the sport's most memorable championships 32 years prior, competing in a major where he was seen to be a polite nod to history, where his presence was accepted as a necessary recognition of trophies long past, where brash and cocky lads a third of his age nodded in his direction and then snickered behind his back. Except then he kept making 60-footers. He kept punching the ball under the wind. He kept rolling it along the bumps, nooks and crannies he knew so well. He kept making out-of-this world pitches.

And every time it appeared that the neat story was finally going to end, that the feel-good moment was going to pass, that he was going to shuffle off Scotland's mortal coil and yield the stage to those of more proper age, he would pull a rabbit out of his golf bag. He would chip in from off the edge of the green. He would slice a three-iron off a fairway hump and roll it 40 yards onto the green, pin-high. He would roll in a putt from somewhere just across the Irish Sea and into the bottom of the cup.

Along the way, for the open-minded, he gave us a gift. For some, he restored our faith in sports. For some, he helped cleanse our minds of hockey lockouts, baseball steroids, college basketball corruption, NFL prima donnas and the excessive fawning over Tiger. He helped us forget the double standards, the hypocrisy, the scandals, the cheats, the allegations. Sports needed this. Because here was a guy who was one of us, who lived the moment, who appreciated the fans, who actually talked to and had respect for his playing partners, who gave a wry grin to unlucky breaks and who exhibited a deep love for this wonderful course. He gave a four-day, 71-hole clinic on how to play golf the way it was meant to be played—and one hole and five feet shouldn't stand in the way of what this man did, accomplished and is.


Because we're fickle, aren't we? As a society, we abhor a loser. Within moments of his missed putt, we quickly dredge up a top-10 list of the worst chokes ever, we cue up endless videotape of similar missed short putts, we shut down when the favorite falls, we put a camera roughly one-eighth of an inch away from his tear duct to see if he'll cry. Yet, again, Watson was one of us; he was flawed, but erstwhile. He yoked a short putt every now and again, even on Sunday at a major. He had a bit of bad luck and he was overly tentative with his putter over and over again, but he would never blame anyone else. He didn't stare down his caddie over a bad line, he didn't fire his club into the ground in disgust, he didn't curse and whine and have photographers assaulted, he didn't refuse interviews after missed cuts, he didn't offer up trite clichés as part of a smartass persona sponsored by Nike. He was the anti-Tiger … and he was a revelation. He was an inspiration.

At the end, I was nervous to the point of nausea. I kept listening to Paul Azinger write off and poor-mouth Watson out of some form of jealousy or over-exuberant love of criticism or vindictiveness -- hell, I heard a sardonic, head-shaking Azinger hand the trophy to Lee Westwood after seven holes. When he was up by one stroke. We had watched a lineup of players make amazing runs at the lead, only to falter when they reached it. Westwood. Ross Fisher. Chris Wood (who looks just like the bully, Scut Farkus, from "Christmas Story"; click on the links to see for yourself). Matthew Goggin. And eventually, an incredibly deserving Stewart Cink, who offered up tremendous emotion, from a great guy who has been dogged by a perception that he hasn't lived up to expectations.

It was tremendous theater. It was unquestionable drama. It was real emotion. It was real, vivid proof that golf exists outside of Tiger Woods. Yes, it was difficult to watch at the end; the crushing, half-hit putt on 18 (after Andy North jinxed his friend by predicting he'd make it) and the ruined, gassed way he skittered through the playoff were simply hard to look at. Tom Watson had history poised on the blade of his putter, and even though it slipped away like so many grains of sand washed out toward the Ailsa Craig, somehow, he still won. To me. Because it was one of the most remarkable things I've ever seen in sports—and well worth getting up early four mornings in a row to see an old man teach a living lesson in how to wield a golf club at the sport's birthplace.

So if you were one of those who loves Tiger because Nike tells you to and turned off the tournament after he missed the cut, you don't understand golf—and you missed one hell of a tournament. Because Tom Watson IS golf. "There was something out there … helping me along," he said in the aftermath. There was something all right. The spirit of the game, maybe. A reminder of what a true sportsman is, probably.

But a funeral? No. A birth and reaffirmation of a deep and abiding love for golf … in at least one humble man who watched.

And for that, I thank you, Mr. Watson. Good on you. And well-played, sir.