I can't get Tom Watson out of my head. I can't stop thinking of his eight-iron approach to the 72nd hole at Turnberry. I keep wanting to stop the ball on the back of the green, giving him an easy two-putt for his sixth claret jug. I haven't been this depressed after a major championship since, ironically enough, the 1982 U.S. Open at Pebble Beach when Watson, thanks to his unbelievable chip-in for a birdie on 17 (the greatest clutch shot in history), prevented Jack Nicklaus from capturing a record fifth Open. I decided I would root against Watson forever, which is why it shocked me last week to realize how one's perspective can evolve over the years. The differences between one great player or another don't matter anymore. What truly matters is that they all belonged to the same era, the era when I fell in love with the game.
I'm supposed to be an objective journalist, but I was rooting harder on Sunday for Watson than I ever have for any golfer, even the Golden Bear in ‘86. I assumed that I was rooting for a good, decent man to make history, one who has represented this game as well as anyone, but I now realize I was really rooting for another reason. I wanted to freeze time, to again believe that the stars of my lost youth could be stars again and not just in the highlight reels they show on The Golf Channel.
It is always painful to see these great players of the past – Jack, Arnie, Trevino, Hale Irwin – in their declining years, missing shots they used to pull off easily. That is why I can't fully embrace the Champions Tour as much as I hope for its success.
I suppose I believed, if Watson were to prevail, that would mean that I, too, was still young, that my best days were ahead of me. It's really insane when you think about it. If Watson had parred 18 instead of making bogey, why should that change anything about the cycle of life and its limitations?
For myself and others in my generation, our youth is lost, gone forever, and there's nothing wrong with that. Did we waste much of it? Absolutely, some more than others. Yet we also capitalized on all its wonderful benefits, as did Watson.
The stage belongs to Stewart Cink and his generation, and there's nothing wrong with that, either.
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