My memory is from the 2009 Open at Turnberry - Tom Watson's approach to the final hole:
“Click,” the ball was in the air, true and measured. Not a greenkeeper in the land would not have used an extra gallon of water to soften the spot where it landed had they known the effect of a little gust of wind which sent the ball a bit too far.
The Golfing Gods know best but they'll struggle to explain this one to me. Tom, on the brink of his sixth Open win, in Scotland, at the age of 59. It was fairy-tale stuff but reality ripped it from him – and how he accepted it. Not with a moan or a groan but like the champion he is. “It would have been quite a story,” was all he said.
The night before, as they putted out on the 54th hole, my son Matt (one of his middle names is Tom, after the great man), said, “We have to go.” “It’s 450 miles or more,” was my reply. He was adamant: “We have to go!”
He was right, of course, there was no way in the world Tom was winning the Old Claret Lady again without us there. So, just before 6am, with the satnav set, we were on our way.
Will he win? Can he win? Attack, defend, stick to the game plan? Nothing else mattered. After years of obsessively watching and replaying Open videos, and attending the event itself, both Matt and I knew every shot he would face. Filling the travel time was a piece of cake.
Just after one o’clock we pulled into public car park number one, locked up, walked past the hotel and down to the pay gates. We were both so full of excitement and expectation we just could not stop smiling at each other.
Down the left side of the first fairway we bumped into two old pals whose names I have never known simply because I never bothered to ask. One, a Scotsman with a thick black ponytail, who always wears shorts, and to whom I introduced my son at Carnoustie in 1999 as, “The only man I know who has watched Tom Watson play more than I have.” The other a Yorkshireman who we often meet collecting signatures on practice days which he then auctions for various children’s charities.
“Never thought we would be doing this again on a Sunday, last group off!” I said. “He’s going to win,” said Jock. “We hope so,” was the reply as the first moisture from our eyes trickled over our cheeks.
Every shot, every putt – even with my aching knees, we never missed one. Long at the 17th and we ran round the 18th tee and up level with the penultimate green. He made his up-and-down to maintain a one-shot lead.
Off the final tee it was 3-wood or utility, I could not see which, but it did not matter – it was perfect up the 18th fairway.
We then bumped into the new Mrs Watson, Fiona or Heather, I couldn’t remember. I introduced myself and said, “Don’t worry, he’s going to win. I don’t know how he’s done it but he’s here, right now, leading and he’s going to win.”
I'm six foot two and all I could see was his head and shoulders. He swung, hit, followed through as only he does. “He likes it,” I said much louder than I had intended.
The rest, unfortunately, is history!
I felt sick. I had lied to Mrs Watson, inadvertently of course, but a lie just the same. Even Stewart Cink’s mother wanted Tom to win, I kid you not. There was simply nothing left, in the play-off he was spent, 72 holes was all he had!
All of man’s emotions are fully on show over a wee game of golf. “If you can meet with triumph and disaster …”
Well Tom, you did, and what a great man you are. Thank you for all the memories. The love affair continues.
Ian Southgate
Memory added on June 28, 2013
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