It has taken me the better part of nine months to be able to finally sit down and express my feelings about the 2009 British Open, and Tom Watson’s remarkable attempt at winning that illustrious tournament at the age of 59. But, one does finally need closure, so here it is:

Someone forgot to yell, “Cut!”

That’s my only explanation. Because it wasn’t real. It was a movie. Fiction. A script written in Hollywood. Of course a 59 year old man wasn’t really one 9 foot putt away from winning the British Open. That couldn’t be real. Tiger Woods, yes. Paddy Harrington, sure. Lee Westwood, ok. But Tom Watson? Come on.

And, since it was of course fiction, why didn’t someone yell cut when the leading character, gentleman of gentleman Tom Watson, short-armed his 9 foot putt on the last and essentially lost The Open? Who screwed up? I want a name! I need a name! Someone to blame this on. Somebody ruined this summer blockbuster ----this feel-good summer charmer---- with the wrong ending. And don’t give me the name Tom Watson. He is not to blame here. He is, after all, the hero of the story.

Don’t they screen these movies to an audience before they are released to see if everything works? Don’t they sometimes reshoot the ending if the audience didn’t like it? Who in the heck was this audience that didn’t object to this ending? Were they sleeping? What Hollywood executive decided to go ahead with this awful, disgusting, revolting (no offense to Stewart Cink), sad ending? Give me a friggin name! Heads need to roll.

Of course, maybe not everyone feels the same way about Mr. Watson as I do. Maybe, to some other people, he isn’t their favorite golfer of all time. Maybe you have to believe, like I do, that this golfing legend deserved this more than anyone in the history of sport (Yes, ANYONE in the history of sport) has deserved anything? But then again, maybe that’s just me.

When Tom Watson was in his prime, in 1978, I was 13 years old and had just picked up my first golf club. For some reason I was drawn to Watson more so than Jack or Trevino or Weiskoph or any of the others of the day. Why? I couldn’t say for sure. Why are we drawn to anyone? We find someone to root for and we go with it. There is no science behind it. It’s all gut. And, with golf especially, like tennis, it is different than a team sport. With team sports, you usually end up following the team closest to you. It’s geographical. But with golf it is by and large something totally different, and because of that, often, it is even more special. My two guys in the individual sports were Watson and Johnny Mac. Two more opposite personalities could probably not be found. Maybe I was drawn to curly hair? Maybe it was the pants?

Tom’s great success in the late 70’s and early 80’s kept my golf following enjoyable for many years. All he did was win. The world’s number one ranked player from 1978 to 1982, and number two in the world (behind Seve Ballesteros) in 83 and 84. But come the late 80’s my enjoyment for watching the game began to wane a bit. Tom’s well-known short putting problems (I refuse to refer to them as the yips) began, and with it his victories became much more scarce.

In the 90’s he was still terribly competitive, but the wins were few. Top tens were not unheard of, but closing the deal with a shaky putter can be a rather tricky undertaking.

At the turn of the century Tom turned 50, and the wins returned with regular occurrence as Tom devoted most of his time to the senior tour (Champions Tour). But still, even with all the winning, the blade cost him even more victories, including a few on the regular tour. But through it all, win or lose, that famous Kansas smile was always on display. A gentleman through it all, win or lose.

Ok, let’s fast forward to 2009. The hair is a little grayer. The walk has slowed a bit.  Ah, but the swing, that sweet majestic swing, it’s still there. The British Open. Turnberry.  A hallowed ground in the southwestern corner of Scotland that Mr. Watson is quite familiar with. The “Duel in the Sun” in 1977, besting Nicklaus in one of the great showdowns in golf history. But still, at 59, that ship has sailed. Tom is an after thought to the many stories at this major. Tiger’s pursuit of number 15. Phil’s absence. Harrington’s attempt at repeating. Ernie and Vijay trying to return to greatness. Tom Watson, outside of his history here, is not a factor is anyone’s thoughts. Not even in mine.

Tom has had some very nice first rounds at majors here and there over the last several years. So, to see his name up at the top of the leader board after day 1 was not altogether unheard of. To see it still sitting there after Friday, although not preposterous, was a bit of an eyebrow raiser.

But it was Saturday when the story began to turn a bit surreal. The day “Old Tom” was supposed to step aside for the younger chaps.  And, with early 3rd round troubles for him, it appeared he would be kind of enough (he is gentleman Tom Watson after all) to do just that. Ah, what a nice story this has been, but let’s get on with the real tournament now. Tiger had missed the cut so who is the favorite? Jim Furyk? Stewart Cink? Lee Westwood maybe? Retief Goosen was even hanging around. But something happened on the way home Saturday that wasn’t supposed to. As the sun was dipping low over the Firth of Clyde late in the Scottish afternoon, Tom began draining (like he did Thursday and Friday) some truly incredible putts to fight his way back into it. By the end of that memorable round Tom Watson again sat atop the leader board, with only one round left to play. Tom Watson was now THE story. Could this really happen? Some of us, as painful as it would be to be let down at this point, began to believe it really could.

To put this in some kind of perspective. Jack Nicklaus was 46 when he won his last magical green jacket. Years before, Julius Boros was 48 when he won a PGA Championship. Tom, as he woke up Sunday at The Open as the leader, was 59.

I couldn’t watch on Sunday. Much too agonizing. I recorded on the DVR. Thankfully I had to work, although I kept myself abreast of the leader board via the computer.  I stayed clear of the clubhouse at work and its beckoning television set. As I drove home the radio updated me. 5 holes left and Watson was right there. Westwood appeared to be his only stumbling block. Cink, a few shots back, hadn’t yet caught my eye.

When I got home I tried for about 20 minutes to busy myself with a couple menial tasks but finally gave up and turned on the TV. To truly appreciate this scene and this surreal setting, one would have to have a sense of golf history. To see this golf legend, so past his prime, beating the best golfers in the world, every single one of them, was truly inspiring. And not just for one day, or two days or even three. But for four days Tom Watson, at 59 years old, was the best golfer in the world once again. Well, except for one.

SPOILER ALERT!

When Tom Watson walked up to the tee on the 18th at Turnberry in the final grouping of the final day, he held a one shot lead. What was as truly amazing to me watching this unfold, as much as what Tom Watson was doing on the golf course, was listening to the commentators on ABC. Paul Azinger and Curtis Strange, primarily. Their voices were shaking. As they both admitted, they were as nervous, perhaps more so, than Tom himself. Their appreciation of this incredible event came from a place similar in many ways to mine. Strange at 54 and Azinger especially, at 49, both grew up with heroes like Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, Arnold Palmer and, yes, Tom Watson. But the perspective they brought that most of us never could was the fact that they too were once great golfers. Never on Watson’s level (although Strange had a few brilliant years) they had grown up with him as a hero, watched him fade away, then enjoyed their own careers. And then they basically retired early (although they both still give it a go every now and then). And for both, especially Curtis Strange, Watson was not only someone they looked up to, but a peer for many years as well. Now, years later, here is Watson, one of their heroes, literally in front of their eyes doing the unheard of. Their inability to stay biased in this situation must be forgiven. We all, in rooting for Tom Watson, must be forgiven. It was, without a doubt, a special circumstance.

As Tom stood on the tee on 18 Azinger laughingly and nervously admired Watson’s ability to drink from a bottle, saying “I don’t know if I could swallow if I was on the 18th tee at age 59 with a one shot lead, but Watson chugs down the energy drink.”

When Watson drove the ball down the middle of the fairway and Andy North announced it was perfect, Azinger, voice cracking, said, “Boy, you bet it is… The guts of a burglar at age 59. Unbelievable.  It is so emotional to be able to watch this and know this man for so long. So many of us that have respected and admired him.”

Watson, in perfect position in the fairway, grabbed an 8 iron. The swing was, of course, brilliant, and he hit a beautiful shot into the middle of the green. But the greens were getting quick and a little firm, and the ball, instead of checking up like it was supposed to, rolled past the pin and off the back of the green, settling down just into the long stuff.

Cut! Let’s try this scene again. Tom, let’s try it with a 9 iron. Let’s just see what happens. Consider that your adrenalin is going a bit haywire right now. Ok, ready?  And….. Action! Tom hits a brilliant 9 iron that lands just on the front of the green and rolls within 12 feet of the cup. 2 putts to win.

Of course, no one yelled cut. Tom decided to putt out of the long stuff (as he had been doing quite successfully all week). His off the green putt went past the whole about 9 feet.

9 feet. 9 feet for the Open Championship. But it never should have been 9 feet. That 8 iron into the green was too good to end up where it did. But, of course, that’s golf.

I will end my play by play commentary here. I will not describe the 9 foot putt or the ensuing playoff with Stewart Cink, the 2009 Open Champion. I will just keep hoping that someone, somehow, someday, will fix this ending. Reshoot this film and make it right (again, no offense to a deserved champion in Mr. Cink). And if that doesn’t happen, I implore anyone reading this in the future, if time travel has become possible, to go back and somehow steal Watson’s 8 iron out of his bag before he gets to number 18, so he is forced to hit that beautiful sky high 9 iron that will surely drop out the heavens onto the front of the green at Turnberry and cozy itself up to 12 feet from the cup; as the greatest iron player in the history of the game surely would do.

Because, of course, that is the way it was supposed to have happened.

That was the happy ending.