The Tour officials in the tent understood all of this better than I did and told me to take my time before attesting my card, which had been kept by Olin Browne. Also, I had to sign Mickelson’s card, which I had kept, and let him review it for errors. Thus, I knew there was considerable work to be done before I could begin celebrating.
It took nearly ten minutes to complete the process, but it was finally official. I had won the Phoenix Open and with it more money than I ever dreamed of while I was giving lessons at Boo’s driving range.
The next stop was the media tent, where I spent a half hour describing my round and then answering questions about specific shots or what I thought about when Mickelson or Browne made a putt and the lead changed hands.
It was kind of hard to focus on the questions. I was still feeling pretty numb from the whole experience. At least I had learned how to field questions about my clubs. When asked about them, I simply shrugged and said they were a custom-fit set, just like the ones made for other Tour pros. The only difference, I said, was that the guy who made mine didn’t work for one of the big manufacturers, like Titleist, Ping, or Calloway, and didn’t have their name recognition.
Even as I was answering questions I kept looking for Stewart out of the corner of my eye, as if he would tell me what to say or how to act. That was when I realized what a security blanket he had become. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be found.
After the interview ended, and all the golf writers began folding up their laptops, I went back to shower and clean out my locker. There was still no sign of Stewart. I was starting to worry. He had never disappeared like this before.
That’s when I noticed that my clubs were missing, too.
Now I was on the verge of Stage III hysteria. There was something magical about those irons. I was pretty fond of the driver and putter, too, for that matter. You tend to get that way after winning the biggest tournament of your life.
I checked the bag rack, but there was nothing there. I looked over by the practice putting green but came up empty there, too. The place was becoming deserted, and I was getting more panicky by the minute, with sweaty palms, rapid breathing, and all that went with it.
Where, I kept saying to myself, was my best friend? Where were my golf clubs? Had they disappeared together, or were these two separate misfortunes?
My mind raced through a number of disastrous scenarios. Perhaps some souvenir hunter had copped the clubs while everyone’s attention was diverted by the trophy presentation or the press conference. As for Stewart, I imagined that, having seen me to victory, he felt his mission was complete and had disappeared from my life just as inexplicably as he had entered it.
I had become almost totally dispirited as I made my way over to the place where the players’ courtesy cars were kept. By now, there were only a half dozen or so cars left in the lot, and the day’s light was dimming. As I headed down the row where my car was parked, I saw the silhouette of someone leaning casually against the trunk of the car. As I drew closer, I recognized Stewart. After a few more steps, I could also see that my golf bag was laying next to where he stood.
“Where the hell have you been?” I asked in a voice so loud it surprised me. “I’ve been lookin’ all over for you and for those clubs, too.”
Stewart’s face screwed up in a puzzled look. “I’m in the same spot I’ve been after every round. We always meet here after we’re done.”
Instantly, I knew he was right. But I wasn’t prepared to concede anything at the moment because my emotions hadn’t quite run their course.
“Well, that’s true,” I begrudgingly allowed. “But I’ve never won a tournament before.” I stood there, not knowing what else to say before adding, “Don’t you think that means anything?”
Stewart burst out laughing. “Calm down, Bobby. It’s a great day, and we’ve worked hard for this. Let’s enjoy it, okay?”
His laughter disarmed me for the second time that day. I couldn’t suppress an inward chuckle before conceding defeat. “I guess you’re right. This whole thing kinda threw me out of whack. I’m used to having you nearby, and I got a little worried when I couldn’t find you.”
He reached over and gave me a hug, this one even more heartfelt than the one on the eighteenth hole when I dropped the winning putt. At that moment, I realized that I loved Stewart Jones as much as I loved any man alive.
As we disengaged, a thought occurred to me. “How close does this get me to the Masters?”
For years, anyone who won a PGA Tour event automatically qualified for golf’s coming-out party in April. In fact, most players even knew within a day or two when to expect the coveted invitation to arrive in the mail (it was usually around December 12 or 13). But Augusta National had changed the rules a couple of years ago, and I wasn’t quite sure what it took to get in.
Stewart’s eyebrows squeezed together slightly. “It’s a little complicated now, based on the world rankings and what-not. It comes down to this: Keep playing like you did this week, and we won’t have to worry about it.”
We had already checked out of the hotel that morning, so we drove straight to the airport. Our next stop was San Diego, where the Tour would play its next event on the North and South courses at Torrey Pines.
We weren’t far from the airport when my new cell phone rang (one of the perks of being on Tour was that we got free minutes). I was stunned to hear a familiar voice with a Cajun accent congratulate me on winning. It was Boo.
“Bahbee, you really rang ’em up. We’re proud of you, babe.”
I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I mumbled, “It was fun, Boo.” An awkward pause. “It … it really hasn’t sunk in yet.” Another pause. “Hey, thanks for calling.”
“No problem, my man. Keep it up.” The phone clicked, indicating that he had hung up.
I turned to Stewart. “That was Boo.”
He just smiled.
“I didn’t expect to hear from him.”
Stewart shrugged. “Give yourself a little credit. You did the right thing by him in the end. Remember, he asked the DA not to prosecute you. If he can put it behind him, maybe you should, too.”
I didn’t say anything more. Of all my shenanigans, my troubles with Boo were the most embarrassing, and I wasn’t in the mood to discuss them at the moment. I did wonder how Boo got my phone number, though.
As Stewart negotiated our way through the airport traffic, he reminded me that my status on the Tour would change now that I had won a tournament.
“For one thing,” he said. “You’ll be paired with other tournament winners during the first two rounds, with better times. That means bigger galleries—and more distractions. You’ll have to work a little harder to keep that window closed when you need to.”
I understood what he meant. The large galleries over the last nine holes had been a challenge, but I felt that I had handled it well. Still, I knew that it would be more difficult on days when I was not as well-focused on my game.
Naturally, our conversation also turned to replaying the afternoon’s round. Stewart repeatedly complimented me on staying “centered,” which he explained meant being “grounded” and staying in the present.
Then he said something curious, in a tone that sounded detached and almost melancholy, as if he had fallen into a hypnotic trance of some kind. “Bobby, that putt to win the tournament is something to build on. You should never forget how you performed when everything was on the line. It’s like when we made that twelve-foot downhiller at Winged Foot to tie Al Espinosa at the Open in ’29. We went on to win the playoff by twenty-three shots. Grantland Rice said it was the putt that launched the Grand Slam.”
Needless to say, I was stunned at what he said. The only way Stewart could have been anywhere in 1929 was in a past life, and I didn’t think he was related to Shirley what’s-her-name. He must have sensed my incredulity, because he stopped suddenly and gave me a look of embarrassment. “I mean, what I’m saying is, that putt can be the start of bi
g things for you.”
I wasn’t thinking about that, however. I was thinking instead of the strange soliloquy I had just heard. “Stewart, were you talking about one of the Opens that Bobby Jones won?”
He nodded.
“You talked as if you were there.”
He gave me an awkward smile, almost sheepish. “Well, now, I couldn’t have been there, could I?” Then he paused. It was one of the few times that I had ever seen Stewart appear to be uncertain of what to say. Finally, he added in a voice that sounded embarrassed, “I guess I’ve read so much about it that sometimes I feel that I was. Sorry if I got a little carried away.”
I wondered whether that was the case, or whether Stewart had once again given me a clue about who—or what—he really was.
xxiii
THE FLIGHT TO San Diego was loads of fun.
I couldn’t very well check the trophy with the rest of my luggage, so I brought it on the plane. Not surprisingly, the sight of me lugging that big thing down the aisle caused quite a stir, and word spread quickly through the cabin that I was the pro who had just won the Phoenix tournament. The pilot even came on the intercom not long after takeoff and congratulated me on behalf of the crew. Then a number of people came over and asked for autographs.
At first, I was kind of embarrassed, and I guess part of me was afraid to take any of it very seriously. I remember thinking, who am I to be signing autographs? The only thing anyone had ever wanted me to sign before was a check. But I soon realized that these people were golf fans who were genuinely interested in getting me to sign something for them, and I began to relax about the whole thing and to enjoy the attention.
Much the same thing happened the next day when I arrived at Torrey Pines for my first practice round. More and more people seemed to recognize me, not just as one of the pros but as one of the elite group of tournament winners. Not only that, but the other players seemed to regard me a little differently as well. Stewart was right; winning had definitely changed my standing on the Tour.
As for me, I was happy to be in San Diego. There wasn’t a better place on earth in terms of golf weather, and the North and South courses at Torrey Pines were both fun to play. Since I was playing the best golf of my life, I had great expectations for the week.
During the three days of practice rounds, I found that opening and closing Stewart’s window wasn’t always going to be so easy. Now that I was a winner—and the story du jour of the Tour—people pressed in on me from all sides. For one thing, everyone wanted an autograph, and getting from one hole to the next was like running a gauntlet.
Then there was the media coverage. I quickly discovered that writers compete with one another for “exclusive” interviews, which means that you have to answer the same questions over and over in one-on-one exchanges instead of just once before the entire group.
The whole thing made me marvel at how well the big names seemed to cope with it. Of course, Arnold Palmer was the best ever. Somehow he could connect with everyone around him—whether it be the gallery or the press—and make them feel that, for a moment, it was just the two of them. At the same time, he could return to his game in an instant and not lose his focus on the shot to be played.
I wondered how he could do that and not feel like a Ping-Pong ball, going back and forth from his game to everyone who wanted a piece of him. There were others, of course, who learned to do it as well. No one played to the crowd better than Chi Chi Rodriguez. Lee Trevino, too—as long as he was playing well.
I couldn’t help but notice that my generation of players was decidedly indifferent to the galleries in comparison to the older guys. Even during practice rounds, many of them failed to acknowledge the gallery’s applause.
Stewart noticed it, too.
We were playing a practice round on Tuesday with Duffy Waldorf and Alan Dunkel. Waldorf was a throwback in the sense that he wore colorful clothes, painted his golf balls with radical designs, and insisted on keeping golf fun. On the other hand, Dunkel was unfortunately typical of the superserious automatons being cranked out by the major collegiate golf programs in recent years. He was wound so tight I wondered how his bowels moved.
To put it kindly, Dunkel acted as if he were on the deck of a sinking ship and had just been told there was no more room in the lifeboat. He reacted to any shot that was less than perfect with a gravity ordinarily reserved for the last round of a major championship.
It rubbed off on his poor caddie, too. The guy didn’t have a lot of experience, which is about what you get as a newcomer on Tour. But he seemed nice enough, and it was obvious that he was trying hard.
Dunkel didn’t seem to notice or appreciate his aide’s efforts. Instead, he took out his frustration over his poor shots on the one guy on the course who was pulling for him to do well. Of course, this only made the caddie, whose name was J.D., even more nervous and tentative. It showed in every putt he read or club he recommended.
After watching Dunkel abuse his caddie for a while, I looked at Stewart. “You always hurt the one you love, right?”
Stewart laughed softly. “If he’s this way during practice, we don’t want to be around him on Thursday.”
Waldorf, on the other hand, made the afternoon a pleasure. It soon became obvious why he was one of the most popular guys on Tour. The word around the clubhouse was that the Duffmeister was virtually every Tour player’s second choice (after themselves, of course) to win every time he teed it up.
After taking all of this in and thinking again about the grace and style of the elder statesmen of the game, I resolved to accommodate everyone around me. So I signed every autograph, gave every interview, and thanked every volunteer.
And played like crap.
It really showed in the Wednesday pro-am. Between signing every program and cap in sight and helping each of my amateur partners select clubs and read putts, I had no energy left to concentrate on my own game and shot 74.
Stewart and I talked about it at dinner that night.
“How do you do both?” I asked him.
He was just finishing a spinach salad (in contrast to my steady diet of cheeseburgers, Stewart tended to eat healthy). “You mean play your game and take care of the rest of it as well?”
“Yeah,” I nodded.
He put his napkin aside. “You’ve got to decide how much time you need before each shot. That’s your time. After the shot is their time.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
He shook his head. “You have to keep it simple. It’ll get easier with practice.”
I wasn’t so sure. Sensing my unease, he added, “When it’s your time, you’ve got to give the shot your undivided attention and block everything else out. That means shutting the window all the way. Otherwise, you won’t play well, and they won’t have anything to watch.”
I drew some comfort from the fact that I would have no pro-am partners once the tournament started. That meant fewer distractions. But the galleries would still be there, probably bigger than during the practice rounds. It was important to me to play well. I didn’t want to be known as a one-shot wonder. I was going to have to open and close Stewart’s window at the right times.
Befitting my new status as a Tour winner, I was grouped with Jesper Parnevik and David Ogrin for the first two rounds. We went off on Thursday morning at 9:26. Both guys were easy to play with. With Stewart’s help, I was a lot better at taking care of business and shot 70, which was decent enough under the circumstances. I’d have to do better the rest of the way, though, if I wanted to have a chance to win.
We had played the North course the first day. It was the shorter and, for the most part, easier of the two layouts. That made my 70 even less impressive. It also meant that I would have to make up ground on the South course, which was considerably more difficult, especially after Rees Jones remodeled it in an effort to persuade the USGA to place the U.S. Open there.
Other than the difference in difficulty, there wasn’t much to dis
tinguish one course from the other. They were designed by the same architect, Billy Bell, in the early ’50s, and both courses featured magnificent views of the Pacific Ocean. Throw in the balmy San Diego weather (the forecast was either nice or nicer, depending on the day), and you could think of worse things to be doing than trying to make the cut at Torrey Pines.
Despite the tougher layout, I regained my touch on Friday and cruised to a 66. As I clicked on the locker room computer and watched the scores being posted in something called “real time,” I could see that I had already vaulted over a whole slew of players. If the wind from the ocean picked up in the afternoon (as it often did), I could end up in the top fifteen or twenty spots for the weekend.
And that’s basically how it turned out. At the end of the day, I found myself tied for seventeenth with Emlyn Aubrey and Robert Gamez. Better still, I was only five shots back of the pace being set by Rick Fehr and Steve Elkington.
On the ride back to the hotel, I told Stewart that I thought we had a chance to make it two straight. As soon as I said it, I realized that it was probably a ridiculous statement for a Tour rookie to make, and I half-expected Stewart to laugh at my brashness. He didn’t.
Instead, he agreed. As he put it, “If we can post two more good rounds, I’ll be quite content to sit back and let the others shoot at us.”
We were going to play in threesomes after the cut, like we did at Phoenix. Gamez and I would be playing together with Brad Faxon, who was a stroke ahead of us. Aubrey would be in the group ahead, as he had been the last to finish at 136.
I hadn’t played with either Gamez or Faxon before. They were something of a contrast in styles, with Gamez being very demonstrative and Faxon very laidback. While that perhaps would interest the gallery, it was not important to me. As Stewart pointed out, I needed to learn to play well regardless of who was in my group.
I had also learned that outside distractions seemed to become more noticeable when I was struggling with my game. When I was playing well, the colors and shapes bordering my peripheral vision faded together, and the various sounds of the gallery and camera clickers became a soft, white noise. I was at peace at times like that.
The Caddie Page 15