Watson had chances too. At the par-three third, he stood over a three-iron, uncertain if it was the right club with the breeze coming from left to right. “What do you think, Bruce?” he asked. “Do you like this?”
“I do,” Bruce said, his words clearer in the morning than they might have been at night. “I think it’s perfect.”
When the shot floated down 12 feet left of the flag, Watson grinned and said, “Yup, just about perfect.”
Unfortunately he missed the birdie putt. He did birdie the eighth hole, though, to even the match, and they arrived on the 10th tee even, or as the Europeans say, “all square.”
“Last nine holes of the year,” Montgomerie said on the tee.
Watson and Bruce looked at each other and said nothing.
Watson appeared to take control of the match on the next four holes. He had an eight-foot birdie putt on 10 that did a 360 around the cup and stayed out. Then he
did
birdie 11 to go one up, and when Montgomerie muffed a chip on 12 and made bogey, he was two up. The 13th was proof, if it was needed, of why Montgomerie is so tough in match-play situations. After Watson, rolling now, hit his second to six feet, Montgomerie hit an ordinary approach shot to 25 feet. Another Watson birdie seemed likely, as did a three-up lead with five holes to play. Montgomerie responded by coolly rolling his putt in. Watson made his too, but the lead remained two up. When Watson badly blocked his tee shot into a bunker at the 14th, Montgomerie knocked the lead down to one hole.
The match had been played exactly the way you would want a match to be played. The players had chatted pleasantly throughout. There had been numerous delays, since they were playing directly behind Curtis Strange and Nick Faldo. Strange was no speed demon, but he was the Roadrunner compared to Faldo, who played as if he were being paid by the hour. On one hole, Faldo spent a solid three minutes looking over a putt while Strange stood to the side literally tapping his foot as if to say, “Are you ever going to putt?”
Watson and Montgomerie are both brisk players. So throughout the match they found themselves waiting. On one tee, Montgomerie asked Watson how far outside of Kansas City he lived.
“Pretty far out,” Watson said. “We live on a farm.”
“Really?” Montgomerie said. “How much land?”
“About four hundred acres.”
“You mow the grass yourself?” Montgomerie asked, deadpan.
They complimented each other’s good shots and the crowd cheered good play by both men. It was a long, long way from the flag-waving rancor seen at Ryder Cups. The golf was very good, the mistakes few and far between. They both parred 15 and 16 and came to the par-three 17th with Watson still clinging to his one-up lead. Both players found the green with their tee shots, and after Montgomerie had missed from 25 feet for birdie, Watson had a 20-footer to win the match. He and Bruce looked it over carefully and Watson stroked it almost perfectly. Almost. At the last possible second the ball curled an inch to the right of the cup. Watson was still one up with one hole to play.
The 18th hole is a long, difficult par-four, an excellent finishing hole. Montgomerie’s drive was perfect. Just as Watson was about to draw his club back, a little girl in the crowd got stung by something and let out a shriek of pain. Somehow Watson never lost his focus. He swung right through the shriek, and his drive ended up in almost the same spot as Montgomerie’s.
“You really are amazing,” Bruce said as Watson handed him the driver. “Nothing ever gets to you.”
They had to wait one more time for Faldo and Strange to finish. By now Mark O’Meara, who had already won his match, had come out to the fairway along with Greg Rita to watch the finish. Watson’s five-iron second shot found the middle of the green, about 20 feet left of the flag. Montgomerie knew that par wasn’t going to be good enough, so he aimed his four-iron right at the flag. And hit a perfect shot. The ball took one hop and spun to a halt three feet from the hole.
“Great shot, Colin,” O’Meara shouted, even though at that moment it was about the last thing he wanted to see. He knew his team needed the point. (The U.S. would retain the Cup after the teams finished tied at 12-12.) He also knew that wasn’t what really mattered.
Watson walked briskly onto the green, looked at Montgomerie’s ball, glanced at the hole, then picked the ball up and flipped it to him, conceding the birdie putt. “I made him putt a three-footer on seventeen, I wasn’t going to do it again,” he said. “Besides, I didn’t want to win the match because he missed a three-footer. I wanted to make mine and win that way.”
In the movies, Watson makes his putt and he and Bruce have one last victory hug as the putt rolls in. In real life, they studied it from all sides, Bruce pointing to the exact spot where he thought the ball had to go to get to the hole. Watson agreed. Just as at 17, the putt looked good for an instant but died an inch from the cup. Montgomerie’s brilliant four-iron had won the hole and given him a halve of the match.
Everyone came on to the green for handshakes. Montgomerie put an arm around Bruce for a moment to tell him how much he had enjoyed being with him and to wish him luck. Watson and Bruce shook hands, and Watson put an arm around Bruce before someone dragged him away for a TV interview. As Bruce came off the green, Rita was waiting for him, fighting back tears. He threw his arms around Bruce and said simply, “I love you.”
Bruce said nothing. At that moment his only goal was to escape. People in the crowd were calling his name, some asking for autographs, some simply shouting encouragement, and some echoed Rita’s sentiment, shouting, “We love you, Bruce!”
Marsha, who had arrived with Avery on the sixth hole, was standing by the cart with the kids. Jay and Natalie and Joan had gone off with their driver to return their cart. Hilary Watson was there too, giving Bruce a quiet hug. Bruce signed a few autographs, then asked Hilary to tell Tom he would meet him in the locker room.
“I need to get going,” he said, tapping his watch. “Eagles.”
Hilary knew his need to leave had very little to do with the Eagles. She smiled, hugged Bruce again, and said she would tell Tom where he was. Marsha and the kids climbed into the cart, and Bruce was able to get away from the crowd. He had to get away, because he didn’t want them to see him crying.
He almost made it to the locker room before he lost it. Then the tears came. Marsha put her arm around him and said nothing, knowing there was really nothing to say.
He was all business in the locker room, or so it would have appeared. Rita helped him take what was left in Watson’s locker and put it into the golf bag and zip it up, since zipping had become all but impossible for Bruce. The players who had finished were sitting around tables in the middle of the spacious locker room, discussing their matches, glancing up at the Jets-Jaguars football game on the TV sets.
Bruce took a deep breath and looked around. “I have to get going,” he said to Rita and a friend.
“Tom will probably be here in another minute, you know.”
“I know,” he said, the tears coming back into his eyes. “I’m going to go.” He tapped his watch again. “Eagles.”
He paused and took another breath. “When Tom comes in here, tell him something for me.”
“Anything.”
“Tell him I’ll see him in Hawaii. I’ll be there.”
Bruce took about three steps and there was Watson. He had run into Marsha and the kids and Bruce’s parents and aunt Joan outside the locker room and had come inside looking for him.
“Tom, I’ll see you in Hawaii,” Bruce said, putting his hand out as Watson approached.
“I know you will,” Watson said, his eyes bright, smiling, but clearly very emotional at that moment. “Let’s go sit down and have a beer, okay?”
Bruce’s face lit up. “Sure,” he said.
They walked across the locker room to the bar and sat down together, just the two of them, to have a drink and talk about the day.
Maybe Bruce would caddy in Hawaii. Maybe not. Caddying might be in his past. But the friendship was not.
They sat there together, in no rush to leave. Not just friends or even brothers.
Closer than brothers.
And that would never change.
Normally when writing book acknowledgments, an author thanks three groups of people: those who made it possible for him to write the book; those who helped him get the book written and published; and friends and family.
This book is no different from the norm in that those are the three groups of people I have to thank. What makes this book different is the thanks I owe to the people who made the book possible. It is one thing to ask people to give you their time to tell you stories; it is quite another to ask them for their time to tell stories that break their heart. That is what all the people who appear in this book did. For all of them, talking about Bruce this past year has been both exhilarating and excruciating. They greatly enjoy talking about the man they have known and loved. Talking about what has happened to him since January 15, 2003, is brutally difficult. And yet no one flinched, no one said they couldn’t do it. As Bruce said of Tom Watson after the first round of the U.S. Open, they did it for him.
This is Bruce’s book. It was his idea, something he wanted to do, I believe, because he knew there was a story to be told, but also because, like all of us, he wanted a legacy. What I found in doing the research was that he already had a legacy; a legacy built on being one of the first truly professional caddies, but beyond that a lifetime of loyalty to friends and an instinct for kindness that is a credit to him and to his family. As his best friend often says, “There’s not a mean bone in Bruce’s body.” There are few people in the world for whom that is completely true. I can attest to the fact that Tom Watson has that one exactly right.
So I begin by thanking everyone who sat through the often painful interviews that made this book possible: Jay and Natalie Edwards, who doubted themselves for years as parents only to find out that they had actually done a wonderful job with all four of their children. Chris Edwards, Brian Edwards, and Gwyn Dieterle, Bruce’s siblings, who have dealt with the heartbreak of this past year exactly as their brother would have wanted them to. Thanks also to their spouses—John Cutcher, Laurie Edwards, and Len Dieterle—and to all their children, who are probably still wondering who that stranger was at the family reunion in Boston last September. Let me not forget Joan Walsh, whose political leanings alone make her a heroic figure to me.
As you read this book, you will, I’m sure, be amazed by Marsha Edwards. Certainly all who know Bruce are amazed by her courage and strength, and so was I. She was also remarkably patient with me and the torrent of questions I kept sending her way since she and Tom Watson were the ones who knew the most about all the testing and medications Bruce was dealing with and with all that he was going through. Bruce’s buddy Bill Leahey is convinced that Marsha isn’t really one of us, that she’s an angel sent from heaven to get Bruce through all this. I am not prepared to argue with him. Thanks also to Brice and Avery and to Taylor. I haven’t met Marsha’s other child, Brittany, but I can attest to the fact that the three I did meet are making their mother quite proud.
Of course this book would also not have happened without the help and cooperation of Tom Watson and his wife, Hilary. Tom was generous both with his time and with his spirit. Like the others, he sat and dealt with many questions he had no reason to want to deal with; delved into his memory bank for stories from long ago; and never flinched when it was time to talk about things that, understandably, made him cry. I’m also grateful to Chuck Rubin, not only for his efforts this year, but for his friendship dating back to 1982, the first time I wrote at length on the subject of Watson.
Bruce’s other friends were invaluable resources to me, as they have always been to him, from start to finish: Greg Rita, Neil Oxman, Bill Leahey, Gary Crandall, Drew Micelli, Mike Boyce, Mike Rich, Mike Hicks, Jim Mackay, Tommy Lamm, Bob Low, Mark Jiminez, Lee Janzen, John Cook, Billy Andrade, Brad Faxon, Ben Crenshaw, Scott Verplank, Jeff Sluman, Davis Love III, Hal Sutton, Peter Jacobsen, Mike Hulbert, Jay Haas, Curtis Strange, and Dick Lotz. Special thanks to Greg Norman, who took a lot of time to discuss issues that weren’t always easy to talk about, and to his assistant, Erin Moore, who did remarkable work in getting the two of us to the same place at the same time on the same day to talk.
A number of other people went out of their way to help me track down background information and some of the people I needed to find, notably Marty Caffey at the PGA Tour, Dave Senko at the PGA Tour, and Todd Budnick, also from the tour. I’m sure they all came to dread my phone calls and e-mails, but they always responded. Thanks also to the usual suspects at the tour: Mark Russell, Jon Brendle, Slugger White, Ben Nelson, Mike Shea, Dave Lancer, Denise Taylor, Commissioner Tim Finchem, and Cathy Hurlburt; and to Craig Smith, Pete Kowalski, and Suzanne Colson at the USGA; and to Steve Malchow.
Others in golf: David Fay and Frank Hannigan (I like putting them together); Tom Meeks, Mike Butz, Mike Davis, Margharete Saunders, Ellen McMahon, Kathy Whaley, Kathy Paparelli, Ellie Marino, Marty Parkes, Mark Carlson, Mary Lopuszynski, Patterson Temple, Romaney Berson (and her two sons), Tony Zirpoli, Roger Harvie, Steve Worthy, Frank Bussey, Ron Read, Pete Bevacqua, Mimi Griffin, Jon Barker, Robbie Zalznek, Jeff Hall, Glenn Greenspan, Craig Currier, and the still unsinkable Dave Catalano.
Michael Pietsch has now edited ten of my books. That alone should tell you how patient a human being he is. This book is like several others: It came out of nowhere at him and he agreed to publish it based on one thing—his trust for my instincts. A writer is very fortunate to have an editor like that. Michael is very fortunate to have a great staff at Little, Brown and Company, and I benefit from their presence. That would include Stacey Brody, Zainab Zakari, Heather Fain, Heather Rizzo, Marlena Bittner, and, at least in emeritus status, Holly Wilkinson.
Esther Newberg has been my agent for fifteen books and counting. A lot of this book is about loyalty and friendship. Those are two words that best describe who Esther is both professionally and personally. Thanks as always to her two fabulous assistants, Andrea Barzvi and Christine Bauch.