Tom Watson didn’t win The British Open today. No, no he didn’t.
This sounds corny, but we all did.
Stewart Cink, a decent pro, a good guy, and a deserving major champion, beat Watson in an anticlimactic playoff when the old pro had nothing left.
We’ve seen stories like this before. After his round Saturday, Joe Posnanski penned a great analogy to Watson’s success. Pos seemed to think the announcers weren’t doing Watson’s phenomenal third round justice – but they totally were. Watson wouldn’t want to be regarded as a curiosity or a freak occurrence – he still fancies himself a competitive pro golfer. And he just finished second at The British Open, tantalizing close to his sixth Claret Jug. Who could argue?
I actually give ABC kudos for not overselling the moment. That never happens – not at the network feverishly working to discover Who’s Now, and promoting their phony awards show tonight. But Tom Rinaldi, interviewing Watson after the round Saturday, let his emotions show, and uttered a phrase hopelessly correct:
Tom, this is why we watch sports.
And it truly is. Golf is unique because it’s a solitary pursuit, demanding perfection and fortitude and confidence beyond any other sport – and forcing the greatest to beat entire fields of players. Golf also is unique because it captures the faces and countenances and celebrations and frustrations of the very best players – caught up in moments often beyond their control.
On Saturday, Watson walked up 18, knowing he had the third-round lead in The British Open. He smiled, his eyes light. He scanned the crowd, the gallery, the green, the clubhouse, the scene at a course he probably loves and a tournament he loves probably more, in a game that he loves the most of all.
He’s 59 years old, almost 60. As he stood on the green, breathing the crisp air and the respite of another round complete – his face said it all. Watson had to know this was probably as close as he’d ever get again. His confidence and athletic persona would deny it, but his eyes, his face, his pursed smile knew.
You wouldn’t have blamed him if he cried. Already on Saturday, this close to perfection, this close to a return to greatness, this story perhaps the greatest in all sports history, you knew he sensed it all, and that more than just diffusing the moment, he was forcing himself to take it all in, to realize how great, serene, and perfect that Saturday twilight was. You almost cried along with him, and both you, the viewer, and Tom, the player solemnly knew how inspiring that moment was.
You knew that this moment, this glorious moment, could somehow be enough for him, except it wouldn’t be. But this is sports, this is life, this is why we watch and root and cheer and ache. Would we all to be so close to perfection during our last gasps of careers – whatever they are. Would we all to silence the doubters, the young, the challengers, those who couldn’t believe.
And would we all to know it, to comprehend it at that moment. Tom Watson has won eight majors, throughout a life in golf spanning almost four decades. And perhaps – just perhaps – Saturday’s moment on 18 is his greatest moment. And perhaps he knows it.
And perhaps it’s why we watch sports, indeed.
