This is one more last story about Tom Watson and Turnberry . . . and about caddies. Almost a decade after he beat Jack Nicklaus in the famous British Open there in 1977, I did a retrospective piece for Sports Illustrated. The responses of the two golfers were fascinating.
Nicklaus simply didn't want to talk about it. "I couldn't even take you around that course," he snapped. No, Jack Nicklaus had lost at Turnberry and wanted to forget it.
Watson, on the other hand, had no trouble remembering it all. Keep in mind now now, it was nine years later, but twice tears came to his eyes merely in talking again about that magnificent victory.
Then I hunted down one other important person, and, at Turnberry or Tonbree, which is more how they say it over there we walked the course together. His name was Alfie Fyles. He was Watson's British caddie. Nicklaus had brought his regular caddie over from the States. Alfie had first had Watson's bag two years before, at Carnoustie, when Watson had won his first Grand Slam championship. Caddying in Britain was much more of a profession then. Men like Alfie did it for a life's work. They spoke in that Cockney argot, where you use code rhymes for key words. A Vera Lynn meant a shot of gin, for instance, sizzle and strife was your missus.
After Carnoustie, Alfie threw the Gregory Peck the check that Watson gave him on the floor, insulted by how small he thought it was. Caddies like Alfie believed that they could truly improve their golfer. But even then the craft was dying out. "All you got left is bag-carriers," Alfie groused. "All they can do is give a golfer a weather report, not the right club."
So it was, that on the 72nd hole, with a one-stroke lead over Nicklaus, Watson faced a second shot of about 180 yards. Alfie fingered a seven-iron. Watson stared at him. "You know I can only carry 160/165 with a six," he said. A seven iron is even less club. "Ah," said Alfie, "but the way your adrenalin's pumpin', Tom."
Watson took the seven and hit it 30 inches from the cup, sank the putt and beat Nicklaus by a stroke.
So, on Sunday, as I watched on television, here came Watson down the final fairway at Turnberry . . . one up, exactly like back in '77. His tee-shot was straight. I couldn't tell how far away he was, but I remembered Alfie. I knew Tom's adrenalin was pumpin' again. To myself, I thought: whatever club you'd normally use, go one less. He hit a beautiful shot, straight at the flag, but it was too strong and it went over the back of the green. He bogied and lost the lead and then the tournament.
Almost the first thing Watson said afterwards was that he'd used an eight iron for that second shot on 18. Yeah, he'd considered a nine, but an eight was normally right for the distance.
I thought of old Alfie again, and what an irony. Tom Watson didn't lose the British Open because he was 59 years old. He lost because he was 59 years old, but playing like the 26-year-old he was back in 1977 only he didn't have that old-fashioned caddie to remind him how good and strong he was again.