As I watched the Masters coverage on Friday and marveled at my contemporary Tom Watson’s gutty play -– that young whippersnapper Fred Couples wasn’t bad either -– I lapsed into a rich fantasy world in which it is Sunday at Augusta, and Watson is matched in the final pairing with Tiger Woods. The crowd, of course, is cheering loudly for Woods, but even louder for the 60-year old Watson.
The two players come to the 18th tied, with both in the fairway. Watson has a tricky approach shot but manages to sky his four-iron to 35 feet or so of the cup. Woods has a more routine approach, yet he seems to linger over it longer than usual. He makes an unusually tentative swing and pulls it into the front left bunker, then hits a mediocre bunker shot to 8 feet. Those swings on the 18th hole of a major lack the typical force of the Tiger, as if they were played by the more laid-back Ernie Els.
Watson’s lag putt winds up two feet below the hole and he putts out for par. Now Woods, who has been putting well all day, lines up his tying putt. Days later, people who study such things will comment that Woods took about 15% less time to study his putt than he has done for other critical putts in his career. When he does make his stroke, he opens the clubface ever so slightly as the head of the putter comes through the ball. He misses the cup by three inches right.
Tom Watson is shocked, the crowd is shocked, but as it dawns on everyone that a sexagenarian has actually won the Masters, they go nuts as the winner circles the periphery, high-fiving everyone. A photo in all the sports sections the next day shows a jubilant Watson in the foreground and, beyond him Tiger Woods, not hanging his head but looking straight at Watson, a wry and knowing smile on his face, a look that some will interpret later as the face of redemption.