Chapter 4: The Triumph of the Will

I got down to Monterey the week before the Open and drank my way through the local wineries. I had Susan come down and share the limo and the suite with me. We played a couple of rounds of golf, me maintaining my sterling record of below par, she making fun of me and out driving me every hole. I told her if she could put it in the hole like I could she would be a better golfer. She agreed that I could put it in the hole pretty well. She was only asked a few times what she was doing hanging with her father. She only said "playing hide the salami" once. It had been a long day at the wineries. She had to go back to be a doctor again but it was fun while it lasted.

The next week the practice rounds for the Open began at Pebble. I actually got more than two free rounds, thanks to the practices, but they tried to make me pay almost every time and almost threw me out for impersonating you-know-who twice. I was thinking about changing my name to Richard Head to see if I could get it announced on national TV during the Open broadcast but it was too late. It was amazing how many original thoughts were fuelled by the trips to the wineries.

I guess I should mention my caddie. Once I made the Open I called my brother to see if he would like to come and carry my bag. I had used locals in the qualifying but got tired of their attempts to "help" my game. I knew that he knew about as much about caddying as I did, but this was a lark anyway, so what the hell. He jumped at the chance so I got him a suite in the same hotel and we spent the time hanging out and pretending to be real golfers. He is about the same size, a little younger, and has the same lousy sense of humor. We NEVER forego the chance to say "Watson, come here, I need you" to each other. Some things just never get old. I'm not one of them. To say he was shocked by my golf prowess would be putting it mildly, but enough alcohol eased the pain so that he could (sort of) function. It wasn't like I needed to know the exact distance to the hole. I could just keep hitting it until I was happy.

Which also brings up my style of play, because I also started receiving a certain amount of crap for that as well. In the non Do Over world the rest of you live in, it looks like I just pause at my bag, sometimes for a while and then pull out a club, march up to the ball, and swing away. I don't wander around putts or spend any time "reading" the green. Hell, if they were in Braille it still wouldn't do me any good. Just the same pause, walk to the ball and putt away. Very unsettling to my competition because it seems so assured. What is really happening is a series of variously monstrous fuck ups followed by one good shot. If by some miracle I ended up being paired with old Padrag my guess is that I would get at least an hour and a half each round to check out babes in the galleries.

What can you say about Pebble? Overpriced, overhyped, and one hell of a golf course. I might never go back, but I was having a great time playing it. The course had been set up to be a cast iron bitch of an experience, and I am sure that the tournament organizers were hoping for windy, foggy conditions. Like I cared. As I mentioned, Do Over is weather and condition proof. Pebble for the Open is more than 7,000 yards long, or 800 yards longer than I should be playing, with a course rating of "Fuck Me!" That being said, it had four par threes, two par fours and a par five that I could actually reach in regulation, with an excellent shot at birdie. On the first day I did exactly that, with a nifty, cheating-like-a-motherfucker, 64 and a tie for the lead with a couple of guys who actually played their guts out. At least this time I was the one who got to have fun with my name, as the announcers were scurrying around trying to explain that while I was Tom Watson, I surely wasn't THE Tom Watson, all the while trying to figure out why such a crummy driver and shot maker was eating the course alive. Well, one putting every hole made it a little easier to explain. But they were quick to inform the viewers that one putting every hole was like an NBA player making a whole bunch of threes in a row; not going to happen very often. Of course if I had been able to jump, shoot, dribble or had ANY interest in running at all I could have proved they were full of crap about THAT too. So they, and the media covering the event, had pretty much written me off by the time I walked off the eighteenth green, one happy brother and my small fan club in tow.

My fan club started out non existent but got a jump start at the first hole. I was last in my group from the tee, after the other three players had all bombed a drive out onto the course. Mine flew an amazing two hundred and fifty yards, a monster, and settled safely in the fairway. Put another way, two of the other players had out driven me with well placed three woods.

This little boy, maybe ten, off to the side of the tee box looked at his dad after my shot and said "Gee, dad, he doesn't hit the ball far. You said Tom Watson was a great player."

Given the sparseness of the crowd, since someone who people thought actually might have a chance to win had teed off before us and dragged most of the crowd down the fairway with them, the comment was pretty easy to hear and got a small laugh from the few there.

While his dad was leaning over trying to explain that I was the wrong Tom Watson, I walked over and took a knee to look the boy in the face.

"Hello, young man." I said.

"Hello, sir." He replied. I always was a sucker for manners.

"Your dad is right. Tom Watson IS a great player. I just have the same name."

"Oh, I'm sorry sir." He said.

"That's ok. Hey, what's your name young man?"

"Devin."

"Well, Devin, would you mind doing me a favor?" I asked.

"Ok." He said doubtfully. I asked my brother to bring me a piece of paper that we had made copies of and laminated earlier in the week. Another winery based sin. I held it up for him.

"Do you know what this means?" I asked. His father laughed while Devin shook his head in the affirmative seriously.

"Well, as long as you are in the gallery where I'm playing, could you please hold it up when it's true?" I asked. Again he shook his head with conviction.

"Thank you, Devin, that would really help me stay loose (yes, I mean loose not lose)" and down the course we went.

When I got to my ball Devin, who with his father had followed us down the fairway, proudly held up the sign, with its nice big yellow smiley face and bright contrasting letters saying "Hey Tom, you're AWAY!"

When I sunk a forty-one foot putt for par on the first hole I thought he would be with me for a while. When I holed a thirty-five footer on the second for birdie his dad wanted one too. That was good, because my brother was slogging around with about twenty of them in the bag. As they got passed out they got held up at every single hole at least once, expect for two of the shorter par threes. I was just hoping I didn't get disqualified for them. I had already autographed them so everyone got a souvenir for their trouble.

We actually got past the guy who was supposed to take us to the media area for an interview after the round. He was looking for the wrong Tom Watson, you know, a guy who could conceivably be tied for the lead in the tournament. He took some major shit for that mistake over the next few hours. My brother and I high fived Devin and his dad, shook a few other hands of people who had spent the round with us, and headed for the clubhouse bar for a brewski. What the hell, just another round of golf, right?

As we were sitting at the bar this smoking hot thirtyish red head came up, stood next to me and said.

"Are you Tom Watson?"

"It depends on which one you are looking for." I replied.

"I'm looking for the one that knows Dr. Susan Frost very, very well." She smiled.

"Ma'am you have purely struck gold then." I smiled. My brother was trying mightily not to drool, but I don't believe either one of us was succeeding. "How may I help you?"

"Well, Susan said I should look you up if I was interested in being a party to a triumph of experience over optimism." She said, staring straight into my eyes.

How cool is that, I thought, I have a doctor for a pimp!!

"May I ask you name, Miss?" I asked.

"It's Lucy."

"Lucy, this is my brother Doug. Doug, Lucy." They smiled at each other.

"Doug, I'm feeling this pressing need to get back to my suite and lay down, do you mind?" Doug wagged his head no emphatically. Feeling a spurt of brotherly love, I asked Lucy "Would you happen to have a friend who could keep my brother company?"

She looked over at dish water blond, also smoking hot, a few feet away and nodded at her "Yes, I do. Her name is Erin and she would be happy to spend time with Doug."

Erin came walking over smiling, to be introduced to the two sappily smiling brothers.

"Doug, would you mind taking Erin back to your suite, maybe giving her some nice champagne, and tell her about our youthful adventures?" Doug wagged his head yes emphatically.

"He really can talk, Erin, just give him a chance.' She smiled and moved to his side.

I took Lucy by the arm and said "Shall we be going?"

"Yes, thank you that would be lovely.'

I turned to Doug "Remember, we have an 8:45 tee time, so meet me in front of the hotel at 7:00 am, clean and sober ok?" He wagged his head yes again. I privately hoped he wouldn't disappoint Erin too much, but hey, not my problem.

As we headed out I turned to Lucy "How do you know Susan?"

"We went to med school together" she replied. Funny, I didn't remember missing a spread in Playboy on the Girls of Smoking Hot Doctors U. I would have to check my back issues.

"Do you know what to do with an erection lasting more than four hours?" I asked.

"No, I don't." she gave me a smoldering look. "One has never lasted that long in my presence."

"Oh my!" I replied.

"What did Susan recommend?" she asked.

"She said I should consult a physician." I said.

"Well, if that's what they are calling it these days, I'm all for it." She laughed. Great minds, I guess.

We made rapid progress to my suite, putting out the Do Not Disturb sign and the phones on extended ignore. It's just as well, because I would have much rather been doing what we were doing all afternoon and early evening instead of dealing with the shit storm that I had created by passing out the signs and skipping the media center. Thanks to the name confusion and the fact that I was booked at a hotel not very close to the course it took the better part of the rest of the day for the media and USGA to track me down. By that time Do Over and me had sent Lucy off quite happy, including some room service food, and I was tucked nicely into bed (I am after all older) and didn't have to deal with it that night.

The next morning at 7:00 am Doug and I met in front of the hotel, sporting matching shit eating grins. He even had my golf bag. That's what I call dedication. Away, off to the course we went, where the fit hit the shan. The USGA dragged me into a room and explained in no uncertain terms that I was NOT to hand out signs to the crowd. Doug guiltily handed over the twenty of them he was carrying for the day. We really need to go back to that winery sometime soon. They pretty much read us out for past transgressions and made us promise not to do it again. I was a little surprised that they didn't make me change clothes, not because I needed to but because they could; it's in the rules.

The media got a brief shot at me but, after all, I was there to play golf and I did need to warm up before my round, so they deferred most of the "No Chance Watson" portion of the interview until after my anticipated blow up on the course that day. I was after all yesterday's news and starting to smell like it. Nothing either group could do could erase the stupid smile that Lucy had engraved on my face.

Even though I only got ten minutes for warm up it was plenty. After all, for me not all ten minutes are equal. By the time it was over I had regrooved my mediocre swing.

As I walked out onto the first tee, I noticed most of the small group that had gotten signs the day before were there standing together. They gave me a nice round of applause, so I went over and high fived my way through them. I found out later than one of them had actually sold their sign to a TV channel for five hundred dollars as part of a story they were doing on me. I liked his style.

Also in the group were Devin, his dad, and holding Devin's hand a girl who looked about a year younger. I walked over to them, high fived dad, and took a knee in front of Devin and the girl. I didn't even groan bending down, so the stretching must have been helping.