xxii

AS BOO MIGHT have said, “Poo-yiy, we havin’ some kinda fun now, Bah-bee!” The only problem was that things were happening almost too fast to enjoy.

Within seconds of my making the winning putt, Roger Maltbie rushed up to me on the green and shoved a microphone in my face. Then he asked me how it felt to win in only my third time out on Tour.

I hope I never have to watch a tape of that interview. Although I’m not exactly sure how to answer a question like that, I suspect you can do a whole lot better than the blubbering I rendered to a national television audience. Fortunately, Maltbie—who was experienced at doing this kind of thing—instantly understood what was happening and mercifully cut the interview short with a quick “Back to you guys in the booth.”

By the time I made it to the scorer’s tent, I had recovered enough to remind myself that nothing counted until my scorecard was properly signed and attested with the correct hole-by-hole scores. The last thing I needed was to void my first Tour win by signing an invalid card.

Everyone in golf was familiar with what happened to Roberto de Vicenzo in the 1968 Masters, where the Argentinian had tied Bob Goalby after four rounds but signed a card showing a “four” rather than the “three” he made on the seventeenth hole. Under the Rules of Golf, the higher score stood, and Goalby won by default.

As bad as that was, it could have been worse. If de Vicenzo had signed for a lower score on any hole than he had actually taken, the rules would have required that he be disqualified outright. By signing for a higher score, de Vicenzo at least got to keep second-place money.

The Tour officials in the tent understood all of this better than I did and told me to take my time before attesting my card, which had been kept by Olin Browne. Also, I had to sign Mickelson’s card, which I had kept, and let him review it for errors. Thus, I knew there was considerable work to be done before I could begin celebrating.

It took nearly ten minutes to complete the process, but it was finally official. I had won the Phoenix Open and with it more money than I ever dreamed of while I was giving lessons at Boo’s driving range.

The next stop was the media tent, where I spent a half hour describing my round and then answering questions about specific shots or what I thought about when Mickelson or Browne made a putt and the lead changed hands.

It was kind of hard to focus on the questions. I was still feeling pretty numb from the whole experience. At least I had learned how to field questions about my clubs. When asked about them, I simply shrugged and said they were a custom-fit set, just like the ones made for other Tour pros. The only difference, I said, was that the guy who made mine didn’t work for one of the big manufacturers, like Titleist, Ping, or Calloway, and didn’t have their name recognition.

Even as I was answering questions I kept looking for Stewart out of the corner of my eye, as if he would tell me what to say or how to act. That was when I realized what a security blanket he had become. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be found.

After the interview ended, and all the golf writers began folding up their laptops, I went back to shower and clean out my locker. There was still no sign of Stewart. I was starting to worry. He had never disappeared like this before.

That’s when I noticed that my clubs were missing, too.

Now I was on the verge of Stage III hysteria. There was something magical about those irons. I was pretty fond of the driver and putter, too, for that matter. You tend to get that way after winning the biggest tournament of your life.

I checked the bag rack, but there was nothing there. I looked over by the practice putting green but came up empty there, too. The place was becoming deserted, and I was getting more panicky by the minute, with sweaty palms, rapid breathing, and all that went with it.

Where, I kept saying to myself, was my best friend? Where were my golf clubs? Had they disappeared together, or were these two separate misfortunes?

My mind raced through a number of disastrous scenarios. Perhaps some souvenir hunter had copped the clubs while everyone’s attention was diverted by the trophy presentation or the press conference. As for Stewart, I imagined that, having seen me to victory, he felt his mission was complete and had disappeared from my life just as inexplicably as he had entered it.

I had become almost totally dispirited as I made my way over to the place where the players’ courtesy cars were kept. By now, there were only a half dozen or so cars left in the lot, and the day’s light was dimming. As I headed down the row where my car was parked, I saw the silhouette of someone leaning casually against the trunk of the car. As I drew closer, I recognized Stewart. After a few more steps, I could also see that my golf bag was laying next to where he stood.

“Where the hell have you been?” I asked in a voice so loud it surprised me. “I’ve been lookin’ all over for you and for those clubs, too.”

Stewart’s face screwed up in a puzzled look. “I’m in the same spot I’ve been after every round. We always meet here after we’re done.”

Instantly, I knew he was right. But I wasn’t prepared to concede anything at the moment because my emotions hadn’t quite run their course.

“Well, that’s true,” I begrudgingly allowed. “But I’ve never won a tournament before.” I stood there, not knowing what else to say before adding, “Don’t you think that means anything?”

Stewart burst out laughing. “Calm down, Bobby. It’s a great day, and we’ve worked hard for this. Let’s enjoy it, okay?”

His laughter disarmed me for the second time that day. I couldn’t suppress an inward chuckle before conceding defeat. “I guess you’re right. This whole thing kinda threw me out of whack. I’m used to having you nearby, and I got a little worried when I couldn’t find you.”

He reached over and gave me a hug, this one even more heartfelt than the one on the eighteenth hole when I dropped the winning putt. At that moment, I realized that I loved Stewart Jones as much as I loved any man alive.

As we disengaged, a thought occurred to me. “How close does this get me to the Masters?”

For years, anyone who won a PGA Tour event automatically qualified for golf’s coming-out party in April. In fact, most players even knew within a day or two when to expect the coveted invitation to arrive in the mail (it was usually around December 12 or 13). But Augusta National had changed the rules a couple of years ago, and I wasn’t quite sure what it took to get in.

Stewart’s eyebrows squeezed together slightly. “It’s a little complicated now, based on the world rankings and what-not. It comes down to this: Keep playing like you did this week, and we won’t have to worry about it.”

We had already checked out of the hotel that morning, so we drove straight to the airport. Our next stop was San Diego, where the Tour would play its next event on the North and South courses at Torrey Pines.

We weren’t far from the airport when my new cell phone rang (one of the perks of being on Tour was that we got free minutes). I was stunned to hear a familiar voice with a Cajun accent congratulate me on winning. It was Boo.

“Bahbee, you really rang ’em up. We’re proud of you, babe.”

I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I mumbled, “It was fun, Boo.” An awkward pause. “It … it really hasn’t sunk in yet.” Another pause. “Hey, thanks for calling.”

“No problem, my man. Keep it up.” The phone clicked, indicating that he had hung up.

I turned to Stewart. “That was Boo.”

He just smiled.

“I didn’t expect to hear from him.”

Stewart shrugged. “Give yourself a little credit. You did the right thing by him in the end. Remember, he asked the DA not to prosecute you. If he can put it behind him, maybe you should, too.”

I didn’t say anything more. Of all my shenanigans, my troubles with Boo were the most embarrassing, and I wasn’t in the mood to discuss them at the moment. I did wonder how Boo got my phone number, though.

As Stewart negotiated our way through the airport traffic, he reminded me that my status on the Tour would change now that I had won a tournament.

“For one thing,” he said. “You’ll be paired with other tournament winners during the first two rounds, with better times. That means bigger galleries—and more distractions. You’ll have to work a little harder to keep that window closed when you need to.”

I understood what he meant. The large galleries over the last nine holes had been a challenge, but I felt that I had handled it well. Still, I knew that it would be more difficult on days when I was not as well-focused on my game.

Naturally, our conversation also turned to replaying the afternoon’s round. Stewart repeatedly complimented me on staying “centered,” which he explained meant being “grounded” and staying in the present.

Then he said something curious, in a tone that sounded detached and almost melancholy, as if he had fallen into a hypnotic trance of some kind. “Bobby, that putt to win the tournament is something to build on. You should never forget how you performed when everything was on the line. It’s like when we made that twelve-foot downhiller at Winged Foot to tie Al Espinosa at the Open in ’29. We went on to win the playoff by twenty-three shots. Grantland Rice said it was the putt that launched the Grand Slam.”

Needless to say, I was stunned at what he said. The only way Stewart could have been anywhere in 1929 was in a past life, and I didn’t think he was related to Shirley what’s-her-name. He must have sensed my incredulity, because he stopped suddenly and gave me a look of embarrassment. “I mean, what I’m saying is, that putt can be the start of big things for you.”

I wasn’t thinking about that, however. I was thinking instead of the strange soliloquy I had just heard. “Stewart, were you talking about one of the Opens that Bobby Jones won?”

He nodded.

“You talked as if you were there.”

He gave me an awkward smile, almost sheepish. “Well, now, I couldn’t have been there, could I?” Then he paused. It was one of the few times that I had ever seen Stewart appear to be uncertain of what to say. Finally, he added in a voice that sounded embarrassed, “I guess I’ve read so much about it that sometimes I feel that I was. Sorry if I got a little carried away.”

I wondered whether that was the case, or whether Stewart had once again given me a clue about who—or what—he really was.