xxx

I GRABBED A couple of oranges in the locker room (I was finally picking up some of Stewart’s healthy eating habits) and then headed back to the bungalow. Although I ran into a couple of caddies on the way, no one had seen Stewart. I figured he was waiting for me at our home away from home.

The place was quiet when I got there. I called out for Stewart, but there was no answer. As I walked down the hallway, I saw my bag standing against the wall. Stewart had obviously been back since we finished play. I figured he was in the shower, so I sat down in the main room to eat my snack and watch the conclusion of the television coverage of the day’s round.

That’s when I saw the note, propped up on the coffee table in front of me. I immediately recognized Stewart’s handwriting. It said:

Bobby:

Our work together is done, and it is time for me to go. Although you may not realize it, you have learned everything you can from me. There is no purpose in my staying any longer.

I have taken my irons with me. That should not concern you. The clubs were there simply to give you something to believe in before you were ready to believe in yourself.

You may hear some bad news about me. Don’t be sad when you do. It is the way I must leave. If you play by the rules I’ve shown you, this won’t be our last round together.

Stewart

P.S. You are ready for tomorrow.

As if the note was a lie, I bolted down the hall to the bedroom Stewart had been occupying. There was no sign of him. Even his clothes were gone. In fact, the room looked like it had never been occupied.

Then I thought of my clubs. I half-ran back to my bag in the ball. Sure enough, Stewart’s irons were gone. My old clubs were there in their place.

My disbelief turned to anger. Here I was, two shots out of the Open lead going into the final round, and the guy who’s my caddie, coach, and best friend had checked out. “How could he do this to me,” I yelled to an empty house, “right before the biggest day of my life?”

My emotions heaved back and forth for the next couple of hours. I scoured the lodge area, but no one had seen him anywhere. At one point, I even called home, as if Stewart might have gotten back to Baton Rouge already. I suppose I was hoping that he had at least left some message for me on the answering machine that would explain things. I went back and reread Stewart’s note any number of times, trying to find something between the lines that would make some sense out of his desertion.

It took awhile, but once I accepted that Stewart was really gone, I began to calm down. When I did, I realized that, unless I wanted to be the only player in the Open carrying his own bag, I needed to secure a caddie for the next day. Of course, I knew I wasn’t going to find another Tour caddie on such short notice. The only guys who figured to be available were those who worked for a Tour player who missed the cut, but they weren’t going to hang around just to watch golf, especially in a place this expensive. They would have caught the first flights out Friday night. The best I could hope for was to get one of the caddies who worked out of the pro shop toting clubs for the tourists. Some of them couldn’t tell a five-iron from a wedge, but at least they had been around the course a few times.

I headed over to the pro shop, hoping to find someone there who could help me. On the way, I passed by one of the USGA trailers. I knew there would be at least a couple of staffers still working, so on an impulse I ducked in to see if they had any ideas. The first person I saw was Roger Harvie, whom I had met when I played in the Amateur.

He smiled and said, “Hey, Bobby, great tournament. Good luck tomorrow!”

I explained my predicament. He had an immediate suggestion. “You need to call Fred Couples. His back went out again, and he just withdrew. His caddie, Joe LaCava, would be great.” Rifling through some papers, Harvie said, “Here’s Fred’s cell phone number. If you call now, you may be able to catch him before he and LaCava leave for the airport.”

I grabbed a phone and dialed the number. Someone I didn’t know answered, but he was able to get LaCava on the line. It took just a minute or two to come to terms, and we were set.

I thanked Harvie for his help and headed back to the bungalow. Having solved the immediate problem of finding a caddie, I became preoccupied again with trying to figure out why Stewart had abandoned me. I must have spent the next hour or two trying to come up with a plausible explanation for such a bizarre turn of events. Even as I fumed about it all, I knew that I was wasting valuable energy that was better spent getting ready for the most important round of golf I had ever played. Still, the situation with Stewart was something that had to play itself out. I only hoped it did before my starting time.

At one point, I passed the large liquor cabinet that occupied the corner of the main room. I had never really noticed it before. For the first time, though, it occurred to me that three fingers of scotch would do wonders for my nerves. I even went so far as to open the cabinet and locate a fifth of unopened Glenlivet. At the last minute, however, something—perhaps some remnant of Stewart’s spirit in the house—made me pull my hand away and close the cabinet door.

Any recovering alcoholic will tell you that overcoming temptation at a time like that is a major triumph. I knew, instantly, what I had done, and my spirits soared. I also understood at that moment what Stewart meant when he wrote in his note that I had learned more from him than I realized. And he was telling me it was time to fly solo.

As much as I understood it, though, I couldn’t believe Stewart’s timing. The final round of the U.S. Open seemed like a helluva time for my first solo. It was kind of like starting a pilot out on the space shuttle instead of a Piper Cub.

At any rate, I eventually resigned myself to the fact that I had to play the hand I was dealt. Joe LaCava was an experienced caddie. He had been on Fred Couples’s bag for a number of years, including his win at the 1992 Masters. So he had been there before, and his experience would be valuable.

My fretting over all of this eventually drained the last of my energy, and I finally fell asleep around two in the morning. Fortunately, being in the next-to-last group, I wasn’t teeing off until early afternoon, so the late hour didn’t matter.

In all the turmoil, I really hadn’t thought much about the warning in Stewart’s note that I might hear “bad news” about him.