xxxiv

I HAD ONE hole left to win the U.S. Open, and it was perhaps the best finishing hole in all of golf.

The eighteenth hole at Pebble Beach is a classic par five that curves gently left along the Pacific Ocean all the way from tee to green, protected from the enormous power of the ocean only by a seawall. It measures 543 yards, and, as Jack Nicklaus proved in his swan song at the 2000 Open, the green can be reached in two. However, with water all the way down the left side and a putting surface not much larger than a two-car garage, it’s not considered a smart play for anyone in contention.

As we stood on the eighteenth tee, I was suddenly happy to have the wind blowing in from the ocean. As troublesome as it was on seventeen, it provided an additional line of defense against hooking a ball left into the ocean.

Without that comforting wind, the tee shot at the eighteenth can be pretty terrifying. Not only is the ocean waiting to swallow any shot on the left, but there’s out of bounds protecting the multimillion dollar homes that line the right side of the hole. (If your home had a view of the eighteenth hole at Pebble Beach and the Pacific Ocean, it’d be worth a few million bucks, too.) The most popular target from the tee is the larger of two pine trees situated rather conspicuously on the right side of the fairway some 250 yards out.

True to his reputation as the best driver in golf, Sutton was right down the middle, and his ball seemed to run forever on the hard, dry fairway. Just before teeing my ball, I glanced over at the scoreboard and was relieved to learn that Duval had not birdied sixteen and therefore remained at eight under. Since I didn’t think he was likely to make two at seventeen, I figured that whichever of us played eighteen the best would be the new U.S. Open champion.

I should have known better than to count out Tiger Woods, though. Up ahead of us, the crowd roared as he hit a towering second shot that reached the middle of the green. It suddenly dawned on me that he had a putt for eagle that could put him at eight under par as well. If he made his putt, and neither Duval nor I made a birdie at the last hole, the three of us would be back the next day for an eighteen-hole playoff. That favored the players who were more experienced, and I came up considerably short there compared to Woods and Duval. As I teed my ball, I knew that my best shot at the Open title was today, not tomorrow.

I could’ve hit it better. It wasn’t a bad shot, but I didn’t quite catch it like I wanted. It was more of a “heeler” than anything else. Still, it finished in the fairway. So far, so good.

When we arrived at my ball, I saw that Sutton had outdriven us by as much as twenty yards. While he was within striking distance of the green, we were not.

Joe quickly flipped open his yardage book and turned to me. “We’ve got one-sixty-two to a hundred-yard lay-up.”

I thought for a moment. “So it’s two-sixty-two to the middle.”

His eyebrows squinched together. “Well, yeah. But why?”

I looked down at my ball. “We’ve got a good lie. I think I can just about get it there with a three-wood.”

He shook his head. “Not without drugs, you can’t.”

I laughed. “Look, the ground’s so hard in front of the green up there that the ball will bounce and run for a good twenty yards. We can run it up right through the neck between the bunkers.”

LaCava’s eyebrows now arched. “Are you serious?”

I nodded. “I didn’t come here to lay up.”

He snorted in disgust. “This ain’t Tin Cup, you know.”

I shook my head. “Look, we gotta make birdie. Even if we don’t make it to the green, we’ve got a better chance of makin’ four up there than we do from a hundred yards out.”

What LaCava was thinking, but didn’t want to say, was that laying up took the ocean out of play. Trying to blast a three-wood from that far out to a small green squeezed all the way to the ocean’s edge risked disaster. In LaCava’s book, it was a really stupid play, the kind made by Tour rookies who didn’t know anything about course management. But he was too smart to mention the obvious and plant any negative swing thoughts in my mind. If I was going for it, he wanted me to be as positive about the shot as possible.

Of course, one reason that the eighteenth hole at Pebble Beach is considered to be such a great finishing hole is precisely because it is not easy to do what I was trying to do. But the way I saw it, the green wasn’t that easy to hit in three, either. The wind’s almost always a factor, the green is small enough as it is, and there are all these bunkers around it squeezing it to death. So I figured the best thing to do was just bomb away and at least get my ball in the vicinity of the green in two.

LaCava made one last pitch for laying up. “Look, let’s finish with no worse than five. We’re in at eight under. Let Duval look at that number. Put the pressure on him. Besides, we may still make birdie, but we’ll do no worse than par.”

Up ahead of us, a massive bellow from the grandstands signaled that Tiger Woods had rolled in his eagle putt. That suddenly changed everything, because he was now in the clubhouse at eight under par. A five here would not win the championship but would only get us into a playoff with Tiger. Probably Duval, too, assuming he made par at eighteen. Still worse, if Duval made a birdie while I played safe for par, there wouldn’t be a playoff. He would win the title outright, and I would have lost the Open by playing safe when I had a chance to win it.

Even Joe knew that Tiger’s putt had clinched the argument in my favor. With a shrug, he pulled the head cover off the three-wood. He didn’t hand it to me, though. If I was going to hit the three-wood, he would make me pull it out of the bag myself.

So I did. I gripped the club, picked out a precise line to the middle of the green, and pulled the trigger.

I’m here to tell you that I’ll never hit another ball as hard as I hit that one. I’d like to think I’ll hit a lot of ’em straighter, though. I must’ve come over the top, because the ball started left, dangerously left. There’s a bunker that lines the inside of the seawall for the last hundred yards or so to the green, and I was praying so hard for the ball to catch that bunker and stay dry that I was speaking in tongues.

It did, by the slimmest of margins. Actually, the ball was out over Carmel Bay for a period of time before the wind pushed it just barely back over dry land. When it landed, the ball ricocheted off the inside edge of the seawall and bounced dead right, jamming itself against the opposite lip of the bunker.

At first, I was so relieved to have reached dry land that I gave no thought to the next shot. We must have given Sutton something to think about, though, because he laid up when the green was well within reach for him. Of course, when he hit his third shot with a sand wedge from eighty yards out to within five feet of the hole, I realized that had been his plan all along.

When we finally arrived at the green, I could tell something was wrong. Two guys wearing blue jackets with USGA crests on their breast pockets were standing next to the bunker where my ball should have been. When I walked up to them, the older one said, “We’re having difficulty finding your ball.” His partner, less certain, just nodded in agreement.

I immediately saw the trouble. The heavy greenside rough hung over the lip of the bunker. The ball apparently was lodged up underneath somewhere, perhaps buried in the sand. We would have to search for the ball. I knew that, under the Rules of Golf, I could dig through the sand to do so, even if it meant uncovering my ball. Once I found it, I would have to re-cover the ball, leaving just enough exposed so that I knew what to swing at.

I could feel myself becoming unnerved as we looked for, but couldn’t find, my ball. Because there were no grandstands or fans on that side of the green, the only witnesses to where the ball plugged were a couple of seals out on the rocks, and they weren’t talking. If we couldn’t find the ball, it would be treated as lost under the rules, with a stroke-and-distance penalty. My Open chances would be closed.

Sutton and his caddie as well as the two officials joined in the search. That made six of us covering a fairly small area. Even so, it took several minutes (less than the allotted five, though) before the quiet one of the two officials brushed back some sand to reveal a ball.

We couldn’t tell immediately if it was mine. I would have to hit it and hope it turned out to be the Titleist 7 (I’m superstitious) with three blue dots that I had begun the hole with. If not, there was no penalty for hitting a wrong ball from a bunker, but I would have precious little time left to locate the correct ball. For all practical purposes, if this wasn’t my ball, I was done.

Of course, even if it was my ball, I wasn’t out of the woods just yet. The buried lie was so bad that I wasn’t sure I could even get the ball out of the bunker, much less onto the green for any kind of birdie putt. The danger was that I would only drive the ball deeper into the sand.

I didn’t know what I was going to do if that happened. The prospect of melting down on the last hole of the Open in front of a national television audience was too humiliating to consider. It was the kind of story that became part of golf history, like Jean van de Velde’s triple bogey at the last hole of the 1999 British Open when even a double bogey would have won the championship for him. Of course, van de Velde wasn’t the first golfer to go into the tank at such an inopportune time; even the great Sam Snead collapsed on the final two holes of the 1939 Open to start an Open jinx that lasted his entire career. Snead won eighty-one other tournaments, including several majors, to eventually make that story a mere footnote to his record. I was a long way from having that kind of résumé, so any such humiliation here would probably mark me forever.

If I was going to get the ball onto the green, I had to swing hard while maintaining my balance. That wasn’t going to be easy, because I had to stand with one foot on top of the bunker and one well below its lip. It was a difference of over two feet. If you don’t think that makes it hard, try swinging a golf club when your left foot is waist-high.

I set myself as steady as I could, rehearsed my backswing a couple of times, and then gave it my best cut. For a minute, I didn’t know if the ball came out or not, because there was so much grass, sand, and mud flying everywhere. Some of it hit me in the eyes and mouth, and I was spitting and blinking like crazy when the crowd began to roar.

I squinted through the grit in my eyes and was able to see my ball, with a clump of mud attached, about eight feet from the hole. The next thing I knew, Joe LaCava was pulling me out of the bunker and toweling me off while congratulating me on the shot.

I went over and marked the ball. I was almost afraid to look at it for fear it wasn’t mine. I’ll never forget the relief I felt when I saw the telltale blue dots and that lucky number seven. It was mine, alright.

I tossed it over to LaCava with a wink. He caught it in his towel and began to clean it. He then brought it over to me with my putter.

We were away, so it was our turn to putt. I read it downhill, slight break to the left. My favorite putt. All I had to do was start it online, and it was virtually certain to get to the hole. Over my shoulder, LaCava whispered, “I’ve got it a half-ball out on the right.” I nodded my agreement. He patted me on the shoulder and said, “Nail it.” He then turned and walked away.

At one time or another, every kid who plays golf pretends he’s putting to win the U.S. Open. My childhood buddies and I certainly did. In fact, I can’t count the times we played our own brand of U.S. Open “make-believe,” complete with commentary from our fantasy television tower. We particularly liked to dub in our favorites, Jim Nantz and Ken Venturi, while one of us putted for the Open title.

“Jim,” we’d say in our best impersonation of Venturi’s wonderful run-on-sentence delivery, “he’s got to watch this putt because if he hits it too hard it’ll get away from him, but of course he can’t afford to leave it short, and then again if he doesn’t hit it firm, it’ll break too hard and miss the hole on the low side so he’s gotta be careful but not so careful that he doesn’t get it started on the proper line.” Then Nantz would reply, “That’s certainly true, Kenny.”

In a way, I guess those silly games had prepared me for this moment. I had gotten to the point every serious player lives for, a chance to be the United States Open champion. And I suddenly knew I was gonna knock the damned thing right in the hole.

I went into every player’s cocoon, the preshot routine, which enabled me to avoid thinking about Stewart, my family, or the many disappointments this would atone for. As I always did before each putt, I stared at the hole to imprint a picture in my mind, took two practice strokes to preview the putt, and rolled the ball down the line without hesitation. It would go right in the hole if Joe and I had read it right.

Playing so late in the day on spiked-up and starved-out greens, it shouldn’t have surprised me when the ball started to bounce halfway to the hole. I watched with my heart in my throat as the ball was deflected slightly off-line. Everything happened in a matter of seconds, but I must’ve crammed a decade of the rosary into that time. (That’s ten Hail Marys for you non-Catholics.)

When the ball reached the cup, I still couldn’t tell whether or not it was going in. From where I stood, it looked like it was going to catch the left edge. Depending on speed, it would either spin out or go down.

At the last second, the ball caught the edge of the cup, made half a lap around the back of the hole, and dropped in. The crowd exploded. I had birdied the last hole to finish at nine under par, beating Tiger by a stroke. LaCava gave me a bear hug, and we started to jump up and down.

I suddenly remembered that Sutton had a putt left for his own birdie. It wouldn’t win the Open for him, but it would earn him a tie for fourth with Harrington at five under par. That was worth a lot of cash. We quickly composed ourselves and moved off to the side.

I was relieved when he made the putt. If he had missed, I would have felt responsible somehow. As we shook hands, I apologized. He laughed, “Hey, this is what we play for. Forget it. I enjoyed playing with you, and I’m proud of you.”

With that, we headed for the scorer’s tent.

Golf is unique among games in that every player is ultimately his own scorekeeper. A player’s score for each hole is initially recorded by his marker (usually his playing companion or what the rules describe as a “fellow competitor”), who then signs the scorecard at the end of the round. But the score doesn’t count until the player himself has verified the score entered for each hole, signed the scorecard, and returned it to the proper authorities. According to the Rules of Golf, if you mess up and sign for a higher score, it counts. That’s a small price to pay compared to what happens if you sign for anything lower than your actual score, because that gets you disqualified.

It’s awfully hard to concentrate on your hole-by-hole scores when you think you might have won the U.S. Open, but I knew I could throw it all away if I got careless with my card. So I sat down at the scorer’s table and compared the card that Sutton kept for me with my own. The first time I checked, the numbers matched. I checked again, and the numbers matched again. I was just about to sign and turn in my card, when I heard someone call my name.

I turned around and saw Tom Meeks standing in the doorway of the scorer’s tent. Meeks was the director of competitions for the USGA, and one of his duties was to administer the rules. His face looked ashen.

“Bobby, don’t turn your card in just yet. There’s been a question about what happened at eleven.”

I was dumbfounded. “What are you talking about?”

“Someone called in and said that your putt at eleven sat on the lip too long.”

I remembered that I had made a birdie at eleven when the ball dropped into the cup after stopping on the edge. “What do you mean?”

Meeks shook his head slowly. It was obvious that the last thing he wanted was to be in the middle of a rules controversy that might decide the U.S. Open. “Well, you know, the Rules of Golf provide that you have a reasonable amount of time to get to the ball after it stops on the lip and from there you can only wait ten seconds for it to drop. If the ball falls in the hole after ten seconds, you’re required to add a stroke to your score.”

I must have looked puzzled, because he added, “It’s like you took another stroke to hole out.”

“So you’re saying I made four instead of three there?”

He nodded. “If you waited more than ten seconds for the ball to fall in the hole after you got there, yes.”

I slumped in my chair. “I can’t believe this.”

Meeks held up his hand. “Look, I’m not saying you did, but the question has been raised, and it’s something we have to resolve.”

I tossed my golf glove, which I had been holding, down on the table. “Okay, what do we do now?”

He pointed to the door. “The television people have set up a tape for us to review. We can put a clock on it and see if there’s a problem.”

As I stood to leave, a walkie-talkie crackled in the background. One of the staff observers on the course reported that Duval had made five at eighteen. He was tied with Tiger at eight under par. I was either nine under—and the U.S. Open champion—or eight under and in a playoff with the two of them the next day, depending on whether I broke the ten-second barrier.

As we walked to the NBC trailer, Meeks did his best to be upbeat. “You know, this isn’t the first time this has happened. In ’85, at Oakland Hills, Denis Watson got a stroke added to his score for waiting too long. He finished one shot behind Andy North.”

That really didn’t make me feel any better, and I said so.

Meeks then offered, “Look, Bobby, once this is raised, we can’t just look the other way. If we ignored it, there would always be a question about how you won.”

I had to admit that made sense.

“Besides,” he added, “we owe it to the field. What if you were a stroke behind and it happened to the only player ahead of you? We couldn’t ignore it then, either, because it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

I knew he was right, but I still felt cheated. This should have been the most glorious moment of my life, but it had been put on hold because some amateur rules jockey in front of his television in Keokuk, Iowa, made a phone call.

The folks in the television trailer had the whole thing set up when we got there. They even had a digital time set in the right-bottom corner of the screen. Meeks pulled up a chair, but I continued to stand. He looked over at a technician. “Okay, roll it.”

The tape started and showed me over my birdie putt. It then showed the ball rolling to the cup and stopping on the very edge of the hole. Meeks watched carefully as my shoulders slumped in disbelief and I stood frozen. After a short delay, he said to the technician, “Start the timer.”

I watched the numbers in the corner of the screen start from zero and then begin moving rapidly in tenth-of-a-second increments. Frankly, Meeks had started the time too soon for my taste, but I was too absorbed in watching the rolling numbers to protest. Meanwhile, the camera focused sharply on my ball as it sat on the precipice of the hole. When it finally disappeared over the edge, I looked immediately to the clock in the corner of the screen. It stopped at 9.1 seconds.

I looked at Meeks and held out my hands as if to say “Well?”

He shook his head. “Hold on a second, Bobby. I have to run through it one more time.”

“But why?”

He shook his head as if to apologize. “Like I told you before, this is our national championship. We don’t want there to be any questions. Let’s make sure it’s okay.”

It seemed like it took forever to set the tape back up. I tried to be patient, but the delay was unbearable. Finally, the technician signaled that he was ready Meeks nodded to him. “Go ahead and roll it again.”

We watched again as the ball stopped on the edge and I reacted. Meeks again indicated to the technician to start the time. It seemed to me that he allowed even less of a delay than before. The numbers at the bottom of the screen began racing again. I screamed at them silently to stop running so damned fast, but they wouldn’t listen. When the ball finally fell in the hole, the numbers stopped: 8.9 seconds. Good again.

I didn’t react this time, thinking that Meeks would want to run it again. Instead, he just sat there for a moment, as if he was gathering his thoughts. Finally, he stood up, smiled, and said, “Let’s go sign your scorecard. I believe you’ve just won the United States Open. Congratulations.”

The realization hit me so hard I couldn’t react. Meeks could tell I was in shock, so he grabbed me at the elbow and gently guided me out of the trailer. Other staffers were waiting outside to shield us from the media as we made our way back to the scorer’s tent. Meeks whispered, “Don’t say a word until we’ve got everything turned in.”

When we got to the tent, I sat down, and they placed my card in front of me again. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t make myself focus again on the scores. Meeks could see what was happening. He leaned over and said, “The card’s right, Bobby. Go ahead and sign it.”

I did and turned it in. Everyone in the tent then started shaking my hand and offering their congratulations. At last, I was officially the U.S. Open champion.