xxxv

I DON’T REMEMBER much after that. There was a trophy presentation (where I kissed the trophy) and a press conference (where I kissed the media’s you-know-what). By now, the controversy over the birdie at eleven was common knowledge, but Tom Meeks issued a statement explaining what happened, and that seemed to calm things down.

After one or two reporters asked how it felt to have such an unusual ending to my round, they went back to the usual stuff: What club did I hit on such-and-such hole? (It was a five-iron.) Did Tiger’s eagle at the eighteenth affect my decision to go for the green in two? (Instead of telling them about my argument with LaCava, I just said, “Yes, seeing Tiger make eagle gave me confidence that I could reach the green.”) Did I expect to win the Open when I arrived here at the beginning of the week? (Another great question. I wanted to say Yeah, I wrote out my acceptance speech on Monday before my first practice round.

It seems odd now that no one asked about why I changed caddies before the final round. It wasn’t like Joe LaCava wasn’t a recognizable figure on the Tour. Hell, everyone knew he was Fred Couples’s caddie. But no one brought it up.

As a result, I really hadn’t thought about Stewart until I said good-bye to LaCava. After I told him how grateful I was for his help, he laughed. “You’re grateful? Man, how do you think I feel? I was on the bag for an Open champion…,” he raised his eyebrows in glee, “and I’ve had a huge payday besides.”

I smiled. “Yeah, well,… look, I know you and Fred are tight, but if you guys ever split the sheets…”

He clapped my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Bobby. You’ll be the first to know.”

As I walked back to the locker room, I saw Tom Meeks walking toward me. His face was drawn tight. I could tell from his expression that something was terribly wrong. My stomach knotted up at the thought that he might take the trophy away on some technicality.

“Bobby, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

I let out a deep sigh. “What now? I thought we worked everything out.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not anything about the championship. It’s worse.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Your old caddie—I’m sorry, they didn’t tell me his name—was in an accident this afternoon. It was bad. I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”

“Stewart?” I groped for words. “But, but how…?”

Meeks was clearly very sad. “He was hit by a bus just past the main gate. Just walked out in front of it. It was like he never saw it.”

So that’s what Stewart had meant. He wasn’t just leaving me, he was leaving us all.

We stood there together quietly for a long time. I realized that Meeks was waiting to see if I needed something.

“Thanks, Tom. I appreciate what you’ve done.” I couldn’t think of anything more to say. “I guess there’s nothing else to do but go home.”

Meeks looked down. “This wasn’t what I had in mind for your first day as our new Open champion.”

I touched him on the shoulder. “Yeah, well, it really puts things in perspective, you know?”

He nodded. “Yes, it does.” He then turned with a wave of his hand and walked away.

The locker room was deserted. It always amazed me how quickly the players cleared out on Sunday. Once a pro finished play, he was off to the airport unless he won or had to stick around for a playoff. As a result, there wasn’t a hint of the activity that had animated the room only an hour or two before. In fact, only one row of lights remained on in the entire place.

I found my way to my locker. My golf bag was in front of it, presumably put there by LaCava. I sat down next to it and began to change my shoes. When I opened the locker to get my street shoes, I found a note. I immediately recognized the handwriting as Stewart’s.

Bobby:

By the time you read this, you will be the United States Open champion, and your name will forever appear alongside the greatest players in the history of the game. I know that you will always uphold the dignity and honor that goes with being in that group.

As you also know by now, I have left this place. Don’t be sad. My work was done. I’ll be back when someone else needs my help.

This completes your recovery. You can now reclaim everything you lost before.

Stewart

I sat there, alone, for a while longer, trying to make some sense out of it. Stewart had entered my life under strange circumstances, and he left it the same way. He rescued me from a jail cell and took me to the top of the world. I’ve been asked many times since to describe Stewart, and the one thing that comes to mind is that he was someone who literally crackled with positive energy. It’s the closest thing to magic I’ve ever seen, and I guess I couldn’t help but absorb some of it along the way. How else could you explain what had just happened to me?

When I finally grew tired of trying to figure it out, I put Stewart’s note in my pocket, gathered my things, and headed back to the bungalow. I was the new U.S. Open champion, but I would be spending the first night of my reign alone.

Well, that wasn’t totally true. The phone was ringing when I got back to the bungalow, and it never seemed to stop. I don’t know how the media got the number there, but everybody from ESPN to CNN wanted an interview. Agents were calling, too, offering to put me in endorsement deals that would set me up “for life.”

I agreed to do a feature with Jimmy Roberts of NBC the following week, but told everyone else that I was too exhausted to think straight, much less do interviews or endorse soap powder. I gave them all my telephone number in Baton Rouge and said they could call me there in a couple of days. I then turned off the phone.

I eventually fell asleep after watching myself win the Open for the fifth or sixth time on the last sports program of the night. (I believe it was the 1 A.M. edition of Sportscenter.) I didn’t wake up until after nine in the morning. I half-expected to smell breakfast cooking in the kitchen but then remembered with a sudden ache that Stewart wasn’t around anymore. There was nothing to do but get up and shower.

While shaving, it dawned on me that I didn’t have the slightest idea about my travel arrangements. That was another thing that Stewart always took care of. I rooted around and eventually found my airline ticket. My flight to Baton Rouge (by way of Houston) was leaving San Jose later that morning.

That gave me precious little time to dress, pack, eat at a drive-thru, and get to the airport. I barely made it.

I had extra baggage this time, the U.S. Open trophy, but I didn’t mind. In fact, I quickly discovered one benefit of traveling with it when a suitably impressed ticket agent upgraded me to first class.

As everyone on the flight made a big fuss over me, the significance of what I had done began to sink in. I signed autographs, adding the words “U.S. Open Champion” beneath my name. A flight attendant brought me champagne, which I politely refused and exchanged for ginger ale. As I drank, I started reading the names on the trophy. There was Bobby Jones, whose name appeared four times. Same for Ben Hogan and Jack Nicklaus. Then I saw Arnold Palmer’s name. Tom Watson’s, too. Lee Trevino, Lee Janzen, Ernie Els, and Payne Stewart were each there twice. And, of course, there was Tiger Woods.

And now I was there, too.