It was 25 years ago this month that my New York City roommate and
I packed our bags for the guy trip of our lives, a boondoggle to the Masters. We
were a couple of certified golf nuts, each the same age, each the same handicap,
and despite living in Manhattan, each in a job that tethered us to
the game. I was an editor at GOLF Magazine, having recently left a position at a
local golf association. The day I quit that job, I’d recommended my roommate, a
disenchanted Bankers Trust trainee who could recite the entire roster of U.S.
Open champions going back to 1895. They hired him in a heartbeat.
It was my third Masters, my friend’s first, and to borrow
some skateboarder jargon, we were stoked. Originally, I’d expected to be going
alone. Then, just a couple of days before the trip, GOLF Magazine columnist
Oscar Fraley was forced to cancel and a press badge opened up. When no one else
on the magazine staff could get free on such short notice, my friend got the
nod. (Back then the credential-screening process at Augusta was a bit breezier
than today’s gauntlet of photo IDs, holograms, laser scanners, secret handshakes
and German shepherds.)
“I still have that badge,” he told me the other day. “It’s
the only one I’ve ever saved.”
On our drive to Augusta, the conversation turned inevitably to
who would win that 42nd Masters.
“You gotta go with Watson,” I said, partly because he was on
the GOLF playing staff and partly because he was the reigning money leader,
Player of the Year, Vardon Trophy winner, Masters champion and British Open
champion.
“Nah, I think Watson still has some dog in him,” said my
friend. “He hasn’t forgotten that 79 at Winged Foot [in round four of the ’74
U.S. Open] and neither have I.”
“Okay,” I said, “then it’s gotta be Nicklaus.” Jack was
heading to Augusta as strong as ever, having won the
Tournament Players Championship as well as the Jackie Gleason Inverrary, where
he’d blazed home with birdies on the last five holes.
“Nope, I don’t think this is his year. Besides, I have this
gut feeling.” “Okay ...”
“The little South African.” “Gary Player? He hasn’t won anything in
years! He’s what, 44 years old?”
“Forty-two, but he’s as fit as a 22-year-old—and in a lot better shape
than Fat Jack.” “Yeah, he talks a
big game, too, but he still can’t hit it more than 250 yards, and at Augusta you
need length.” “Fine,” said my
friend, “you can have Watson and Nicklaus, I’ll take Gary, even up. Five bucks
for high finish, 10 if it’s a victory.”
“Done.” For most
of the next six days we forgot about that bet. On Sunday morning, however, I
couldn’t resist a dig. “Let’s see
here,” I said, flipping through the Masters section of the Augusta Chronicle,
“according to my math Tom Watson, thanks to that nifty 32 on the back nine
yesterday, is 7-under-par and tied for second with the redoubtable Rod Funseth,
three back of Hubert Green, while your little South African is, ooh, here he is,
tied for 10th, seven strokes behind. My, my,” “Yeah, and your Big Jack is eight back
so you can forget about him. Besides, it’s Sunday morning, not Sunday afternoon.
I told you what I think of Watson. Hubert, despite his last name, has no
business leading this tournament, and I can guarantee you one thing: Gary still thinks he can
win it.”
