As a youth, spring meant Cub Scout baseball, playing second base and having the difficult decision of choosing Shasta Black Cherry or Root Beer from the cooler afterward.
I loved baseball and basketball as a kid, played until it was so dark that even Mom's superb homemade fried chicken simply had to wait. Golf? Well, in those days, it mostly meant Putt-Putt with my friends. Growing up in the Kansas City area, though, I knew all about Tom Watson. He was "The Fourth Franchise" in those days, right up there with the Kansas City Chiefs, Kansas City Royals and Kansas City Kings, our NBA team that eventually relocated to Sacramento. Back in those days, every youth wanted to be like George Brett or Watson. I sure did.
Watson likely won't recall this, but I certainly do. We first met when I was a sacker at Pay-Less grocery store in 1979, and to my delight, and added pressure, I got to wheel out his groceries after sacking them (yes, I made sure to put the bread on top). Although he had put Carnoustie and The Duel in the Sun in his rear view, events that made him larger than life, he was as nice as can be as we chatted en route to his car. Dumb me; I should have asked for tips, based on my next golf outing with a college friend at Manhattan (Kan.) Country Club, when I walked away after nine holes, frustrated, throwing clubs before Tiger was old enough to chuck them around.
Although my game still needs an overhaul, I never wavered from wanting to know everything about the game. When I was presented the opportunity to cover golf for The Kansas City Star in 1995, my eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. Finally, I got to meet Watson again. That was among the many memorable experiences I encountered. I saw some incredible events, met some great people along the way. I was there to see Woods demolish the field in his first major triumph, the 1997 Masters, and his cruise-control blowout in the 2000 U.S. Open at Pebble Beach. I was impressed how Greg Norman took it like a man in the press room after he imploded in the 1996 Masters. I watched a young lady, Christina Kim, shoot a USGA-best 62 in the U.S. Junior Amateur at Indian Hills Country Club in the KC area. Heck, not even Jack Nicklaus ever shot 62 in a USGA event.
I still have a framed photo on my wall of caddie Bruce Edwards, who was taken from us way too soon. To this day I can picture Edwards saying, "Hey, bud," as I approached him, a smile on his face. The thought brings tears to my eyes.
As I embark on my new job as associate editor at GCM, I feel like I am home. Golf hit home for me a long, long time ago; now if I only can hit it straight the next time I stand on the tee box ...
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