Watson's Journey, and Ours

The rise and fall of Tom Watson at the British Open was like some sort of a Greek tragedy. Here he was, the former golden boy, coming out of a comfortable retirement to play the game of golf in such a way as to make the world forget, if only for a weekend, all about a phenom named Tiger. Watson reminded us that golf brings out the best in us, awakens in us a longing for the Elysian Fields.

Watson's remarkable romp through the Turnberry links was a journey back through time, to an era not so long ago when more than one player could be called great. But it was also an attempt to defy nature and turn back the hands of time, to recapture youth and courage and nerve.

And for 71 holes, it worked. By hook, by crook, by smooth swings, and by strategy, the wily Watson held on, nearing a prize that no one of his advanced sporting years had ever won. Then on the final hole and in the playoff debacle that followed, Watson lost his grip, and the clock snapped back to reality. Whether through loss of strength or failure of nerve, Watson fell apart.

The putts that had been impossibly true now spun away limply, the approach shots that hit the slick greens like darts in a pub now found primordial rough next to the wild Scottish sea. You could almost hear the clock tolling midnight, almost see his golf bag turning into a pumpkin.

Watching Watson finish as he did is a reminder of how hard and uncompromising sport can be. In sport, the race is usually to the swift, the trophy to the strong. You cannot cheat the stopwatch. You cannot forever hold at bay the entropy of physics. It is also a reminder of how hard life is, how much we were made for something else. Despite our courage and heroism, sometimes our best efforts in the course of life come up short.

Yet the drama that unfolded in Scotland was also a reminder of why we love sport. But don't tell Tom Watson he was an inspration, that he gave it a good try. At least not yet. Tom Watson wanted to win.