Rooting against Watson, and here's why
I rooted for Stewart Cink.
I realize that makes me a bad person. I should probably change my name and move, because when this gets out my neighbors will egg the house and say mean things to my children. I understand that this makes me a detriment to decent society.
But the truth is the truth, and here it is: I sat on my couch Sunday and pulled against Tom Watson in the British Open. Rooted for the feel-bad story. Cheered in the opposite direction from everyone else during his flatly unbelievable bid to become the oldest major championship winner ever.
I was that guy. The Hater.
I'll just have to live with that, right up until I bite the dust and St. Peter banishes me from the pearly gates to the pits of unsympathetic-sports-fan hell. Down there, the only people to root for will be O.J. and Barry Bonds and Bill Laimbeer, and that will be my eternal penalty for being the only hater in America outside Cink's family, agent and accountant.
While America groaned at Watson's weak putt on the 72nd hole at Turnberry, I did not. I did feel some pity for the old fella at that point; he'd come impossibly far, and watching a man's nerve desert him at the very moment when a miracle could have happened was the ultimate in golfing cruelty. Even a hater like me felt a momentary ache for the near-60-year-old at that point.
But it only lasted a few seconds. Then that emotion was overridden.
Because at that moment it was obvious. My guy was going to win. No way on earth Watson could regroup in a playoff. He was done, and the next four holes proved it.
He's done forever, you have to think. Nobody his age gets two chances like that. Hell, nobody his age had ever gotten one chance like that before.
So congrats to Watson for giving himself that chance. But bigger congrats to Stewart Cink, who, it should be noted, played terrifically at crunch time. He birdied the 72nd hole and two of the four playoff holes, achievements lost in the worldwide handwringing for Watson.
It's time to celebrate Stew. He has an inelegant name and a bald head and a largely forgettable face, and he does his work in the shadow of the game's greater talents, and he derailed a fairy tale in Scotland. But this was his day, and I was happy for that.
Here's why:
First, I've always really liked Cink. I've interviewed him a few times and he's just an unfailingly nice guy. Far more regular than most multimillionaire star golfers, far more tolerant of the intrusions of normal people in his abnormal lifestyle, far more cognizant of his charmed existence.
And he gets my vote as the most interesting Twitter athlete out there.
Who doesn't like to see a nice guy and high-quality tweeter succeed, especially when it's a career-validating victory?
Tom Watson didn't need this British Open the way Stewart Cink needed it. Cink had never won a major before, and had come agonizingly close a couple of times (a short putt missed at the 2001 U.S. Open at Southern Hills comes readily to mind). This was huge for him.
Watson has so many Claret Jugs -- five -- that he uses one as a sugar bowl and one for mixing lemonade.
But here's the other thing: I grew up a Jack Nicklaus guy. A hard-core Jack Nicklaus guy. He was my dad's favorite golfer, and that was transmitted to me at an early age -- like, 5.
If you were a Nicklaus guy, it's hard to get behind Tom Watson, even in his golfing dotage, even when he's nearly pulling off one of the greatest feats in sports history. Watson was the guy who started to crowd Nicklaus off his throne, and that was difficult to take at the time. Some people started to whisper that Watson would one day overtake Jack and win more majors, but then his putting stroke disappeared sometime in the 1980s and that crisis was averted.
Given what we heard from Nicklaus over the weekend while watching his former rival's pursuit of history, the Golden Bear has long gotten over any contentiousness with Watson, if there ever was any to begin with. But the less graceful among us -- OK, at least one graceless jerk -- found it hard to forget years of allegiance and antipathy.
It's like asking a Celtics fan to root for the Lakers, a Red Sox fan to root for the Yankees, a Redskins fan to root for the Cowboys or an Avalanche fan to root for the Red Wings. Some things you're just not trained to do.
I will say this: I enjoyed watching Watson stand still. No, really. His ability to stand and wait with his hands behind his back and a placid look on his face -- often while Ross Fisher was making a mess of his Sunday round in the twosome ahead -- was cool. Old-school cool.
It was the kind of mature display of poise you don't see very often these days. It hinted at how Watson had become a great champion, and how he'd resurrected his game one last time in such an unlikely way.
He looked like a man in control of a huge moment, and he was. Right up until the 72nd hole.
Then it got away from him, and I was glad.
Hateful thing to say, isn't it?
Pat Forde is a senior writer for ESPN.com. He can be reached at ESPN4D@aol.com.
