Phil after the fall: Shock and 'aw'
Wife Amy, propped up beside the scorer's cottage, held a blue velvet box, like you get at a jewelry store. They award silver medals for runners-up at the U.S. Open, you see, but second place was no place after what had just happened, so she carried it as a burden, not a prize. "We've got three of these already," she said. "We don't need another. Shock. He's in shock. I'm in shock. We're all in shock."
| Phil Mickelson Shot Pack |
|---|
|
Watch Mickelson's entire U.S. Open final round here: Holes 1-6 | Holes 7-12 | Holes 13-18 |
In days to come, Phil Mickelson could very well hear from Jean Van de Velde, Bill Buckner and Michael Dukakis. That's if the left-hander is taking calls. The way he looked Sunday night, standing by locker 531 upstairs at Winged Foot GC as though he wanted to climb into it, Mickelson might retire from public life for a while. David Letterman had him lined up for his show in Manhattan, but not now. Not after this.
What unfolded during the final hour of this crazed national championship will add another layer to the phrase "What will Phil do next?" Only it will be scar tissue. There is no solace in that Geoff Ogilvy won with a par on the 18th, is a terrific talent and should claim multiple majors. Mickelson flat blew his assignment, squandering a two-shot lead with three holes to go with horrific side trips to garbage receptacles, hospitality tents and various other territories he had not charted on previous scouting missions to this historic course. He was served two fried eggs, too, before winding up with an omelet on his face. "I am such an idiot," said Mickelson, beating himself up even before experts could have at him.
Colin Montgomerie, who won't want to read the reviews in his native land, either, doubled No. 18 from the middle of the fairway. On the tee, Mickelson was informed of the Scotsman's situation. Still, Mickelson hit driver. He'll be second-guessed for his weapon of choice, but it wasn't that. The wind was into him. He didn't have a 3-wood, and his 4-wood might not reach the dogleg. No, it was the swing. Rick Smith, his ashen-faced guru, demonstrated in the post-mortems. Phil, fighting a pull all afternoon while finding but two fairways, never released. Hung on too long. He then tried to cut a 3-iron back to where the sun shone, but the ball clipped a tree. By the time Mickelson trudged up the hill to what was to be his coronation, he was a dead golfer walking. In the bleachers, they stood and applauded when he sank his putt for a grotesque 6. "YOUZE THE MAN!!" some guy yelled. Well, Mickelson could have been.
The four-day love-in was over, this Open closed. Mickelson made so many trips to Winged Foot that he almost had to pay a state tax. He assimilated all this information and put it in a pocket-size spiral notebook that costs 99 cents at the corner market. The new Phil was going to outthink, out-prepare, outwork and out-execute everybody else. And especially with Tiger Woods at sea, Phil would win the one he really wanted to win. Then, inside an hour, New York's favorite adopted son became the prodigal son. They still like him, maybe more than ever now because he's going to have to dig himself out of a monumental hole, maybe even more than he likes himself. "Oh, I felt so bad for him," said Kenneth Ferrie after watching his playing partner bleed. "It looked like he had an opening there from the scruff at 18. He's aggressive, not stupid. But this is a sick game, remember."
In the scoring area, Mickelson removed his hat and stared at the ground, then straight ahead. Amy joined him. They hugged. Mickelson, who could have hidden, observed protocol. He returned to the 18th green for the ceremony. Montgomerie and Jim Furyk, their silver on the table, were absent. Phil was there to congratulate Ogilvy and thank everybody he could think of, especially his fans. He also apologized. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can't believe I did that." The bleachers were half full now, but those who were there clapped again. The man who would be champion then grabbed Amy's hand and they walked back toward the clubhouse, where his parents were frozen on a 90-degree day and Jim Mackay, Phil's caddie, sat next to his boss' bag of clubs. The driver head pointed skyward, as if still waiting to be kissed on the sweet spot before the victory lap.
"Amy," Mickelson said, "I'm gonna sign for a while." Kids who didn't care about Phil's free fall wanted his autograph, so he went to the fence one more time. Who knows how he will respond? Greg Norman's Masters collapse in 1996 was painful but gradual. You had time to cover your eyes. This was brutal, sudden. Even when Mickelson didn't control the ball as he wished throughout the week, he did seem in charge of the result because he was carving pars from dark corners of Winged Foot.
After several minutes with his fans, Mickelson was told Mackay had the truck ready to roll toward the exit. Amy grabbed her devastated hubby, but she was without the blue velvet box. "They must have known," she said, smiling wanly. "It was empty." Empty indeed.
Bob Verdi is a senior writer for Golf World magazine.
