ESPN Golf

AUGUSTA, Ga. -- Hilary Watson dropped off her husband at the Augusta National clubhouse at 6:30 a.m. Thursday and was supposed to return to their rented home. When she appeared at the door of the Champions Locker Room a few minutes later, Tom Watson said, "I knew exactly what that meant."

Bruce Edwards, Watson's caddy for nearly three decades, died at 6:26 a.m. Thursday in Ponte Vedra, Fla. He was 49, just 15 months removed from being diagnosed with ALS, and less than five months from his final tournament on Watson's bag. Some forms of ALS are more virulent than others. All have the same tragic ending.

"He's not with us in body anymore, but I can tell you he's with us in spirit," Watson said. "The spirit of Bruce Edwards -- if you ever ran across him, you knew what a genuine person he was and what a wonderful way he had with his words."

Watson's eyes, rimmed in red and brimming with tears, revealed his emotions, but his voice never cracked Thursday. He wanted to talk about Edwards, his younger brother in every way but blood, his partner in a bond that outlasted both men's first marriages. Every opportunity to talk about Edwards will keep him present, and will keep ALS present in the minds of the public.

Watson remembered the phone call that Edwards' wife Marsha made to him in 2003, confirming the suspicions they all harbored. Marsha handed the phone to Bruce.

"When he got on the phone," Watson recalled, "he said, 'Well, I just made a quad.' That's how he just kind of brushed it off. 'I just made a quad.' "

"Yeah, but we're going to get back to even par," Watson replied.

The golf metaphors provided safe passage through the raw emotions that come with the unfair certainty of early death. Only once in a long press conference did Watson reveal any anger.

"Damn this disease!" Watson cried. "Damn it!" He paused and collected himself. "They are going to find a cure. We don't have one right now."

Watson said that Edwards refused sympathy from others, and refused to pity himself. They last saw each other in March, their meeting having a lot to do with why Watson played Bay Hill for the first time in five years.

"We talked about death, talked about the fear of death," Watson said. "He said he was not afraid to die. And I said, you know, I'm not afraid, either."

As public a figure as Watson has been for the last 30-odd years, he is actually a private person. His public embrace of Edwards' plight, which has manifested itself in Watson's unabashed pleas for money to research the disease and his willingness to talk about it anywhere, anytime, has revealed the depth of the man.

"Maybe he opened up my soul a little bit," Watson said.

It is surely no coincidence that last year, when he turned 54 in September, was Watson's best. The race to help Edwards galvanized Watson. He won two Champions Tour majors, led the money list and was named Player of the Year. He finished 18th in the British Open. Watson donated the entire $1 million he won in the Schwab Cup to ALS research.

But his most shining moment on the course last year came at Olympia Fields, where Watson shot a five-under 65 and grabbed a share of the first-round lead in the U.S. Open. Once Watson seized the spotlight, he brought Edwards' battle with ALS to international attention. Watson and Edwards shone again on Thursday.

"Hilary and I, we look at each other, and we say, 'Well, just typical,' " Watson said. "He wanted to die on the first day of The Masters, his favorite tournament."

As long as their relationship lasted, Edwards was on Watson's bag for only one of his eight major championships, the 1982 U.S. Open. At No. 17 Sunday at Pebble Beach, Watson, tied for the lead with Jack Nicklaus, hit his tee ball at the long par 3 in tall grass on the collar of the green. What happened next long ago entered the lore of the game.

Edwards urged him, "Get it close."

"Hell, I'm going to hole it!" Watson replied, and he did. Watson and Edwards immediately embraced each other, "the most wonderful memory that we both shared together," Watson said Thursday.

In his five British Open victories, Watson employed a caddie from that side of the pond, Alfie Fyles. His two victories in The Masters, in 1977 and 1981, came before Augusta National allowed the players to bring their own caddies. Edwards couldn't work, but he came anyway.

"He followed me around in 1977," Watson said. "When I started to make the run at No. 5 in the final round, I hit a 4-iron, and when it was in the air, I heard this, 'Yeaaah!' It was Bruce, because he knew it was a good shot. I ended up making birdie, and I birdied six, seven and eight. He came over that night and we celebrated. He always wanted to caddie, obviously, at Augusta. When it came time, we never got all that close to winning. But he sure loved it here."

Last year, Watson missed the cut, and when he left, he found Edwards crying in the parking lot, scared that he had caddied in his last Masters. He had, or maybe he hadn't. Hilary is convinced that Edwards knew exactly what he was doing early Thursday morning.

"He didn't want to sit in bed and watch The Masters," Hilary said. "He wanted to sit there." She pointed at her husband's right shoulder.

Edwards was in Watson's right hip pocket, too. Edwards saved all of his yardage books in an old satchel, which he gave Watson.

"He e-mailed me last week," Watson said, "and he said, 'Make sure you get that Masters one because it has the layups on the par 5s, and they (the new books) won't have those layups on the par-5s that you want.'"

There would be no 65 in this first round. Watson shot a 76. He played the par 5s in two-over. Watson walked the course, inside the ropes, alone with his thoughts and emotions. Few people in the gallery knew that Edwards had died. Many of the players didn't know it, either. Crenshaw, playing in the threesome immediately ahead of Watson, was stunned by the news after he completed his round.

"He was a real professional and one of the most positive human beings I have ever been around," Crenshaw said. "I know how much he meant to Tom Watson. It's not fair. They took a really good one there today."

On Wednesday night, at the Golf Writers Association of America annual dinner, Watson accepted the Ben Hogan Award on behalf of Edwards. Bruce's father, Dr. Jay Edwards, spoke eloquently of his son's life. Watson, at the beginning of his speech, looked at Edwards' family and friends and said, "No long faces." Watson heeded his own counsel on Thursday, when he lost one of his oldest and dearest friends.

"I write this to everybody who loses a loved one, and I believe it's true," Watson said. "'May the memories of the one who has passed on fill the void that they left.' There's another great poem, called St. Augustine's Poem, that I always send to people, that says, don't cry for me, but remember the most important things of my life and what I represented in my life, and make that your memory of me, not my death.

"I think that's important. Keeps us going on. Yes, we have grief, and I'm sure I'll cry. I'll cry a lot before it's over, but that's the way I look at it."

Ivan Maisel is a senior writer for ESPN.com. You can reach him at ivan.maisel@espn3.com.