OPEN CHAMPIONSHIP FINAL ROUND: HE WAS the plot and the subplot, the whole 7,204 yards of this final round. And then some. But Tom Watson, 47 days short of his 60th birthday, also ended up just one weak putt short of the greatest victory the game has witnessed.

Instead of swimming in the applause of thousands gathered round Turnberry’s final green, as well as garnering the admiration of millions sitting entranced in front of television sets, the “old geezer”, as he had called himself this week, finally capitulated to logic and the tall figure of Stewart Cink, 23 years his junior, in the play-off that broke so many senior and junior hearts everywhere.

For four days over this magnificent, subtle links that so distinguishes the rugged Ayrshire coast, Watson had defied many things. Most of all, however, he held off the putting demons that have nibbled at his game and his confidence for more than two decades.

Left with one final challenge on the 72nd hole, he hit a nerveless drive and then followed with quite probably the purest eight-iron he has struck all week in Scotland. Hell, maybe the best he has hit ever. But instead of his ball nestling a few feet away from the flag, it trundled on, skipped through the green and, worst of all, came to a halt up against a collar of rough.

Neither fish nor fowl. Too dodgy to take a wedge to, Watson elected for that putter and overcooked it several feet past the hole. His putt then to win his sixth Open title, tie Harry Vardon and break about a million other records, was the worst he has hit since his plane touched down and, given the circumstances, maybe the worst he has struck in his life.

The awful memory of it will live sourly with him. In that moment, as the ball weakly sliced wide and short of its target, Watson’s disguise as a younger man slipped for the first time. Suddenly it really was an old-looking bloke who stood there despairingly on the sort of stage he has graced for so many years. Suddenly he had fluffed his lines and he was left speechless and probably broken.

Eventually, he will take great pleasure from his work here, but for now there can only be regret. Whatever he says. He knows that his play over those wind-tossed final nine holes was, until the final action, almost without blemish; but, if anything, this only makes the way it ended so much worse. He had given it his best shot and then ruined everything by giving it his worst.

By the time the play-off took place, Watson had regained some composure. But not much.

As Watson’s game and body slumped in sad, tired unison, so did the atmosphere. Polite applause greeted his shots, subdued appreciation reflected Cink’s instant lead over his rival for the game’s most coveted jug. Cink, to be fair, did not try to milk the moment. He was controlled and slightly remote, a golfer only too aware that he was the spectre at the party, the bad prawn at Watson’s last big barbecue, the man no one outside his family and a few punters wanted to win.

To be fair, he dealt with an awkward situation graciously and professionally. He also played his very best golf. By the time Watson arrived at the 18th again, a bagful of mis-hit shots behind his opponent, it was long over as any kind of drama.

He joined in the applause when Tom gratefully holed his last putt before dropping his own birdie putt to seal victory.

Then he gripped the older man long and hard and spoke what seemed to be good words. Tom Watson mouthed his thanks, his face stuck in a rictus grin on top of heavily slumped shoulders.

Worse things have happened to this man who has won this title five times and worse things probably will occur, but on this grey, cool evening it was bad enough to be going on with.

Back in the sprawling media centre everyone began to go about their work. Among them was Dan Jenkins, at 79 a legend himself as a writer for Sports Illustrated and the author of some of the finest sports books written.

“You know,” said Dan as he looked around the room, “maybe we’re just not good enough people to have a story this good happen to us.”

Maybe he is right, too. Pity. Really, really a pity.

Guardian Service