Augusta memories driven by street-fighter Stewart
I SPENT LAST WEEK sleeping with the ghost of Payne Stewart above my head. Just behind the headboard, to be precise.
It’s a framed picture of him in trademark plus fours and tam o’ shanter hat, punching the air so hard in celebration of his most famous putt that he’s almost toppling over.
Mike and Lisa, owners of our rented house in Evans, were clearly devotees. The image is taken from the ’99 US Open at Pinehurst and is accompanied by a gold-plated coin, commemorating his victory.
It depicts Stewart immediately after sinking an 18-footer to squeeze out Phil Mickelson in a final round that all but became a pistol fight between the two.
CRASHING
Four months after that tournament, of course, he was dead at 42. Passenger on a Learjet that lost cabin pressure, killing all on board through hypoxia, before running out of fuel and crashing in an empty South Dakota field.
With his Old Tom Morris dresssense and easy inclination to pick a fight, Stewart touched a nerve with Americans. He was a street-fighter in a stuffy domain. Lippy and rude and, on occasion, jarringly unsporting. In short, he wore his chutzpah like a badge.
But Stewart was a human paradox too, a man who could mix ignorance and grace without any sense of contradiction. One month before his death, he was on the US Ryder Cup team that came from behind to win at The Country Club, Brookline, famously declaring in advance that Europe’s players should really be caddying for the Americans.
Yet, knowing the Cup was won, he’d concede a singles match to Colin Montgomerie on 18 that he didn’t have to. Montgomerie had been mercilessly baited by the galleries and Stewart just wanted it over.
And that’s who Mike and Lisa honour in their guest room. A man who could be a python or a teddy bear.