Golf unites various generations to rub elbows and improve lies, and what better venue for legends to compete with prodigies than in this country, the sport’s misty birthplace?
Tom Watson posted a 5-under-par 65 Friday for a one-shot lead after 36 holes in the 123rd British Open, and he is as much a part of Turnberry’s lore as that lighthouse by the sea, a towering out-of-bounds stake by the ninth hole.
Watson adores Scotland, the links concept, the people, the cigars, and it shows. He has claimed five British Opens, none more storied than his victory over Jack Nicklaus here in 1977. The two giants took off and hid, not that they were alone. Watson and Nicklaus stopped to sit on their bags midway in the fourth round while marshals organized a zealous gallery.
But Watson is 44, and though he’s striking the ball brilliantly from tee to green, a crotchety putter has kept him winless in full-field events since the 1984 Western Open. His last major conquest was the 1983 British at Royal Birkdale. He is running out of time, if not support.
Watson came here as a 50-1 proposition, but word about his revived spirits quickly affected bookmaking establishments. After a 68 Thursday, Watson was bet down to 14-1. Now, natives who might have wagered with their hearts are heady indeed.
But Watson’s trip down memory lane is fraught with heavy traffic and by players of diverse pedigrees, including kids from the fast lane. Such is the bustling nature of modern golf. Since Wayne Grady took the 1990 PGA Championship, 15 different men have won the 15 majors. Today’s king is tomorrow’s beaten favorite, and Watson is being stalked by an array of flags.
Jesper Parnevik, 29, a thermometer-thin Swede who absolutely kills the ball, is but a stroke behind Watson. Parnevik is a rookie on the American tour with $143,000 banked already. But he misses the comradeship of the European circuit, where limited housing options create friends instead of acquaintances.
Parnevik spent one year at junior college in Florida, near Nicklaus’ residence. He became pals with Jack’s son, Gary, and visited the palace. For two rounds at Turnberry, Parnevik played with the Golden Bear himself. Nicklaus didn’t make the cut, but he took notes.
“Jesper’s a nice fellow,” said Jack. “And can make everything!!”
Parnevik wears his baseball cap with the bill up, like a Tour de France bicyclist. While practicing in Florida, he also sought to embellish his tan. The maneuver refined that putting stroke, too, by clearing his view of the hole. Parnevik’s endorsement firm flinched, then came upon a better idea-advertise both above and below.
Parnevik jumped into a freezing pond after shooting 84 in England-“just to cool off.” But this acorn didn’t fall far from the family tree. Jesper’s dad, Bo, the Bob Hope of Europe, does impressions of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan. Bo is here, though he can’t be heard above the Irish contingent that ferried over to root for David Feherty, another character who left home soil to try America. Results so far, dreadful.
“But can I win the British Open?” said Feherty, four shots behind Watson. “Well, I’ve got nothing better to do this weekend. If I could drive the ball straight, I’d be dangerous. They tell me the fairways here are in tip-top shape.”
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Nick Price, at 5 under, looms as the most formidable challenger, though England’s Jonathan Lomas, son of a chicken farmer, hangs in. The question is, can Watson? Lee Trevino’s recent putting tip-hands slightly forward-has Watson beaming.
“The bookies must be quivering,” he said. “It would be special to win here, because this is where golf began. But see me Sunday night.”
Tom Watson holds the lead, Scotland holds its breath.