SZVETITZ COLUMN: Watson's run brings back memories

I spent a lot of time thinking about my dad as I watched Saturday’s third round of the British Open.

While 59-year-old Tom Watson looks nothing like my father — Tom has way too much hair and a few less inches around the middle — every time I saw the eight-time major winner, my dad was never far behind.

My father bought me my first set of clubs when I was 13. But I’d been playing with him for years before that, just never using my own set. Or the right set, for that matter.

By the time my dad finally got around to giving me clubs that I could actually hit (see: left-handed), I was pretty good at hitting righty.

I also was pretty good at breaking a couple windows by using the backside of pop’s 3-iron. Like the kitchen window at 804 Pine Level Lane. Sorry, Mom.

My father coached me in everything growing up. Football. Baseball. Basketball. Life — that’s what he was best at. He taught me to be respectful of the sport and of others. He taught me about character and dedication. There’s no substitute for hard work.

He also taught me how to shoot a rifle, bait a hook, throw a curveball, snap a football and drive a stick shift.

Sure, by him always being there, we had our run-ins and fights. That’s just part of looking and acting exactly like him.

Dad and I couldn’t be more of the same. And even though I had three brothers of my own, my dad and I fought like he was the fourth.

And we were just as competitive. I can’t think of anyone I wanted to beat more.

By the time I got my own set of Powerbilt irons and woods (I’m talking real wood), my father and I were at the height of our … well, let’s just say, we couldn’t be left alone with each other for more than a few minutes.

That was unless we were on the golf course. There, we could walk 18 holes in semi-perfect harmony, and actually enjoy it.

Maybe it’s because you’re not supposed to talk during someone’s backswing, or that you’re supposed to give your playing partner plenty of room to putt, but my dad and I could always make it through four hours on the links without any black eyes or broken bones. (Except for when my youngest brother hit my middle brother in the head with a Top-Flite. But that’s another column.)

Some of the best conversations my dad and I ever had came on the golf course. There, or at the 19th hole.

Just like his low draw or my power slice … er, fade, we always connected in the short grass. Still do.

My dad is my favorite playing partner. Always has been. (Mostly because he pays. Partly because he’s my best friend.)

And as I watched Tom Watson walk up to the 18th green at Turnberry on Saturday to become the oldest person to lead after the third round of a major two months shy of his 60th birthday, I had to call my dad.

Reaching for the phone, however, he beat me to it.

And even though my dad is a couple hundred miles away in Florida, I felt like he was right there with me Saturday, watching and rooting for Huck Finn from Kansas City, as legendary announcer Jim McKay used to call Tom Watson.

Maybe it’s because Watson has always been one of my dad’s favorite players. Or that he and my dad are about the same age. Or that I can’t see a blade of bent grass or a pitching wedge without wanting to talk to him.

But it’s probably because just like Tom Watson in the final round of the British Open today, I believe in my dad. And although pops is getting older (and balder), he’s still amazing.

He’s still my hero.

So, go get ’em, Tom. My dad and I will be watching.

MIKE SZVETITZ is sports editor of the Opelika-Auburn News. He may be reached at mszvetitz@oanow.com or 737-2513.