was
my
decision to hit the five.
“As a player, you have to understand that neither you nor the caddy is always going to be right. If I go against what Bruce is saying and make the wrong decision, it was my decision. If I go along with what he’s saying and it’s wrong, it was still my decision. If we agree and we’re right, I’m still the one who has to hit the shot. Same thing if we disagree. Caddies don’t get credit for winning golf tournaments, so they shouldn’t get blame for losing them.”
Bruce realized early on that Watson felt that way, which allowed him to be bold with opinions and with his thoughts on how a round was going or on Watson’s attitude. “Tom always let me make mistakes,” he says. “That made me a better caddy. A lot of guys out here become ‘yes-caddies’ because they know if they disagree and it doesn’t work out, they’re going to get blamed. I never got blamed, and that allowed me to tell him what I thought with confidence, which made me a better caddy and helped make him a better player.”
The classic Bruce-Tom story along those lines took place years later, during the AT&T Pebble Beach National Pro-Am, which is played on three courses along the Monterey Peninsula, most notably Pebble Beach. Because the tournament is played on three different golf courses the first three days—everyone plays Pebble the last day—the cut comes at 54 holes. On the third day, Watson wasn’t playing very well and was lingering around the cut line coming down the stretch. He was playing at Spyglass Hill, and having teed off on the back nine that day, came to the seventh hole—a par-five with a risky second shot over water if a player wants to go for the green—feeling generally lousy about his game and his shotmaking. He finally hit a decent drive, getting into the fairway in position where he could try to carry the water, get the ball on the green, and give himself a chance to make a birdie that might ensure that he made the cut.
When player and caddy arrived at the ball, Watson turned to Bruce and asked him what the yardage was from there to the water. The reason for the question was obvious: He wanted to hit a safe layup shot, then play a wedge with his third shot and hope he could get the ball close enough with his wedge to make birdie.
Bruce heard the question but acted as if he hadn’t. “You’ve got two thirty-five to the front of the green, plus twelve to the flag,” he said. “The total’s two forty-seven.”
“I didn’t ask you that,” Watson said. “I asked you the distance from here to the water.”
Now Bruce turned to his boss and faced him. “I heard you,” he said. “You don’t need to lay up. You can take a three-wood and hit this ball on the green from here.”
Watson didn’t think so. He didn’t think he was hitting the ball well enough to try that shot on a windy day. Plus he was unhappy with his game and didn’t want to gamble—very out of character. He just wanted to hit a safe layup and if he could make birdie, fine. If not, well, that was probably fine too.
So he again asked Bruce what the distance was to the water, his tone making it clear that was the shot he intended to play. Bruce told him the yardage—neither man can remember exactly what it was—but then got angry.
“He called me a chicken-blank mother-blank,” Watson says, laughing in the retelling.
“I did,” Bruce says. “Then I took out a three-wood and a six-iron, threw them on the ground, and said, ‘You do what you want to do, but it’s two forty-seven to the flag, and you’ve got that shot unless you want to
prove
that you’re a chicken-blank mother-blank.’”
With that he stalked up the fairway as if he didn’t even want to be seen with Watson at that moment. Sandy Tatum, the ex-U.S. Golf Association president, who is always Watson’s amateur partner in the AT&T event, was standing off to the side up the fairway from Watson when Bruce walked up to him. “You’ve
my
decision to hit the five.
“As a player, you have to understand that neither you nor the caddy is always going to be right. If I go against what Bruce is saying and make the wrong decision, it was my decision. If I go along with what he’s saying and it’s wrong, it was still my decision. If we agree and we’re right, I’m still the one who has to hit the shot. Same thing if we disagree. Caddies don’t get credit for winning golf tournaments, so they shouldn’t get blame for losing them.”
Bruce realized early on that Watson felt that way, which allowed him to be bold with opinions and with his thoughts on how a round was going or on Watson’s attitude. “Tom always let me make mistakes,” he says. “That made me a better caddy. A lot of guys out here become ‘yes-caddies’ because they know if they disagree and it doesn’t work out, they’re going to get blamed. I never got blamed, and that allowed me to tell him what I thought with confidence, which made me a better caddy and helped make him a better player.”
The classic Bruce-Tom story along those lines took place years later, during the AT&T Pebble Beach National Pro-Am, which is played on three courses along the Monterey Peninsula, most notably Pebble Beach. Because the tournament is played on three different golf courses the first three days—everyone plays Pebble the last day—the cut comes at 54 holes. On the third day, Watson wasn’t playing very well and was lingering around the cut line coming down the stretch. He was playing at Spyglass Hill, and having teed off on the back nine that day, came to the seventh hole—a par-five with a risky second shot over water if a player wants to go for the green—feeling generally lousy about his game and his shotmaking. He finally hit a decent drive, getting into the fairway in position where he could try to carry the water, get the ball on the green, and give himself a chance to make a birdie that might ensure that he made the cut.
When player and caddy arrived at the ball, Watson turned to Bruce and asked him what the yardage was from there to the water. The reason for the question was obvious: He wanted to hit a safe layup shot, then play a wedge with his third shot and hope he could get the ball close enough with his wedge to make birdie.
Bruce heard the question but acted as if he hadn’t. “You’ve got two thirty-five to the front of the green, plus twelve to the flag,” he said. “The total’s two forty-seven.”
“I didn’t ask you that,” Watson said. “I asked you the distance from here to the water.”
Now Bruce turned to his boss and faced him. “I heard you,” he said. “You don’t need to lay up. You can take a three-wood and hit this ball on the green from here.”
Watson didn’t think so. He didn’t think he was hitting the ball well enough to try that shot on a windy day. Plus he was unhappy with his game and didn’t want to gamble—very out of character. He just wanted to hit a safe layup and if he could make birdie, fine. If not, well, that was probably fine too.
So he again asked Bruce what the distance was to the water, his tone making it clear that was the shot he intended to play. Bruce told him the yardage—neither man can remember exactly what it was—but then got angry.
“He called me a chicken-blank mother-blank,” Watson says, laughing in the retelling.
“I did,” Bruce says. “Then I took out a three-wood and a six-iron, threw them on the ground, and said, ‘You do what you want to do, but it’s two forty-seven to the flag, and you’ve got that shot unless you want to
prove
that you’re a chicken-blank mother-blank.’”
With that he stalked up the fairway as if he didn’t even want to be seen with Watson at that moment. Sandy Tatum, the ex-U.S. Golf Association president, who is always Watson’s amateur partner in the AT&T event, was standing off to the side up the fairway from Watson when Bruce walked up to him. “You’ve
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