Mark’s Kaddy Korner

Everyone remembers where they were when JFK was shot; when the Space Shuttle exploded; and, 9/11. October 25, 1999, the day Payne Stewart’s plane made that eerie flight across the Midwest, every golfer and fan turned to the TV, hoping the news wasn’t correct. We had just finished the Kaanapali Classic in Hawaii, and were relaxing on a boat off the Maui coast. A day of sun, fun, snorkeling, and fishing was disrupted by the news from PGA Tour headquarters.

We were on the boat with Joe Terry, PGA Tour official, and Joan Alexander, the PGA Tour’s media representative. The boat was anchored and we were just starting the fun. The girls were lathering up and positioning themselves for sun worship; Joe was setting up rod and tackle; and I was donning the snorkeling gear. It was late morning and Joe wanted to check messages at the office before the day started.

He returned from below five minutes later; his bronzed face ashen and distraught. We all knew something was wrong. “They think Payne Stewart’s plane has malfunctioned and it’s heading for a crash landing in the Dakotas.” The tour office wasn’t confirming the story, but they were pretty sure Payne was on the depressurised plane, and nobody on the flight was alive. The plane’s cabin had lost oxygen and all aboard perished while the plane was on auto-pilot.

We gathered our blank stares, gulped a few times, and packed up. This was the type of spot Payne would have enjoyed with anyone, especially friends, we couldn’t continue our festivities without him. I headed back to our Maui hillside bungalow, tuned in CNN hoping they would tell me different. You never like losing friends, but watching their demise on TV is agonizing. While I was listening to the reporters, Payne Stewart memories drifted in and out. Please tell me this isn’t true.

Payne was a swashbuckler, and his “Plus Fours” announced his presence to the crowd. He was easily recognizable inside the ropes, but that wasn’t the Payne we were going to miss. The practical joker, brash country boy, cocky kid turned family man was our memory. After his first few years on the tour, the caddies nicknamed him AVIS because he finished second so many times. He took the jibe and always had some sarcastic comments for the caddy corp, all in fun.

Payne always carried his harmonica and an ugly set of bucktooth fake teeth. He would pull them out at any time. He’d jump on stage with Duck Soup, whip out his pipes, and entertain the crowd. He was so-so, but he was a showman. Those teeth startled many airline personnel. He’d slide them in as he walked to the ticket counter, or just before the flight attendants made their rounds. There was always an awkward silence when he smiled and started talking. We all got a kick out of it.

Payne stuck bananas in Azinger’s loafers after Paul holed a bunker shot to beat him at the Memorial. He was always messing with someone, but he could take it just as well. During his memorial service his friends were on the dias roasting him as if he was there, and he probably was. His wife, Tracy, turned her head to the sky and said, “let the party begin.” He was always looking for a party.

My first few years I stumbled into a bar outside Westchester CC in New York. As an out-of-towner I slid onto a bar stool quickly avoiding eye contact with the patrons. You don’t want to make a stir or call attention to yourself. I ordered a beer and was looking at the menu, when an elbow poked my left side. I ignored it, but a few minutes later came a gentle shove and a comment, “what the hell(expletive softened) you to good to talk to me?” It was Payne tucked under an old ball cap, tee shirt, and jeans. He was another out-of-towner flying way below the radar.

We had a few beers, discussed anything but golf, and had a great time. We were like high school buddies though he didn’t know me well. He explained one of the reasons he wore the “Plus Fours” while playing was so he could sneak around in public unnoticed. He thouroughly enjoyed being a country boy from Missouri. The slight southern drawl was soothing, and he made a lot of friends before they knew who he was.

His instructor and friend, Chuck Cook, were in the Pebble Beach Tap Room before the 1992 U.S. Open media day. Payne was the defending champion and they were having a few beers with the locals. Nobody recognized Payne, and after awhile introductions were starting. Payne introduced himself; the locals didn’t believe him, thought he was BSing them. Nothing Payne did would convince them. Finally, he asked, “if I bring in the U.S. Open trophy will you fill it with anyhting I choose for the rest of the night?”

They said sure, and Payne produced the trophy from the trunk of his car. “Fill it up with Crystall Champagne, please.” The locals were amused, and luckily rich; the boys had quite a night. There were other similar stories; Payne had many looks, but mainly he just wanted to be one of the guys.

His death wasn’t real till we gathered for the ceremony at Wilshire CC in L.A. the next week. Raymond and Maria Floyd organized the tribute, and the first hole was surrounded with mourners. Raymond couldn’t get throught his  eulogy without weeping. The players, caddies, spectators, volunteers, and tournament officials kept waiting for Payne to walk out with his harmonica–he never showed up, but you could feel his presence.

A few weeks after his death, I wrote a letter to Tracy. My daughter Cassie had befriended their daughter Chelsea during her visits to the PGA childcare center. Cass called him the guy in the funny clothes. I wanted Tracy to know Payne was an inspiration to a lot of us. He had matured from a brash, arrogant rookie to an introspective family man seeking a little peace with God. He didn’t wear it on his sleeve but his new found religion was helping his life. The kids and family had a special place in his life, and it was fun to watch.

I never sent that letter and come across it occassionally. It’s my anchor to Payne and what he represented. It’s a shame the kids never got to know their Dad and the world never got to see the complete Payne Stewart. They saw his golf, but that wasn’t his best attribute. His personality, flair, and penchant for life was special; and only a few of us got to witness Payne in those moments away from golf. He was ohh-so special.