Tom Watson is Over 75, How He destroyed His Career

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Tom Watson is over 75, and many say he destroyed his career through controversy and personal battles. But what if I told you that the very moments people call his downfall were actually what made him a legend? This is the real story of one of golf’s greatest champions.

Tom Watson is over 75 and many say he destroyed his career through controversy and personal battles. But what if I told you that the very moments people call his downfall were actually what made him a legend? This is the real story of one of golf’s greatest champions. Tom Watson won eight major championships and became one of the most respected names in golf. His battles with Jack Nicholas were legendary. His five British Open wins cemented his place in history. But behind the trophies and glory was a man fighting battles most people never knew about. These weren’t career-ending disasters. They were the moments that showed his true character. In 1990, Watson made a decision that shocked Kansas City social elite. He resigned from the Kansas City Country Club, a place where he learned to play golf and where his father still held the amateur course record. The reason the club rejected membership for Henry Block, founder of H&R Block and Watson’s close friend. Block was Jewish and Watson couldn’t stand for what he saw as discrimination. This wasn’t just about a friend. Watson’s wife, Linda Rubin, and their two children were Jewish. He told newspapers he personally couldn’t live with the possibility that his family wouldn’t be welcome because of their religion. He called the decision a matter of conscience and said the club’s practices were archaic. While he respected the right of private clubs to choose their members, he wasn’t obligated to stay when they discriminated against his beliefs. The cost was enormous. His father, Ry, was baffled and enraged by his son’s actions. The 76-year-old man with his 1950s crew cut couldn’t understand why his son would make such a public stand. Father and son didn’t speak for months. The family split was so deep that Watson had to turn to the Block family for emotional support during this painful time. But Watson’s stand worked. The Kansas City Country Club eventually changed their policies and admitted Henry Block and other minority members. These changes disarmed Watson and he saw it as time for healing. He rejoined the club and patched up his differences with his father. They became close again. Though years later, Watson’s face still looked pained when discussing the incident. This wasn’t destruction. This was a man using his celebrity status to force change when the law alone couldn’t do it. His public protest made the club confront their practices in the court of public opinion. The pain was the necessary cost of meaningful triumph. Watson had another private battle most people didn’t know about. He struggled with alcoholism, something he’s been remarkably open about. He quit drinking because he didn’t like himself when he drank and admitted it led him to do stupid things. He understood that while alcohol made his problems worse, it wasn’t the only cause. Friends and loved ones helped him through what he called his affliction. This personal struggle became the foundation for one of his most powerful acts. In 2005, fellow golfer David Ferti was drowning in addiction to Vicodin and whiskey, consuming dozens of pills and multiple bottles of alcohol daily. During a television event in Canada, Watson recognized the signs immediately. Watson put his hand over the camera and asked Fertie if he was well. When Fertie wondered how he knew, Watson delivered a response that changed everything. He said he could see it in Fert’s eyes and called it his reflection. This wasn’t just compassion. It was recognition born from shared experience. Watson invited Feherti to his home and helped him get sober. Behi credits Watson with saving his life. The statement, “My reflection,” was masterful psychology. It bypassed judgment and created an instant bond between two men who shared private struggles. Watson transformed his personal suffering into a source of healing for others. The disciplined traditionalist and compassionate confidant weren’t two different men. They were two sides of the same character, shaped by struggle and expressed through generous action. Watson saw himself as golf’s guardian of tradition. He believed in a code of honor that he felt the sport was losing. For him, the golf course was a cathedral where proper behavior mattered. He had no tolerance for anything that degraded its dignity. He emphasized mastering fundamentals like grip, alignment, posture, rhythm, and balance as timeless principles. This put him at odds with a modern world that valued entertainment over tradition. In 1993 at the AT&T Pebble Beach ProAm, comedian Bill Murray delighted crowds by pulling an elderly woman from the gallery and dancing with her in a greenside bunker. While fans loved the entertainment, Watson strongly objected. He believed such behavior was detrimental to the game. For Watson, there was a clear line between harmless fun and disrespecting golf’s sacred nature. The most serious conflict came during the 1994 Masters broadcast. CBS commentator Gary McCord joked that Augusta Nationals greens were so fast they weren’t mowed but bikini waxed. Viewers laughed and even the CBS sports president sitting next to McCord found it funny. Watson was furious. Finding the commentary inappropriate and out of line, Watson took extraordinary action. He sent a handwritten letter to CBS golf producer Frank Sherkinian. The language was harsh. Watson called McCord a lesion on golf in the Howard Stern of golf. He demanded McCord be removed from coverage. The result was swift and permanent. McCord was quietly pulled from all future Masters broadcasts. McCord later said he was disappointed Watson hadn’t confronted him directly. But for Watson, this wasn’t personal. It was about protecting golf’s integrity. He saw irreverent commentary as cancer that needed removal. The aggressive language showed how seriously he viewed threats to the game’s moral character. These weren’t signs of a destroyed career. They were evidence of a man living his principles regardless of social consequences. Watson succeeded in his immediate goals, though McCord’s removal actually gave him more publicity than anything else in his career. These conflicts made Watson’s reputation as someone willing to take unpopular stands. The most heartbreaking chapter involved Watson’s relationship with Caddyy Bruce Edwards. Starting in 1973, Edwards carried Watson’s bag for most of his career. Their 30-year partnership produced dozens of victories and eight major championships. They weren’t just player and caddy. They were close friends whose bond permanently changed how people viewed such relationships. In 2003, Edwards was diagnosed with ALS, also known as Lou Garri’s disease. This incurable condition would be fatal. Despite failing health and slurred speech, Edwards was by Watson’s side at the US Open. In a stunning moment that defied the emotional weight of the situation, 53-year-old Watson shot a remarkable firstround 65 to share the lead. The scene was deeply emotional. As Watson walked up the 18th hole, cheers weren’t just for him, but for his dying caddy. Edwards was an emotional wreck, crying at times. Watson had tears in his eyes, too. They shared a profound embrace on the final green. A moment of powerful nostalgia and shared triumph facing insurmountable tragedy. Edwards perfectly captured the moment’s meaning with slurred speech, telling reporters it was just a game back then, but was much more than a game now. The tournament became a national stage for their friendship story, showing a side of Watson rarely seen. His vulnerability and sorrow humanized his often stern public image. Edwards died in 2004, but this wasn’t the end. Before his friend’s death, Watson launched the Driving for Life program to raise money and awareness for ALS research. After Edwards passed, Watson made an unwavering promise to continue raising funds for ALS patients until a cure was found. He serves as honorary chairman of the Bruce Edwards Foundation for ALS, channeling his competitive fire into humanitarian work. Edwards’s death wasn’t defeat, but transformation. Watson turned grief into lasting advocacy. Instead of retreating, he used his platform for a greater purpose, keeping a promise to a friend he’s never forgotten. His final walk with Edwards and tireless ALS work elevated his legacy beyond golf achievements. His greatest victories weren’t won with clubs, but with a compassionate heart. Watson’s life shows that struggles don’t destroy legacies, they create them. The costly moral stand, private battle with alcoholism, crusade for golf’s integrity, and tragic loss of his caddy weren’t sources of sadness. They were crucibles that forged immense integrity and emotional depth. The Country Club incident showed willingness to sacrifice comfort for principle. His alcoholism struggle in helping fertility revealed profound vulnerability and empathy often hidden behind his stoic image. Conflicts with Murray and McCord showcased steadfast commitment to honor above popularity. Edward’s illness transformed grief into lifelong philanthropic purpose. Tom Watson didn’t destroy his career after 75. He revealed the character that made him truly great. His enduring legacy isn’t just trophies, but the principles he displayed facing adversity. He proves that principled living is rarely simple or painless, but conflicts and losses often shape our most meaningful contributions to the world.