With Help of His Wife, Calcavecchia Takes Setback Like a Man

She loped along, alongside him, in a purple halter with a plunging neckline, a three-tiered white skirt adorned with purple flowers, floppy purple socks and white Avia high-top sneakers. The pearl strands on her wrists rattled as she walked, and, while crossing the grassy knoll toward the Augusta National club’s antebellum clubhouse, her husband reached out to squeeze her hand.

They walked that way for a while, arms swinging, like a couple of kids on a first date.

“We had our six-month anniversary yesterday,” Mark Calcavecchia said.

When they reached the terrace of the clubhouse, not 50 yards from the 18th green where Scotland’s Sandy Lyle, an hour before, had snatched the Masters golf championship from the young American’s grip, Mark and Sheryl were met by well-wishers, back-slappers, kissing relatives and others eager to express their combination congratulations/regrets. He stopped to shake extended hands. He stopped to give an interviewer a few minutes. Sheryl nestled up against him and got comfortable, massaging his back. Mark crooked an arm around her shoulder.

Then she shifted her feet for an instant, and he stumbled.

“I’m sorry, hon,” Sheryl said, thinking she had thrown him off-balance.

“No,” Mark told her, just above a whisper. “I’m leaning on you .”

Up until then, Calcavecchia, 27, had done a pretty decent job Sunday of standing on his own. For four hours of stressful, hand-to-club combat, walking up and down Augusta’s slopes and across its bridges and around its fragrant azaleas and Georgia pines, he stood up to anything the golf course and the rival golfers threw at him. At the 13th hole, he assumed the lead, and at the 16th tee, in America’s most prized and fabled tournament, he still had it.

Then it got away, at the last possible instant, on the final player’s final putt, but Calcavecchia continued to be a stand-up guy. “I’m a little bummed out,” he had to admit, but otherwise, he took what must have been a devastating defeat like a man, saying how proud he was of how close he had come, and how impressed he was with Lyle’s steely resolve, and how sure he was that some other time--maybe even next time--would be his time to model the winner’s green jacket.

“I’m a happy golfer,” Calcavecchia said.

No one nearby spoke.

“Really,” he swore.

It is safe to say that this Nebraska-born, Florida-raised golf pro was considerably happier when he stepped onto the course than when he stepped off of it. At the practice range, he was delighted to find that a telephone tip from his coach was enabling him to sock the ball like he hadn’t before. He went and found Sheryl, who was bustling and beaming all over the place, just to tell her how unbelievably great he felt.

When he arrived at the first tee, starting the day two strokes behind the leader, Calcavecchia stepped up to the ball feeling like Popeye after a spinach lunch. He was prepared to smack one a mile, and he almost did.

“Best drive I’ve hit there in two years,” he said.

Three years ago, he was part of the Augusta gallery, watching the other golfers smack their drives a mile, wearing a guest’s badge instead of a competitor’s. His buddy Ken Green had arranged the pass, returning a favor, seeing as how Calcavecchia had been nice enough to caddy for Green at the 1985 U.S. Open. Now, here was Calcavecchia, primed to play and conquer not just a golf tournament, but the Masters. From caddy to Cadillac.

After seven holes, though, Calcavecchia couldn’t understand what was wrong. Not only had he failed to gain ground on Lyle, he had actually fallen further behind. He was two over par for the round, having bogeyed No. 6 and No. 7, and was muttering to himself under his Titleist visor, staring at the 7th green and saying, “What’s going on here? This is the best I’ve ever felt!”

Quickly, things improved. He birdied the 8th hole, birdied the 9th, birdied the 11th with a 20-foot putt. At the 12th, although he wasn’t thrilled with his tee shot, word filtered forward that Lyle had just three-putted the 11th for a bogey. The joint was jumping. Calcavecchia was back to two strokes back.

He told himself not to do anything fancy on the 13th tee. Just make the fairway. Don’t fool around with the short par-5; sure, it’s a hole where eagles fly, but mistakes can be costly. Leave yourself in good shape. Get the birdie. Still time to nail Lyle.

Suddenly, a noise. Back at the par-3 12th, the leader had just nose-dived into Rae’s Creek.

“After I hit my drive, I heard the roar. Lyle was in the water,” Calcavecchia said. “And I went, ‘Ooooh. OK. We got us a game now.’ ”

Calcavecchia got his birdie at 13, and, with one fell swoop, had taken over the leader board. He was the man now. The man to beat. It was time for reminders to himself not to play foolishly, not to change his style. He could not expect Lyle to lie and die. He told himself to go for birdies, not for pars. Go for the jugular. Go for the jacket.

As it turned out, Calcavecchia parred his way to the finish. Six straight. By the time he signed his scorecard, Lyle had pulled even again, and a playoff appeared imminent. As he strolled toward Bobby Jones’ Cabin to watch Lyle’s last hole on TV, a network man intercepted Calcavecchia and asked how he felt about a playoff.

“I don’t want one!” he replied, hoping Lyle might fail.

From the cabin, he saw what happened.

“I didn’t get one,” Calcavecchia said.

There was little for him to do but accept his bad luck. He applauded Lyle on an awesome shot, a killer putt by one of the greatest putters in the business, and he kidded the Scot about his accent, attempting a burr while imitating Lyle saying “ ‘chap’ and ‘cheerio’ and however it is he talks. Graciously, Calcavecchia gave the champion his due, and understandably, he described himself as still a little bit stunned.

He couldn’t wait to find his wife, who had recently helped him lose 20 pounds, watching his diet and jogging with him all week long through the wooded avenues of Augusta. Once he found her, he smiled wanly and kissed her cheek. Then they went off together, hand in hand.

The jacket would still fit next year.

“He wears a 44, and next year we’re gonna try again,” Sheryl said.

Mark smiled at her. A brighter smile this time.

“I don’t think I’ll waste away to nothing before then,” he said.