He’s Seeing Red After Watson’s Front Nine

The folks at USC were not happy with me a few months ago, so an anonymous source in the athletic department told a student writing for the Daily Trojan he had some real dirt on me that might lead to my dismissal and get me off the school’s back.

He told the student I had taken my 23-year-old daughter to a USC-Notre Dame game two years ago, and had gotten her into the press box at the Coliseum.

That was true, of course, and while I had permission from USC and The Times to take my kid to work for a day and the Daily Trojan made no mention of that, I’d have taken her without it because I hope to introduce her one day to a gifted athlete who will make big money and set me up for life. If there was any mistake I made, it was taking her to USC in search of a gifted athlete.

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THE TRUTH be told, of course, I should have been dismissed a long time ago.

I took my father to the PGA Tour’s Western Open near Chicago in 1974, gave him a media pass, told him to act like he was a reporter, and, I’ll have to be honest now, there’s no telling how much free food he ate that day.

Now it just so happens that June day in 1974 was one of the very best days in my father’s hard-working life, and coincidentally the same day Tom Watson won his first PGA tournament. I guess that explains why I was at the Toshiba Senior Classic in Newport Beach on Saturday, compelled in some way to let Watson know how much enjoyment he had given my father.

I had no other reason to be here, so I knew I was risking a lot perchance I ran into someone from USC and they leaked it to the Daily Trojan. There’s no telling the damage that could be done knowing I was using a media pass only to get to Watson to tell him about Red Simers, the older man who had been sitting in the front row at Watson’s news conference 28 years ago--asking him the stupid question that had everyone laughing. Like father like son, of course.

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FORTUNATELY, WATSON had no idea who I was, and apparently hadn’t talked to Fred Couples or Robert Allenby recently about their little chats with me at the Nissan Open, so he agreed to meet before teeing off.

He remembered beating J.C. Snead and Tom Weiskopf by two strokes for his first win, and I remembered the look on my dad’s face as he walked around Butler National, a ritzy club outside Chicago, and how in awe he was of the grounds, the players and the chance to experience such privilege

I told Watson that Red had worked two jobs most of his life and had a passion for golf, cocking his head just like Jack Nicklaus but not swinging anything like him. I told him Red never had the chance to rub shoulders with any celebrities, making that June day with Watson something he talked about the rest of his life, and all the while Watson listened as if he was interested. I’ve been married for 29 years, so I’m not used to someone listening to me, so I kept talking.

I mentioned the bond between father and son on the golf course, caddying for my father as Watson had caddied for his own dad, sneaking a few swings in once away from the clubhouse and then trying to beat him. I asked Watson, who has won eight majors, if he had ever beaten his father, and right away he says, “Had him two down with three to go in the Walloon Lake Country Club championship when I was 13 years old. He tied me on 18, and beat me on the second playoff hole.”

A year later Watson came back to defeat his father, but speaking from experience, it’s the admiration for the old man’s wins that lingers.

Now I can’t remember Dwyre’s first name, as you know, but I can tell you the time of day--5 p.m.--and the time of year--July--and the day of the week--Saturday--when I thought I had beaten my father for the first and only time in my life.

We had just teed off on No. 18, and I was up by 10 strokes when he started counting the clubs in my bag. He found 15--one over the legal limit--and said he’d have to apply the appropriate penalty, two strokes a hole for every hole while playing with too many clubs. As a result, I lost to him by 26 strokes.

I protested. “You’re my father and you’re the one who told me to throw that new driver in the bag and give it a try to see if I would like to keep it, and now you’re calling me on it?”

I’ll never forget that grin on his face. And when I tee off now, I do so after counting my clubs.

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NOW IF my dad had vowed to never die until Phil Mickelson had won a major, he’d still be here, and on this perfect day in Orange County we’d have been walking down the fairway giving me something more to file in the memory bank.

I might have had his two grandchildren here and the grocery store bagger--every one of them, of course, with media passes. What a glorious day that would have been. I’d have liked to have seen the bagger in the company of my father.

“My father passed away two years ago,” Watson said, so we were talking the same language now as we reminisced. “I remember taking my dad to play Augusta. A special moment in life. I think my dad shot 77 or 79 that day.”

There’s no way my dad could ever shoot 77 in his life--unless I shot 78.

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WE TALKED some more, I mentioned playing Bighorn Golf Club in Palm Desert recently and wishing my dad had the chance just once in his life to play such a piece of heaven, and then urged Watson to go out and “win one for Red.”

He gave me a nice smile and went out and posted a 40 on the front nine. Obviously I was concerned; I was afraid he misunderstood, and heard me say, “Hit ‘em like Red.”

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T.J. Simers can be reached at t.j.simers@latimes.com.