Watching Tom Watson never gets old

From Pebble Beach — 

We root for Tom Watson because we root for our own immortality. Getting old is not an option, but Watson seems to be giving us one.

He is the Huckleberry Finn of our youth, the boyish face with the unruly sprig of hair, who hit the golf ball sweet and straight. He was from Kansas City, but he flew over the Big Pond and had his way five times with the British Open. The courses there apparently reminded him of cornfields.

We watched as Arnold Palmer made his last walk at Augusta, as Jack Nicklaus had his goodbye on the bridge at St. Andrews. We felt the sweet sorrow of the partings. We also understood. They were clearly done.

Watson is different. He is of their generation, but not quite. He went onto the Champions Tour — the Great Mulligan of Life — and just kept on hitting it sweet and straight. Of the 12 titles he has won on the old guy’s circuit, five are majors. But the swing looked the same, and despite hip replacement surgery a little over a year ago, the walk looked spry and the younger guys still looked reachable.

So when he went out and darn near won last year’s British Open, we had visions of fountains of youth. For a while, we questioned the existence of a god who would allow a beautifully struck iron to the green on the final hole of the British to somehow skip through to the rough, cost Watson a chance to two-putt for a victory that would have made him the oldest-ever major champion, and cost us a chance for reflective youth. But we got over it.

We figured, in this case, Vince Lombardi was wrong. Winning wasn’t everything. Being second in the British Open, at age 59, with a new hip, was a life statement. Watson’s life and ours. His world ranking had gone from No. 1,374 to No. 105 and our step had a bit more pep.

Then he played like a master for much of the tournament at Augusta this spring, where he had failed to make the cut 11 of his previous 12 tries. And here we are at the U.S. Open, and he is doing it again. It makes a guy want to jog five miles and stay out till 2 a.m.

He was invited to play here on a special exemption. The sponsoring United States Golf Assn., which can be infuriating with its bad decision-making — Saturday’s 3:50 p.m. final tee-off time as a way to worship at the almighty feet of television jumps to mind — made the correct one on Watson.

Undoubtedly, the USGA hoped to benefit from the nostalgia of Watson’s memorable chip-in from the impossible rough on the impossible No. 17 here, when he won the U.S. Open in 1982. Undoubtedly, the USGA did not expect him to play Saturday, the day after the cut. But there he was, royal blue sweater under bright blue skies, attacking a golf course immune to attacks as if he were some 20-year-old kid who simply didn’t know any better.

Watson played his front nine in two-under 33, went through perhaps the hardest stretch in golf — Nos. 8, 9 and 10 along the Cliffs of Doom — in one under, and then faded to a 70, one under par, leaving him six over for the tournament.

On the hole where he found his greatest fame, No. 17, he chunked a chip and took a bogey. On the scenic No. 18, he hit to three feet and had his birdie putt tap the side of the hole and skid away.

It was a little like last year’s British. It could have been so much better, maybe a 66 and a place among the top guys Sunday.

But there is much more going on here. Ultimate scores may not be what ultimately matters.

Watson’s caddie had a unique perspective, especially on how the galleries have treated Watson.

“I think it isn’t necessarily a farewell, but a thank you,” the caddie said.

The caddie also said that Watson is still a very competitive guy, that “we hope to come in low tomorrow,” and if that happens, “you never know.”

The caddie was asked about Watson’s famous chip-in on No. 17 in 1982.

“I was in my mom’s womb then,” said Michael Watson, 27. “I didn’t see it, but I sure felt it.”

Watson got ovations Friday on Nos. 17 and 18, when fans weren’t sure he’d make the cut and ever play those holes again in competition.

Watson pondered a question about the fans’ love here, and said, “It warms me.” There appeared to be a little catch in Huck Finn’s throat.

As he walked from the interview area, a fan atop the bleachers nearby yelled, “You rock, Tom Watson.”

The fan was in his mid-30s. He represented another generation, wooed.

bill.dwyre@latimes.com.