Ten years is a long time to hold a grudge. I was 33 years old, awaiting the arrival of the completion of 34, when Payne Stewart’s plane rose then fell. I recall scanning the list of casualties, sorry that I could not recognize the names of the pilots, the agents, the course designer. In those infant days of the internet, when a single phone line was split 3 to 5 ways, we clung to the monitor. Awaiting any news on the matter, it ended the way it had to end, in death and loss and sadness.

And something else began that day, a bitterness in me, a jealousy. Payne Stewart had always represented the epitome of the spoiled and selfish touring pro. I was jealous of his skill, jealous of his good looks, jealous of his plus fours. At age 33, already the father of four children, this childish, immature jealousy took hold of me and would not let go (or I did not want to let it go.)

I had read and heard that Payne had matured, had become less of an egotist, more of a giver. I watched as Lee Janzen and others cried during the memorial service. I shook as the bag piper emerged from and reentered the fog at the Tour Championship, offering a dirge to us. And still, I refused to accept.

This summer, my friends and I traveled to the sandhills of North Carolina to play a number of courses. We walked from the parking lot of Pinehurst resort, past the enormous putting greens, along the clubhouse, past Maniac Hill, around to the 18th green and the statuary. There it stands, the awkward, goofy, contorted, eternal pose of Payne Stewart, fist thrust, leg extended, mouth agape, U.S. Open won. It must have began for me then.

Today, the 25th, the anniversary of his death, I sit less than 24 hours away from another birthday. Assuming I survive the night, I will have completed two more years than Payne did. I will have had more time with our children, with my wife, than Payne did. And, thanks to Pam Clark, I will finally lay to rest this burden, this jealousy, this flaw.

Today I read Ms. Clark’s story on Payne Stewart, MIP … I won’t tell you what MIP means; read her story yourself. In an unexpected way, in a story emanating from Payne Stewart’s home town paper, a writer gave me pause, gave me permission, to move forward, to accept another’s arrival.

Most people don’t feel comfortable with an oh-so-public admission of their fallibility. Perhaps, as “My Name Is Earl” might suggest, the righting of my world’s kharma begins with this step. Payne, I miss you. We all do.

Permalink 2 comments