I thought we were all done with this. Once again, my boy Phil Mickelson broke my heart. With his third straight and (fourth overall) major championship in his back pocket, he decided to revert back to Old Phil again, the Phil who decides to recreate Roy McAvoy's 18th hole at the U.S. Open just for kicks. The Phil who absolutely refuses to take his medicine and punch out to the fairway. The Phil who has me hiding my face in my hands every time he steps over a putt on the back nine at a major championship. The worst part about this one is he had it. He had it. He gave this one away with jaw-dropping stupidity. Hitting driver is bad enough. Trying a hero escape shot with a one stroke lead on the 72nd hole of the hardest tournament in golf, in arguably the hardest course in 40 years on tour, is downright stupid. To say that winning the U.S. Open has been your dream since you were a kid, then to treat that dream with such disrespect as to attempt those shots when that dream was so close to reality....
Speaking personally as a die-hard Phil fan, thank goodness that this was 2006, not 2003. At least I have the other 3 Phil majors to fall back on (once I settle down, which usually takes a few days). If it wasn't for those, this tournament would've been the worst, hands down, in a long, long line of heartbreaking losses for my teams. I have become spoiled a bit the last few years. After 9 years of watching Phil almost win majors ('99 U.S. Open, '01 PGA, '02 Open were the worst), I have had the pleasure of watching Phil break through and win not one, but three in two years. This is where Phil tricked me. I have seen countless 3 and 4 foot par putts slide by the hole on the back nine at majors, to the point where I couldn't watch Phil putt. Somewhere in 2004, however, he became a clutch player. The magical back nine at Augusta in '04. The clutch chip from deep rough to save par on the 18th at the '05 PGA. The stellar, 'I'm not giving this tournament up' back nine this year at Augusta. I was finally over my fear of Phil gagging on a tournament. I watched his short putts with only a slightly irregular heartbeat. I waited for him to stick that 5 iron on the short par 5. I waited for him to roll in the long birdie putt that sealed the win. Waited for him to hit an errant approach, then hit his bunker shot to 4 inches and grin like an idiot at his caddy. Even after his horrific drive on the 18th yesterday, I was a portrait of calm. "That's fine, that's fine" I told my dad as we enjoyed another Father's Day of U.S. Open action, our 9th in a row. "He'll punch out, stick a wedge in there, and bang in a par putt."
But after the calamity that was the next two shots, Phil didn't even have a par putt. Hell, he didn't even have a bogey putt. After his bogey chip slipped past the hole, my dad silently got up and walked to the kitchen to grab his second helping of dinner. He learned years ago to leave me be when my team blows it. He unfortunately has way too much experience in that department. And all of a sudden, it was 1999 all over again. It was 2001 all over again. It was 2002 all over again. The damn U.S. Open. Phil's nemesis. My nemesis. And suddenly his three majors didn't mean a thing to me anymore. I guess no matter how many majors he wins, Phil will always be Phil. Which is why I will enjoy another few major championship victories with Phil, but I will also share a few more gut-wrenching Sunday evenings with him too.
