By Bob Markus

In the heyday of the Chicago Stockyards, the public used to be able to tour the slaughterhouse and watch how cows and hogs became steaks and ham, both of which could be ordered at the adjacent Stockyards Inn. Once you got past the smell, it made for an interesting outing. What I remember from my last visit to the stockyards, about a half century ago, was the sight of muscular men, mostly black men, bare to the waist and wielding heavy sledge hammers, which they used to bludgeon the cows as they were led to their inevitable demise.

Tom Watson wore that same stunned look as those doomed cows throughout his four hole playoff with Stewart Cink in Sunday's British Open. It would be easy to label Cink as the villain of the piece, the Grinch who stole the story of the year from Watson and golf lovers everywhere. I'd be surprised if, outside his immediate family and coterie of friends, there was a person in the universe who was rooting for Cink to win the tournament. But don't blame Cink for destroying the 59-year-old Watson's dream of becoming the oldest man, by nearly a dozen years, to win one of golf's four major championships. Cink, like one of those old time cattle bashers, was simply a man doing his job. Kind of like the guy who lopped off Anne Boleyn's head. It was a job that any competent golf professional could have handled at that point. Because as soon as Watson missed that nine-foot putt for par on the 72d hole at Turnberry, it was clearly evident the dream was over. Watson had given the last full measure of his talent and tenacity over the 72 holes and it wasn't enough. He had nothing left to give and hacked his way around the playoff holes as if he were an eight-handicapper on a Sunday outing with his golfing buddies.

Any golfer, even the great ones, is going to lose more tournaments than he wins. But there are losses and there are losses. This one was of historic proportions. For 71 holes Watson had seemed headed for the biggest miracle since the parting of the Red Sea. Indeed, it appeared that Watson would not have needed heavenly intervention to cross the sea. He was a man who looked as if he could walk on water.

When the week began, with Watson shooting a lights-out 65 in the opening round, it appeared unthinkable that a man his age could beat all those young guns over four days in the oldest and most prestigious golf championship in the world. Hadn't Greg Norman proved that only last year when, at 53, he shared the lead going into the final round but finally, inevitably it appeared, bowed to the pressure and disappeared?

Not so Watson. He did not play his best golf on Sunday, but neither did anyone else and despite the constant ebb and flow and the inherent drama of the situation it was not a scintillating day on the links. Watson was in and out of the lead all afternoon, but one by one the other contenders dropped out. Finally, as he strode down the 18th fairway with a one-shot lead, Watson knew that the tournament was his. The only other man still standing was Cink, who had not been on top of the leader board all day. The only times the average TV viewer would be aware of Cink was when the leader board was flashed on the screen and there, near the bottom of page one, was Cink -1. He finally got on the screen by holing a birdie putt on the last hole to finish at two under par. That tied him with Watson, but Watson still had the 17th, an easy par five, to play and seemed certain to at least birdie it to regain the lead. Which he did.

Now it was all there for him. Just one more par and it was all his. Not only would he have defeated the ravages of time, he would have turned back the clock to that glorious day in 1977, when, on this very same golf course, he defeated Jack Nicklaus by a single stroke to win one of his five British Open championships. This would be his sixth and it would tie him with the legendary Harry Vardon for the most in Open history. What happened next was as troubling to watch as a dog fight. Watson appeared to have it wrapped up when his second shot bounced onto the green, seemingly leaving him two putts from sporting immortality. Everyone watching had the sense of being an eye witness to history. Many were calling it the greatest sports story ever. Then the ball rolled off the back of the green barely into the rough and stomachs around the world began to clench. Now victory was a chip and a putt away, but Watson, once one of the best chippers in history, opted to putt on his third shot. When it went left of the hole and slid to nine-feet away the sense of impending doom was palpable. I don't know about you, but I expected him to miss the putt. He knew from the instant he hit it that he had indeed missed it, jabbing it off to the right where it never had a chance.

He must have known, too, that it was all over. His body language said so and his poor play on the first playoff hole confirmed it. By the third hole, which he absolutely butchered, Watson appeared to be fighting back tears, just as he had the previous afternoon when he appeared to be overcome with emotion at the waves of love that were radiating fgrom the gallery as he came to the final green tied for the lead. Watson has always been loved in Scotland and there were more fans cheering for him than for British golfer Lee Westwood. This was not surprising if you understand the history of Scotland's relationship with England. It was obvious now that there would be no miracle. It was still a good story, maybe even a great story for a few days. But it could have been a story for the ages.

But wait! Upon further review there was a miracle at Turnberry Sunday. Tiger Woods didn't play and nobody noticed. Never heard his name mentioned. That in itself should tell you what a compelling story was unfolding--and ultimately unravelling-- before our eyes.