Watson's caddie Bruce Edwards dies

Watson heard the voice again when his 4-iron took out a big chunk of the fairway at 15. ``Ohhh!'' he grunted.

Bruce Edwards died early Thursday, his body ravaged by a yearlong battle with Lou Gehrig's disease. But his spirit was still intact, tagging along with his boss during the first round of the Masters.

Watson even carried Edwards' yardage book in his hip pocket, pulling it out as he stood over shots.

``He was with me out there,'' Watson said.

Theirs was a three-decade relationship, beginning at a 1973 tournament in St. Louis when a long-haired caddie wannabe approached a long-haired young golfer who was still a year away from his first PGA Tour victory.

Edwards asked for a job. Watson said yes. And off they went, their friendship growing stronger even though one was the boss, one the employee. Job security is rare for a caddie, but the Watson-Edwards pairing was unique.

Their only major breakup came in the late 1980s, when Watson's game was a mess. He knew he wasn't doing his buddy any favors with all those high scores. Greg Norman offered Edwards a job, and Watson gave his blessing.

Three years later, Edwards rejoined his friend.

``Things didn't particularly work out all that well, but he actually made a heck of a lot of money,'' Watson said. ``He made enough money to buy a house, which was burned down by his wife.''

That happened in 2000, when Edwards' first wife was charged with torching their home in Ponte Vedra Beach, Fla., after he asked for a divorce.

Watson managed a smile as he recounted the fire. Edwards bounced right back from that ordeal with typical wit, jokingly chastising anyone who came around him with a cigarette. He was a ladies man and a gypsy, a guy whose lust for life became apparent to all when his life was nearing an end.

``He didn't want to sit in bed watching the Masters,'' said Watson's wife, Hillary. ``He wanted to be here, sitting right on Tom's shoulder. That's Bruce.''

Years ago, Watson tried desperately to get Edwards into college -- even offering a new vehicle as a bribe -- but this guy couldn't be contained by a classroom. He wanted to see the world through golf's eye.

``He loved to caddie,'' Watson said. ``He thought that was the neatest thing in the world.''

Fifteen months ago, Edwards began slurring his words. He knew something was terribly wrong when he went into a bar sober and couldn't get served; the bartender thought Edwards was already drunk.

An examination at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota revealed the grim diagnosis: amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, a rare neurological disease. Death was certain. He had three years, at best, to live.

Edwards wound up at the low end of the scale. His form of ALS was the most aggressive, attacking his lungs and making it difficult to breathe.

But at least he went out in style.

With Edwards on the bag, Watson shot a magical 65 in the opening round of last year's U.S. Open, and the two of them walked up the fairway together -- tears in their eyes, lumps in their throats, smiles on their faces.

``I've been lucky,'' Edwards said at the time. ``I've had a wonderful ride, a lot of wins, a lot of great moments.''

Edwards was still being toasted in the final hours of life. On Wednesday night, not long before he died at his new home in Ponte Vedra Beach, the Golf Writers Association of America presented him the Ben Hogan award, honoring someone who remains active in the game despite a handicap or illness.

Edwards was too ill to attend the ceremony in Augusta, but his father, Jay, accepted the award with a stirring ode to his dying boy. Watson also spoke, telling the crowd to celebrate the man's life, not mourn his imminent death.

A day later, Watson largely stuck to his own advice after shooting a 76 in the opening round. He reminisced with reporters during a half-hour session that was part news conference, part therapy session.

Only once did Watson show a hint of anger.

``Damn this disease!'' he shouted, a single tear rolling down his left cheek. ``Damn it.''

Even before he was stricken with the deadly disease, Edwards was one of the game's most respected caddies.

In 1999, Ben Crenshaw picked Edwards to be in charge of the U.S. caddies at the Ryder Cup.

``It's not fair,'' Crenshaw said after his Masters round. ``They took a good one there.''

Arnold Palmer, playing in his final Masters, recounted the helplessness that everyone felt as Edwards approached death.

``He was good for Tom Watson. He was good for the game,'' Palmer said. ``I'm sorry we couldn't do something for him.''

Watson is trying to do something. He said more funding for ALS research is the best way to honor Edwards' life. Watson donated his $1 million award for winning the Champions Tour's Schwab Cup to ALS research last year.

``We don't have (a cure) yet,'' Watson said, ``but we'll get there.''

Edwards is survived by Marsha, his wife of less than a year, and his parents. Funeral services were scheduled Tuesday in Ponte Vedra Beach.