“If golf was art, Payne was the color.” The statue stands just beyond the 18th green at Pinehurst No. 2, cast in bronze but impossibly alive. Payne Stewart’s right arm is frozen in that familiar fist pump. Twenty-five years have passed since that moment, and even longer since Stewart brought a distinct flair to golf’s most hallowed grounds. But somehow, he remains just as vivid. Not because he was a three-time major winner. Stewart is remembered because of how he made the game feel.
When news broke on October 25, 1999, that Stewart’s Learjet had crashed in a South Dakota field after flying for nearly four hours on autopilot, the sports world was stunned. The loss was staggering: Stewart, just 42, had been traveling with two agents and golf course architect Bruce Borland, en route to a tournament in Houston. A pressurization failure had caused everyone onboard to lose consciousness, the plane silently carving an eerie path across the Midwest before its fuel finally ran out.
Months earlier, Stewart had produced one of golf’s great closing acts, sinking a 15-foot par putt to win the 1999 U.S. Open at Pinehurst. He immediately turned and wrapped Phil Mickelson, who had just finished second, in a bear hug, congratulating the expectant father on becoming a dad before the moment had even arrived. It was quintessential Stewart: showmanship and sportsmanship in equal measure. “There’s an enormous void and emptiness I feel right now,” Tiger Woods said at the time, still only 23 and ascending toward his own legend.
There has been a void, there is no doubt about it. But every now and then, Payne’s greatness is remembered, and just like that, it feels like he never left. Jerry Rice, who rarely posts emotional tributes, reminisced about Payne today, “Remembering a true #legend. Gone too soon but never forgotten,” Rice likely saw Stewart as a kindred spirit in that sense: a fellow legend who carried himself with pride, left a lasting legacy, and passed away far too soon. The post struck a chord, not just for its heartfelt message but for the way he embodied Stewart’s spirit—stylish, proud, frozen in victory.
Indeed, Stewart was one of golf’s most compelling contradictions. He dressed like Bobby Jones but talked like a modern athlete. He competed fiercely, sometimes hotly, but matured into a respected elder statesman. He struggled with his temper early in his career, but in the years before his death, he embraced a deeper faith, leaned into mentorship, and found joy in the roles that came after the trophies.
Payne Stewart lives on in memories
“He was becoming the man we all hoped we’d be,” said Paul Azinger, a longtime friend and Ryder Cup teammate. “He was color. If golf was art, Payne was the color.” The PGA Tour created the Payne Stewart Award in 2000, given annually to a player who best exemplifies character, integrity, and charitable spirit. Past recipients include Tom Lehman, Ernie Els, and most recently, Brandt Snedeker. “He was one of the reasons I picked up a club,” Snedeker said last year. “It wasn’t just how he played—it was how he made the game feel alive.”
Off the course, Stewart was deeply committed to family. A lesser-known story: In the early ‘90s, after a missed cut, Stewart once took a red-eye home instead of practicing further, just to be with his daughter Chelsea for her birthday. His friends remember him as fiercely present, someone who had begun to realize that trophies were finite, but memories were forever.
His family has stewarded his legacy with quiet grace. Tracey Stewart largely stepped away from public view following his death, choosing privacy over public mourning. Their son, Aaron Stewart, now helps run the Payne Stewart Kids Golf Foundation, which is dedicated to expanding access and inclusion in youth golf.
But that emotional pull still extends beyond golf, and Rice’s comment says exactly that.
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