The neighborhoods around Bay Hill Club in Orlando are notoriously maze-like, and on a March morning in 1999, I couldn’t find Payne Stewart’s house. He lived just off the 12th tee of the course, and I’d been to his home before but somehow was looking on the wrong side of the street. Suddenly a barefoot guy in shorts and a T-shirt sprang into the street and slapped the hood of my rental car, waving his arms and yelling as though warning of a washed-out bridge.