Nicklaus, Mize Are a Couple of Tough Acts to Top at Augusta

I went to my first Masters two years ago, and Jack Nicklaus won it. Saint Nicklaus. God of golf. Lord of links. King of swing. Sultan of shot. Prince of putt. Mister sand man. Mister chips. Mister tee. Mister Masters. Jack of all blades. Jack of clubs. Jack of hearts. Jack par. You name it, he’s it.

Never top this, I said.

I went to last year’s Masters, and Larry Mize won it. A boy born and raised in Augusta. A child christened with the middle name Hogan. A kid who tended the scoreboard at Augusta National. A Georgia Tech Yellow Jacket who wound up wearing Georgia’s favorite green jacket. A man who won the Masters with a 140-foot chip. Mize’s golden touch.

Never top this, I said.

Heh, heh, heh.

As soon as I got to Augusta, I started thinking.

How could the 1988 Masters top the 1987 Masters and the 1986 Masters?

What would have to happen?

How could it be done?

Hmmm.

Maybe if Nicklaus won again, playing the last nine holes with his arm in a sling, or with a putter the size of a croquet mallet, or with a mashie once owned by Bobby Jones, a niblick borrowed from Byron Nelson and a spoon once used by Refrigerator Perry.

Nah. Unlikely.

Maybe if Tom Watson won, then went diving into the nearest water hazard, then sank to the bottom, then floated back to the top with a mermaid who bore an amazing resemblance to Amy Alcott.

Nah. Unlikely.

Maybe if Seve Ballesteros won, then threw PGA Commissioner Deane Beman into that same water hazard.

Nah. Not unlikely enough.

Maybe if Mac O’Grady won with a 150-foot chip, left-handed, then threw Beman into the water hazard, then threw him an anchor, then was given the winner’s green jacket, then exchanged it in the pro shop for a 44-regular in a nice tweed.

Nah. Not preposterous enough.

We need something really unusual if this Masters is going to top the last two.

Hey, how about if Payne Stewart wins the tournament wearing knickers and Air Jordans?

What if Greg Norman beats somebody with a miracle shot, instead of the other way around?

Or, wouldn’t it be a riot if Lee Trevino makes the cut, closes out with 62-62 for the championship, and is obligated to come back to this golf course, his personal hell, every April for the rest of his life?

Yeah. That might be right up there with Nicklaus and Mize.

Gary Player winning would be nice. Player hasn’t won one of these things since he played in all black.

Jim Thorpe winning would have been even nicer. Thorpe is black. Doug Williams wins the Super Bowl, Debi Thomas wins a Winter Olympic medal, Jesse Jackson wins primaries . . . be great if somebody could break new ground at Augusta, and we don’t mean digging a divot.

Alas, Thorpe played seven holes Thursday with a bad hand, bogeyed all of them and withdrew.

Maybe next year, Jim. Maybe next year, when we’ll need to top this year.

I walked onto the golf course Thursday morning, looked at the leader board and noticed Arnold Palmer’s first four holes: 4-4-4-3.

Can’t be, I said.

Get outta here. Don’t tease me. C’mon, put up his real scores now. Show me those 6s.

Arnold Palmer winning the Masters?

That would be a small story. Sort of like, oh, I don’t know, a quake leveling Los Angeles, or a ship from planet Krypton landing, or killer bees attacking Bill Cosby, or my uncle picking up a check. Something totally unbelievable. Like, you know, George Bell making an out. If Arnie wins the Masters, I say, next year I don’t come back. That’s because next year they call off the tournament. They tear down the clubhouse. They fill all 18 holes with asphalt. They build condos. They sell the place on late-night TV, like Florida swamp land.

No use playing golf here any more, if Arnie wins the Masters. You couldn’t top that if Al Geiberger shot 58.

But ah, I look up now and see Arnie is struggling. Forty for the front. Same for the back. Eighty for Arn. I can breathe again. He can go back to selling rental cars again. Whew.

I know now that nothing can top Nicklaus and Mize, unless of course somebody pulls something crazy Sunday on the final hole.

If some gopher grabs Tom Kite’s ball and pushes it into the 18th hole with his nose, you can watch it on TV. I ain’t writing about it.