Jack, You Want a Challenge, You Have One

Jack Nicklaus is too damned old to win the Masters golf tournament. No way. No chance. That poor bogeying fogey can’t cut it anymore. He’s as washed up as a shanked ball at Pebble Beach. He’s as decrepit as Sam Snead’s first pair of shoes. His game has more holes than Scotland. Nicklaus is done, finished, a has-been.

There, Jack--take a magnet and stick that on your refrigerator.

What transpired in 1986 was this: The golden god Jack Nicklaus came to Augusta National a semi-beaten man. He was 46 years old, nearsighted, colorblind, suffered from a ruptured disk, had one leg shorter than the other, was weakened by a virus and had gained so much of his old weight back that his long game had gotten longer and, consequently, out of control.

Moreover, Nicklaus hadn’t won a major in six years, hadn’t won anything except the 1982 Colonial and 1984 Memorial. Nicklaus was the Memorial. He had become better at building golf courses than playing them. Tom Kite sat down to dine with friends before the ’86 Masters and forecast that old St. Nick would not win that week’s tournament nor any other tournament ever again. Poor Jack.

Well, we all know what happened. Nicklaus became the oldest master to win the Masters. He came armed with chipping tips from Chi Chi Rodriguez, his son Jack II as his caddie and a putter that resembled Paul Bunyan’s ax. Tom Watson took one look at that thing and said: “Jack, it looks like you’re going out to kill something for dinner.”

The other thing Jack brought along was a newspaper clipping that he stuck onto his refrigerator, one that carried the presumptuous suggestion that Nicklaus retire from competitive golf, because he was “done, finished, a has-been.”

Some sportswriter with the IQ of about 100 under par actually had the audacity to write: “Hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back no more, no more, no more, no more.”

Nicklaus used it for incentive. Sometimes he even muttered those three descriptions aloud, like a mantra, partly for inspiration, partly out of fear because, Nicklaus acknowledged later, “I thought it might be true.”

We remember the man making six birdies and an eagle over the last 10 holes. We remember him turning the back nine in 30 and slithering home that killer 15-foot putt on the 17th green with his blade raised high, like a fencer’s epee. What we tend to forget is Nicklaus’ 74 on opening day, or that he stood in ninth place at the outset of Sunday’s final round.

It was a convenient way for Jack-backers to condemn those who wrote him off. Only one or two wise guys had gone too far, most prominently the one on Nicklaus’ refrigerator, but suddenly an angry pack of told-you-so’s turned like wolves on absolutely anyone (ahem) who had dared even hint that Nicklaus was not the prince of the tour anymore, but just an aging king who warranted a curtsy now and then. It was as though every single owner of a word processor had called for Nicklaus to hurl his clubs into the creek.

Never mind that Nicklaus himself had said: “I was hitting it all over the world.” And never mind that, until five days ago, Nicklaus had not won a single thing since.

So, let’s get this Jack Nicklaus senior business out in the open. Yes, the gentleman won the Tradition last week near Scottsdale, Ariz., on a landscape of his own design. Yes, it made him one for one on the PGA’s popular tour for guys with graying head covers. And, yes, Nicklaus did confirm Wednesday, on the eve of his fifth decade at the Masters--he was an amateur here in 1959--that what he did last week represented “the best golf I have played since the mid-’70s.”

Uh-oh. Here we go again.

Are we backing Jack? Are we in his Pack? You bet we are. Attention, golf lovers. Read this paragraph. Forget that first paragraph. That was just a joke. Clip and save. We would be thrilled right down to our argyles if Nicklaus goes out and shows ‘em that he can still be nifty at 50.

Already Wednesday, he was setting us up for the kill.

Oh, my aching back --”My back comes and goes, and frankly it’s a little stiff and sore today. Tomorrow it’ll probably be fine.”

Oh, I don’t stand a chance --”Realistically, I’d have to be an obvious longshot. Maybe that’s even stretching it.”

Oh, that was nothing --”Sure, winning that senior event was nice, but when you haven’t been leading a tournament going into the last round for 10 years, it doesn’t make any difference what you’re playing in. You’re happy to win anything.”

Go ahead, Jack. Sandbag us, baby.

Keep in mind the following: He is down 15 pounds, fit as a fiddle, ready for golf. He’s hitting his long irons impeccably. He’s in his favorite tournament on familiar grounds with a reduced field, far less competition than at a U.S. Open or British. Augusta National is the sort of course, Nicklaus reminded us, that “doesn’t accentuate the things that I’ve lost in my golf game.” He can still win here, come age 50 or come the 21st Century.

Can’t you, Jack?

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said.

Come on, Jack . . .

“I suppose I can win.”

Jaaaack . . .

“Yeah. OK, sure, I think I can win.”

Damn right he can.