You Can’t Put a Rap on His 67

“Well, like I always say, the slums of Chicago are full of first-round leaders,” said Peter Jacobsen--golfer, comedian, winner of (appropriately) Bob Hope’s tournament and PGA Tour raconteur, not to mention composer, lead singer and guitar picker of the Grammy-losing recording group, Jake Trout and the Flounders.

Never before, we dare say, in the long and stuffy history of the Masters, had any player plopped down into a chair at his news conference and promptly commenced to spitting into his microphone like a rap musician, as Jacobsen did Thursday after his opening-round 67. Needless to say, assorted august Augustans stared at Jacobsen as though he needed to be fitted for a straitjacket, not a green jacket.

“Pppp-pp-pp-pp,” Jacobsen spat. “I can’t rap . . . like no other . . . ‘cause can’t you see . . . I ain’t no soul brother? Pppp-pp-pp-pp .”

Charlie Yates, venerable chairman of the Masters press committee, sat bug-eyed next to this 36-year-old goofy golfer, looking as though he had just spied a UFO.

“Don’t you know rap?” Jacobsen turned to him and asked.

“Just barely,” Yates replied, with a drawl thick as Georgia clay.

Peter Jacobsen, the golfer from another planet, withdrew from the Masters, as well as the British Open, three years ago in anguish over a ruptured disk. Now, he’s just swinging along, singing a song, chirping like a birdie, captivating galleries with his standup patter and even picking himself to win the Masters--no foolin’.

“On what grounds?” somebody asked.

“What grounds!” Jacobsen yelped. “Take a look at that scoreboard, pal! Them grounds!”

And away he went, ramblin’ on about his round, addressing the ball with all the seriousness of Ed Norton--”Hello, ball”--embellishing his fantasy of becoming one of golfdom’s greats, inevitably working the conversation around to the offbeat musical trio he formed with Mark Lye on vocals and Payne Stewart on harmonica that cut an album satirizing popular songs. You know, like their version of Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” The one that goes:

“Hittin’ on the back of the range,

“Tryin’ to play like Curtis Strange.”

Talk about a ruptured disc. There also are parodies of artists ranging from Bobby McFerrin--”Don’t Worry, Keep Swinging”--to Jim Morrison and the Doors--”Grinders on the Tour”--on this, Jake Trout and the Flounders’ debut recording. What else might we expect from a golfer as beyond-the-fringe as Jacobsen, who for years has entertained spectators and playing partners alike with his impersonations of PGA stars.

“People still come up to me every day and say: ‘Do Arnold!’ or ‘Do Stadler!’ ” Jacobsen said.

On the course, he finds himself outdoing Arnie, outdoing the Walrus. His pretty, five-under-par round Thursday included a sand blast at No. 2 to within three inches of the hole and a self-described “chicken-hearted” lag in front of the creek at No. 13 that led him to a nice, safe birdie, on the very same hole where Paul Azinger later took an ugly 10.

Naturally, that reminded Jacobsen of a story:

“I’m playing the British a few years ago (in 1985) at Royal St. George, and I’m doin’ real well, six or seven under, except I made a nine at the 14th hole, which is a par five. So, I start moanin’ later about my one bad hole, and this Scottish old-timer comes up to me with his thick brogue and says: ‘Petuh, theh’s no sich thing as pahs, buddies or bogeys. Theh’s jist noombers.’

“And that’s how I look at it now. There are no pars, birdies or bogeys--just numbers. Just string ‘em together and add ‘em up.”

There must be some cosmic significance in there somewhere, but perhaps only Peter Erling Jacobsen is able to interpret it. He definitely hears his own drummer. Only he, for example, feels better sitting in third place than in first because of all of those previous first-round Masters leaders from Robert Wrenn to Bill Kratzert to Gary Hallberg who, figuratively speaking, ended up in the slums of Chicago instead of in the winner’s circle of Augusta.

Since it is somewhat difficult at times to describe Jacobsen, about all you could do Thursday was ask him to describe himself.

“Aw, that’s your job,” he said. “You can pull out that thesaurus of yours, can’t you?”

Just one adjective, at least?

“Uh, OK, I dunno . . . Masters champion ? “ Jacobsen said. “No, that’s not much of an adjective.

“ Unpredictable , maybe?

“ Great putter ?”

Jacobsen sat there, trying to think of some more, something more suitable, something appropriate to his personality.

“I give up,” he finally said. “ Rapmaster ?”