Sport: Master of the Fairway

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Golf generally works as an allegory for life, with all its trials of whimsy and honor, although too much can be made of golf's solitary responsibilities and life's essential loneliness. Done well, neither living nor golfing is negotiated completely alone, as a master at both demonstrated last week on a particularly sunny day in Augusta, Ga.

For a bear, Jack Nicklaus is surprisingly short, maybe 5 ft. 10 in. From a low of 170 lbs. last summer, too light to make the cut in either the U.S. or British Open, he has reaccumulated a paunch appropriate to a 46-year-old, while remaining considerably trimmer than the burr-headed and bulging Ohio youth who won three Masters during four mid-'60s years. Handsomely, Nicklaus won two others, along with just about everything else, in the '70s.

Until last week, Helen Nicklaus, 78, had not revisited Augusta National since her son's first Masters as a Walker Cup amateur in 1959. That year her husband Charlie drove the family from Columbus, pausing at Ohio State to fetch Jack's girlfriend Barbara. Among many privileges the pharmacist accorded his son was access to a storied golf course, the local Scioto Country Club, where Bobby Jones won a U.S. Open in 1926. Jack developed his sense of history there, and his mother must have some sense of it too, because this year she suddenly decided to return to the Masters.

Charlie Nicklaus has been dead for 16 years, but Charlie's stamp on Jack is visible yet. If Scioto Pro Jack Grout taught Nicklaus how to play, and Nicklaus taught himself how to win, Charlie taught Jack how to lose. Since his unexpected fourth U.S. Open and fifth P.G.A. victories at the age of 40, Nicklaus has spent six mostly twilit years displaying an unerring grace (everywhere but on the greens) that brought him to the last round of his 28th Masters four strokes and eight players behind.

Caddying for him was his oldest son Jackie, 24, himself a golfer of promise, winner of the prestigious North and South Amateur. Barbara and Jack have a daughter and four sons. Increasingly, the children egg their father into joining them at golf, feigning selfish interests but not fooling him. "They want the old man to practice," he says. Corporate setbacks have recently conspired with creaking muscles to limit his time on the courses he builds. It would be an exaggeration to say Jackie had to lead the old man around the National like a blind ward, but just a slight one. Color-blind to begin with (Hart Schaffner and Barbara have dressed him for years), Nicklaus has lost the horizon. He mourns, "I'm missing the pleasure of watching my golf ball finish--I can't see that far anymore." Throughout the tournament, he was forever asking Jackie, "Did it stay on the green?" Sunday, they conferred over putts like sailors gauging breakers. "Looks like the left edge," Jackie would say. His father would laugh. "How about an inch out on the right?" So they compromised and holed it. That was for a three at the par-four ninth. Nicklaus faced a 25-footer for another birdie at ten. "Oddly enough I felt comfortable over it and made it." At eleven, a 20-footer rolled in "as pretty as can be." Rather than stall him, a bogey at twelve actually gave him steam. He birdied 13, eagled 15 (a three at the par five) and nearly made a hole in one at 16. The noise rippling across the course was unmistakable.