Imagine a time when
ESPN did not have elaborate sets on remote locations all around the world with
dozens of crew and hosts and analysts on site. Imagine a young reporter with
only a photographer and a producer covering one of the most incredible sports
stories of all time working for what is now the monolithic ESPN. Imagine they
did not have “live” capability, but had to physically walk their raw taped
reports to a satellite uplink truck, from which they rented “feed” time, to
send their content back to Bristol, Connecticut. I would know about this, because I was the
reporter, and the story was Sunday at the 1986 Masters.
Jack Nicklaus would
shoot 65 in the final round that day. The palette was perfect on which Nicklaus
would fashion his masterpiece; beautiful blue skies, azaleas in full bloom and
the cathedral pines framing the fairways of the former plant nursery. Augusta
National is America’s living room. We gather in front of our televisions on a
particular Sunday in April to pay homage to golf’s greatest basilica. The
really lucky ones, they’re called “patrons”, have tournament badges which were
probably willed to them by a deceased relative. These folks get to actually be
there on the hallowed grounds to physically watch the tournament with their own
eyes. A couple of hundred of reporters also get special invites to describe the
action in various mediums.
Nicklaus and his sixth
green jacket at Augusta has been named by “Golf Magazine” as golf’s greatest
moment. In the pantheon of sports in all of history, his accomplishment
consistently ranks in the top 100, according to whoever puts together these
various lists. These enumerations are interesting and of course
subjective. What is not subjective is
how it felt to be there. Everyone in attendance that day knew something almost
beyond mortal had occurred; the ethereal nature of it all was palatable. To this day, those at Augusta on April 13,
1986 can smell the flowers, feel the warm sun, feel the ground shaking, and
hear the roars emitted from the spectators. Roars which have no comparison,
before or since. “Jack’s roars”— a thunderous tidal wave of sound which bounced
off those big pines, up from the Rae’s Creek, through the August National
clubhouse, down Magnolia Lane and dispersed throughout Northeast Georgia.
From now and all
through Masters week 2016, which will begin Monday April 4th, there
will be numerous tributes to the 30th Anniversary of the day
Nicklaus did what many thought was impossible. After all, he was 46 years old.
CBS Sports, the Golf Channel and certainly ESPN will air retrospective
documentaries and other videos which will stir up our collective memories. The
pieces will chronicle how Nicklaus birdied #9, #10 and #11, only to bogey #12
and everybody thought the dream had died. Then we’ll see the eagle on #15, and
Nicklaus will recall asking his caddie, his son Jackie, before the 212 yard
second shot, “How far do you think a three will go here? And I don’t mean a
club.” Then we’ll see the almost hole-in-one on #16 and the birdie on #17.
We will see co-leader Greg
Norman, paired with Nick Price, double bogey #10, only to charge incredibly
with four straight birdies from #14 through #17. In a recent telephone conversation, Norman
offered his perspective. “I was
approaching the 14th green and I look up and see maybe sixteen people
behind the green and a dog and a cat and a handbag. Practically nobody around,”
says Norman. “So when we get to the 15th tee, I see Jack over on 17 raising
his arm after making a putt. I said, oh
F&%#. I then turn to Nick and say, let’s show the rest of these people were
are not out of this tournament.” Of course, we will see Norman push his second shot
right at #18, then bogey and comes up a stroke short. We will remember Seve
Ballesteros, who seemed to have the tournament in control, until he hits the
water on #15 and three putt #17. We will
see Tom Kite miss a 12 footer for birdie on #18 for birdie that would have put
him in a playoff. After that putt, Kite told this reporter, “It was a perfect
putt. I’ve never hit a better putt. It
just didn’t go in.” We surmised the golf gods wouldn’t allow it.
I first met Nicklaus
while working at a television station in Jacksonville, Florida. I was covering
the 1984 Players Championship in Ponte Vedre when late one afternoon before the
tournament began, Nicklaus arrived to practice. He was only going to play the back
nine. When I approached him, for some reason, Nicklaus asked if I wanted to
walk with him. Of course I did. But I wasn’t walking, I was floating. Sure, I
was a young reporter, but forget that, I had been a Nicklaus fan all my life.
It was after dark when we went back to the clubhouse and parted ways. I went to the restroom and on the way out I
heard, “Alan? Alan?” from somewhere near
the lockers. When I peered around the corner, there sat Nicklaus. He looked awful. “I can’t get up. My back is
locked up.” He sent me to find his personal assistant, and then we helped get
Nicklaus up off the bench and out the back door. He didn’t want anybody to see
him like that. He shot 78 the first day and finished tied for 33rd. I couldn’t believe he could even hit the
ball.
A little over two
years later, the usual Sunday drama was in full display on the back nine at
Augusta. Payne Stewart had been paired with Fuzzy Zoeller, five groups ahead of
Nicklaus and Sandy Lyle. After he had finished, I sat down with Stewart to have
lunch in the clubhouse while we both were watching the tournament on
television. Stewart wound up finishing
tied for 8th and we were talking about his day when I noticed the
ice cubes in my sweet tea glass were jingling a bit. Then I felt the floor vibrating
slightly. “Are we
having an earthquake?” I asked Stewart.
He said, “Look there,” pointing to the television, “Jack just eagled 13.
You might want to get out there.”
I bolted from the
table and attempted to make my way down the course, between the #18 fairway and
#17 green. I could get no farther. The patrons were swarming their way to
wherever Nicklaus was. The ground was shaking. Even vendors were abandoning
their concession stands to try to take a peek. I retreated back to the
clubhouse and the television, because I wasn’t going to see anything out on the
grounds.
After Nicklaus putted
out on 18, I met him as he left the green.
He looked right at me and asked “Where are you set up?” “Up on the back
porch,” I replied. “I’ll be there,” he said.
Then the green jackets whisked him off in a golf cart and the world watched his
competitors fall one by one until he was the only one atop the vintage
leaderboard.
As I sat on the back
porch swing, my producer, Lee Rosenblatt was getting quite antsy. He was pacing
back and forth and kept asking me, “Is he coming, should I go find him, is he
coming?”
“Jack said he’ll be
here. He’ll be here,” I assured him.
We wanted to upload
the tape back to Bristol for the 7 p.m. SportsCenter. I figured that wasn’t going to happen. It was
about two hours now after the final putt, and it was dark. Finally I spotted
the figure of a man walking up a small pathway that had beaten down by the
spectators during the week up to the back of the clubhouse. It was Nicklaus. I think he borrowed the flash light from one
of the Pinkerton guards. He was all alone.
He came up to me on
the swing and sat down and said, “Do you mind if I just sit here for a while?
I’ve done a lot of talking.”
So Jack and I sat
there for about fifteen minutes. Neither
of us said a word. It was dead
quiet. There wasn’t the slightest
breeze. We didn’t even hear a cricket. I
figured the crickets got scared away by the crowds and events of the day. There
was not the slightest breeze. It was eerie, looking out toward the darkened
golf course. Nicklaus just sat and stared
out with a look of complete serenity on his face. I wondered what was going through his
mind? I’d ask him later. But for now, it
was his moment, his day, his triumph to soak in. Finally, he put his hand on my knee and said,
“You wanna’ do this?” I replied,
nonchalantly, “Might as well.” My photographer, Jeff Israel, began to set up
the lights and fire up the camera.
“Jack, before we
start,” I said, “You think now might be a good time to retire?”
He said, “How’d you
know I was thinking about that?” and he smiled.
Of course, Jack could
not retire. His sponsors and businesses needed him to keep his name out there,
especially after this supernatural Sunday. But we both knew, it would never get
any better than this.
