THE rabbit ears on the black-and-white television my father's parents kept in the front room of their home weren't doing their job. Remembering when
Jack’s legacy beganOn a late afternoon in 1962, my grandmother begged this strange box atop her dresser to broadcast pictures of Arnold Palmer striding purposely up the U.S. Open fairways to another victory, his army close at hand.
But it didn't listen.
Instead, this prehistoric television antenna with tinfoil wrapped tightly on the two ends captured a different destiny. A Baby Huey-looking character, something a 7-year-old could identify with, left the king and his court speechless after an 18-hole U.S. Open playoff win.
Nobody in my grandparents' home had any idea it would be the first of 18 major titles the golfer wearing the fat-man costume would win over the next quarter-century. I only knew my grandmother believed Arnie was still the man, and that this pretender from Ohio named Jack Nicklaus had better not forget it.
"Jack Nicholson?" my 7-year-old daughter asked incredulously, snapping me out of the twilight zone I'd entered after hearing Nicklaus announce Wednesday that his Grand Slam run was done. "Jack Nicholson doesn't play golf. He's the Joker."
I laughed briefly, then said, "Nicklaus not Nicholson."
"Oh . . . Can I go play outside?"
HAD I asked my grandmother that same question all those years ago, it's unlikely my own meager path would have crossed Nicklaus' and Palmer's 36 years later at the Senior Skins Game on the Big Island.
I spent the rest of that afternoon in 1962 listening to my grandmother describe Palmer's exploits on the golf course. She admired his boldness, the go-for-it attitude that best described the American spirit.
Like all Texans, she loved football, "But to me, golf exemplifies what sports is all about," she said. "You not only have to be physically gifted, you also have to be mentally strong to handle the pressure."
Those words came back to me at the conclusion of this year's Senior Skins Game. Before the event, Nicklaus wasn't sure how much his ailing hip would allow him to play in 1998.
Two days later, he didn't win a skin and opted to skip the press conference.
"Where's Jack?" Palmer asked. "I don't want him to go just yet."
Like many fans across the country, I'm not ready for him to exit, either. Everyone felt a touch of sadness this week after learning he would skip this year's British Open, snapping a string of 154 consecutive major tournament appearances that stretches across four decades. There will never be another like him.
Granted, he has the sense of humor of a CEO and a steely-eyed approach to life that never made him as much of a fan favorite as Palmer. But perhaps that's what separates him from the rest of the players.
HE possesses a strength and will to win that no one has matched over the last 38 years. Even my grandmother, who died before seeing him win his final major in 1986, begrudgingly gave him his due.
Her conversion came after Nicklaus lost to Tom Watson at the 1981 Masters. Apparently, Watson had seen Nicklaus raise his fist high in the air after sinking a birdie putt to close the gap between the two. Watson thought Nicklaus was shaking his fist at him, something that inspired him to win by two over Nicklaus and Johnny Miller.
My grandmother fondly remembered Nicklaus' response: "Goodness gracious, Tom. I would never do anything like that." She paused a second, then said, "Can you imagine anyone believing that a gentleman like Jack would shake his fist in someone's face? Jack is still the man and that Tom Watson better not forget it."
I haven't forgotten. Nor has anyone else who recalls that afternoon in 1962 when Nicklaus gave us a hint of the man who would be king.
Paul Arnett has been covering sports
for the Star-Bulletin since 1990.