YESTERDAY'S ROUND: Jack Nicklaus' No. 1 Fan

by Walter Bingham

As an ardent follower of the game, I was sorry to see the Jack Nicklaus era come to an end. What I miss most is walking outside the ropes at tournaments with his wife Barbara - a journey that began in the mid 60s and lasted until the 2000 U.S. Open at Pebble Beach, Jack's last appearance in the event he won four times.

JACK AND BARBARA met when both were students at Ohio State. They married, moved to Florida and raised five children. Barbara soon became known as an all-American wife, mother, neighbor and aide to anyone in need. She knew nothing about golf before meeting Jack.

Once when she overheard a club member say "No mulligans allowed," she thought it meant that only players of a certain caliber were permitted to play there. But she learned by walking, watching and listening, until finally she knew more about the game, especially her husband's, than virtually anyone else.

Our most frequent encounters occurred at the Masters, which I attended for 25 years and she, for longer than that. I introduced myself to her on the second hole in 1966. She was easy to spot: blonde, slim, sitting on a shooting stick, back from the crush of Jack's gallery, waiting for him to hit his next shot. As usual, she was encircled by a half dozen friends plus a newspaper reporter or two. She introduced me to everyone. I was astonished when three or four holes later, another friend of hers appeared and Barbara remembered my name. I later learned that her ability to recall names, even after an absence of several years, was legendary.

If you walked with Barbara, you followed “Barbara's Rule”. She never, ever departed for the next tee until Jack's playing partner had holed out. Nicklaus would sink a long putt and the crowd would take off, but Barbara would stay until Gay Brewer (or whoever) tapped in his two-footer.

That first year she taught me the best spots from which to watch the Masters. "Where are you going?" she asked as I headed toward the 4th green after Jack's tee shot. "You'll never see the putting from there." Instead, she and the group set up camp beside a dogwood tree, some 100 yards away. With the help of binoculars, you might well have been Jack's caddy.

U.S. Opens were a different story since they were usually played at courses she didn't know. At those tournaments, Barbara often had to rely upon scouts. I was one. At six feet tall, I could usually get a peek at a green, even from five rows deep. Nicklaus would hit an approach from 180 yards out, and there would be a roar. Close, but how close? I would edge as close to the green as possible, stand on tiptoes, see Jack's ball four feet from the pin and report back to headquarters.

At one Open, I acquired a periscope, a rectangular cardboard box with mirrors at either end that would, in effect, offer the same view a person on a ladder might have. Barbara did not approve of periscopes, but I finally convinced her to try it. I could tell that she was torn between what she considered proper golf-watching etiquette and gaining a clear view of her husband putting -but in the end, she settled on etiquette.

Another "Barbara Rule" involved emotional conduct during a tournament. No cartwheels when Jack made a birdie. No tantrums when he bogeyed. She also had an uncanny way of knowing exactly what had just happened from the crowd's roar. Walking along the 18th fairway at Riviera during the Los Angeles Open, we heard wild and sustained shouting after Jack hit his approach to the green. "He must have holed it," I said. She replied, "No, it's just very close." She was attuned to the decibel level.

From her I learned a lot about Jack-watching. For instance, we often stationed ourselves so far from a green that we couldn't see the ball. She told me that if Jack stroked his putt and immediately stood straight up, the ball had no chance of going in. The longer he stayed down, the better the putt's line. Often he would rise out of his crouch, putter raised high, signifying a birdie. At the 1986 Open, we were walking up the 10th fairway, out of sight of the tee. Suddenly someone shouted "Fore, right" and it was clear that someone in the Nicklaus threesome was in deep rough.

"Maybe it's Mahaffey," I offered.

"No, it's Jack," she replied.

"How can you tell?"

"Timing," she said. "He was hitting second. Also he's been hitting right a bit lately."

Of course there was a reason why I connected with Barbara and a few other golfer's wives. For nearly 40 years I was an editor at Sports Illustrated, often in charge of, among other sports, golf. Through a wife, one could gather a potpourri of information about a player, some trivial –"he likes pancakes for breakfast during a tournament"– some relevant – "he hates the second hole, especially the changes they've made". But even the trivial, if sprinkled throughout a story, would make the reader feel closer to the subject.

The last time I saw Barbara was at Pebble Beach, Jack's last Open. I brought her a curious gift, 19 pennies – a 1962, two 1963s, a 1965 and so on. She decoded the message instantly. They represented her husband's 18 major championships. The 19th was minted in 2000, which she immediately started to rub for luck. Alas, there was no magic. Jack missed the cut in his final Open.

Over the years I often talked about the Cape and the splendid courses we have here. I told her that if she and Jack ever traveled here, to be sure to drop by. Perhaps Greg Norman can talk Jack into participating in the annual golf outing at Willowbend. If so, be sure to attend. I'll introduce you to Barbara. Rest assured, she won't forget your name.

Of course it wasn't all Barbara and me. Over the years I had many encounters with the man himself. Nicklaus had won the U.S. Open in 1967, so Sports Illustrated, with whom he had a contract, invited him the next May to Oak Hill in Rochester, where he would defend his title. I was the magazine's golf editor at the time, and, together with one of our reporters, flew up there from New York City. An hour later, Jack arrived from Florida in his private plane.

It was night, and, after the three of us checked into our motel, we decided to have a beer. A waitress took our order. When she returned, she asked, "You're Jack Nicklaus, aren't you?"

Nicklaus pled guilty.

"My little boy would love to have your autograph," she said. She produced a scrap of paper which Nicklaus signed.

"He's 10 years old. He lives with his father. I stay right here at the motel, Room 132." With that she left.

There was a moment of silence, and then Jack asked, "Did you hear what I heard?" We nodded. "Occupational hazard," he said. "But if either of you are interested, be my guest."

The only time I ever saw Jack annoyed with Barbara was something of my doing. In 1973 I had asked Barbara if she would keep a diary during Masters week. S. I. would pay her and publish it. She agreed and set to the task immediately. On Thursday afternoon she showed me what she had recorded so far, which was very promising. At the same time, I told her that we would need to photograph her both as a spectator and at the Nicklaus’ rented home. She told me to come over about 6:30.

Photographer Neil Leifer and I parked our car at the head of the driveway and walked toward the house, which had a huge bay window. We could clearly see Jack in the living room, and he could just as clearly see us approaching. He was not happy. When we rang the bell, he answered it, at the same time saying rather icily, "What do you want?" - which clearly sounded more like "Whatever you want, you can't have."

At that moment Barbara appeared, saying "Oh Jack, I forgot to tell you." Thanks a lot, Barbara, I thought.

It all had a happy ending. I don't think Jack could ever be angry with Barbara. He lightened up, and Leifer took a roll's worth of pictures. As we were about to leave, I asked if I could have one photograph with the two Nicklauses. You're looking at it now.