Going out with style
Jack Nicklaus says the British Open is the last roundup. Two more spins around St. Andrews, four if he can make the cut one last time, and then he's gone, now and forever.
That's what he says, and if this doesn't sound too impertinent, here's hoping he holds true to his word.
Not because he hasn't earned the right to go out whenever and wherever he wants. Being on the very shortest list of the game's greatest players earns you a get-out-of-the-bunker-free card you can use anytime you want.
And not because he is embarrassing the game, or himself, or his legacy, or some other subsegment of his existence by continuing to play at his age.
And not because he is taking a spot that would otherwise go to some deserving young'un fresh out of school. That's his spot until he says otherwise.
It's just that, well, we get a little worried when athletes announce they've had enough, then decide they haven't after all. See Felix Trinidad for the latest example of this – return to the ring after 29 months with a monumentally bad haircut, get utterly schooled for 12 rounds by a guy willing to call himself Winky in public, only to retire again.
What, O children of the corn, is the lesson we can draw from that?
Nicklaus hasn't been an impact figure in the sport for years now, unless you happen to spend your spare time hanging around golf course galleries. Strangely enough, he seems to be around large and supportive crowds a lot of the time.
In other words, there is actually no compelling reason why he should have to quit, except that, well, it actually is time, and St. Andrews is as a good a place as any. In fact, it is the perfect place for him to knock off for good. It is one of those special places Nicklaus made doubly so with his mere presence.
Put another way, we are not talking the 84 Lumber Classic here. This isn't just any stretch of grass, sand and dirt – this is a stage, and stars leave stages.
Not only that, this is the course where Tiger Woods won the 2000 Open by eight strokes when he was the best golfer who ever lived. Since Nicklaus is passing the torch anyway, the chances of passing it to Woods at full wingspan and plumage makes the scene all the more gothically charming.
So we have that all settled. British Open, St. Andrews, memories, torch-passing ... check, check, check and check.
The only thing that could ruin it is the off-chance that he plays well and gets the itch to make a comeback.
This, we do not want. Oh, the playing well would be fine. In fact, the better, the better. Shoot 68-68-68-67. Win the jug. Cash one last time. Perfect.
Then go offstage, and stay offstage. The walk-off piece taken to its logical extreme. Better than perfect. Double perfect. Life-doesn't-ever-get-better-than-this perfect.
On the other hand, if he shoots 78-78, it's still close enough to perfect because he will get two more rounds of love from people who fully understand why he deserves it. He'll also get some big-time fawning from the TV sprogs, but there's always the mute button.
In fact, the best way of all to remember Nicklaus' last tournament ever is to have The Golf Channel just shoot the last 36 (or, if God has a gift for show business, 72) holes without comment at all. Just let him play, let the galleries roar, let him chat it up with his caddie, his foursome, the crowds, the stewards, all of it. Jack's Last Walk, Unplugged.
In other words, reality TV without the three scoops of stupid and the morons-only topping.
What could be wrong with that? Nothing.
What could wreck it? Jack, at the 84 Lumber Classic, wearing a modified Mohawk and playing a round with a guy named Winky, just to think of one scenario.
So here's hoping we get what we want for a change. Not because we need to punish a past-it hero, or because we're tired of seeing him not be the Nicklaus of old, or because we're too short-attention-span-theater to enjoy history on the hoof.
No, here's hoping we get what he promised because he promised it, and because there is no sensible or helpful alternative. In other words, we want Jack Nicklaus to walk off the 18th, be it Friday or Sunday, and live out his run with warm memories only he can ever have.
Only he, and the rest of us.
Ray Ratto is a columnist with the San Francisco Chronicle and a regular contributor to ESPN.com
