Jack Nicklaus stood in the ninth fairway of Augusta National, staring down the flagstick with his 6-iron in hand. The years, 45 of them since his first Masters, have taken their toll, trapping the six-time champion in the body of an old man.
Nicklaus stood there, shrunken and sore, as he surveyed the shot at hand. He tried to channel the magic one last time as he looked upon the ninth green.
His drive had been good, but the ball had perched itself on the side of a hill, leaving him a difficult hanging lie.
The thought crept into his head that this was the last time, but he quickly pushed it away. Nicklaus eased through a couple of practice swings, visualizing the knockdown shot that would be needed to get the ball to the green.
He addressed his ball, looking up one last time to lock those piercing eyes onto the flagstick. He lowered his head and started his swing.
As he took his club back, everything seemed to stand still while the 6-iron glided back before sweeping forward through the ball.
His eyes followed the ball as it rose against the steely gray sky.
The silence turned into murmurs as the ball began to fall gently toward the green, and the murmurs exploded into a roar as the ball nestled four feet from the cup.
It had been his goal to hit two good shots on his last ever hole in Masters competition. Turns out he hit two great shots.
His son Jackie, working as his caddy for the week, rallied the old champion one last time.
“Come on dad,” he said, “let’s make another birdie.”
So father and son walked together to the green. The thoughts were coming in waves now.
There was no way to block them out, not on this final day. A lump rose high in his throat and his eyes began to moisten.
It sunk in that this was the last time walking down the ninth fairway of Augusta National in competition.
By the time that he reached the green, Nicklaus was overcome with the emotion of it all.
Tears glistened on his cheeks as the adulation of the patrons washed over him from all sides.
His time in Augusta raced through his mind, his many wins and near wins echoing across the decades.
He thought back to his first Masters, as a 19-year-old kid fresh out of Ohio.
In the blink of an eye, he was 46 years old, waging a furious back-nine comeback to win the tournament for the sixth and final time.
Now here he was, 65 years old and at the end of the line.
When it came time for him to putt, there wasn’t enough concentration left to make the short birdie attempt. So Jack Nicklaus tapped in for a routine par, an ordinary score for an extraordinary man.
And so it was that Nicklaus exited a stage that he had dominated for years, and he left on his own terms.
Like any good hero, he knew the sunset when he saw it, and he knew when it was time to ride off into it.

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