Goodbye to one of golf's best friends
Posted: Tuesday March 02, 1999 12:35 PM
His passing will likely create very little emotion beyond the
boundaries of his byline. Those of us who worked with Tom
McCollister -- and played with him -- surely will pick up the slack. If a
heart can truly be broken, there are many in serious need of mending
today.
But somewhere in South Florida, Jack Nicklaus today will find a quiet
corner, close his eyes and offer his unique perspective on Tom's
death.
For if it hadn't been for McCollister, the Nicklaus legend likely
wouldn't have reached its ultimate peak a decade ago.
Tom McCollister, a sportswriter for the Atlanta
Journal-Consitution -- forever, it seems -- was 61 when he died in a
traffic accident Monday in suburban Atlanta. He had been the
newspaper's NASCAR beat man the last few years after covering the PGA
tour for years. He had just talked the paper into taking him off the
gruelling grind of stock cars to cover other sports. The Masters was
going to be his re-debut.
He would have been welcomed with open arms, a veteran returning to the
Fold -- the quiet magnificence of Augusta National such a contrast to
the sound and fury of his recent beat.
And in his return, as he opened his fourth pimento-cheese sandwich in
the crow's nest above the Augusta press center, he would have been
forced to give foundation to the legend one more time. Of how he was
responsible for the Golden Bear's greatest triumph.
It was 1986 and McCollister, as was his annual habit, had set about
analyzing and handicapping the Masters field. Nicklaus had his five
green jackets, of course, and was still the dominant figure in the
field, but, in McCollister's eyes (and in truth, in the eyes of the
majority) was no more than a figurehead. A ceremonial golfer at best.
The odds of his winning?
When Sunday night came and the thunder of one of the most surprising,
electrifying victories in Masters history was but an echo in the pines
outside, Nicklaus, wearing his record-setting 6th green coat, sat in
the media room and gave McCollister full credit.
"He wrote that I was done, washed up," said a playful Nicklaus,
feigning rage. "Barbara clipped that story and put it on the
refrigerator. No chance whatsoever? A lotta times, something like that
spurs you on. "
McCollister blushed that night and smiled his little smile,
embarrassed not that he had underestimated the great man but that
Nicklaus would make him such a large part of this historic moment.
He was the kind of writer, not flashy or given to great prose, who
simply did his job very, very well. The only praise he desired came
every two weeks from the accounting department.
He would have blushed at the attention again this April, but with the
flush of a reborn energy. We will all, in our own ways, Nicklaus
included, find a place there to say our farewells.
| 
