One of his pursuers was Palmer, his playing partner. Palmer had shot a 34 on the front nine to fall behind Brewer, and on the back nine he was never able to catch up. Palmer came to 18 two strokes behind and in need of supernatural help. It never came.
Not that Brewer didn't give him a chance. Reaching the 18th green at one under par, the only player in subpar figures at that point, he needed just two putts from 60 feet for apparent victory. He stroked the first one gingerly downhill, but it swerved left at the last minute and rolled seven feet past. When he missed coming back, he sat down among the green-coated officials and, looking like the saddest man in the world, waited for someone to beat him.
The first man to have a try was Tommy Jacobs. Jacobs had been two strokes back of Brewer at one time on the second nine, but a birdie on the 15th plus Brewer's bogey on 18 made them all even. Jacobs came to the final hole, scene of innumerable last-minute disasters, needing a par to tie, and promptly hit his drive with the toe of his club, sending the ball into the rough swale at the bottom of the hill. From there he hit a four-wood he will never forget. It landed 10 feet to the right of the pin, bounded 25 feet up the green, stopped and rolled back 10 feet. He missed his birdie putt, but he sank a three-footer for his tie and sat down beside Brewer to await the big man, Jack Nicklaus.
Nicklaus had also been two strokes behind Brewer late in the afternoon, but like Jacobs, he birdied the 15th and got even on Brewer's 18th-hole disaster. Just after Brewer missed his putt on 18, Nicklaus hit a magnificent nine-iron three feet from the 17th pin. It looked like a certain birdie and, therefore, an equally certain victory for Nicklaus. But when he stroked his putt, the ball broke sharply to the left, never coming close to the hole. Jack moved over to 18 as Brewer and Jacobs, companions in agony, sat and squirmed.
Nicklaus' huge drive was into the gallery on the left side of the fairway and his approach ran 40 feet past the hole, very close to where Brewer and Jacobs were sitting. After studying the tricky downhill putt for some minutes, Jack tapped the ball with infinite delicacy. Two feet from the hole it was surely headed in, but on the last turn or two it drifted left and missed the cup by a couple of inches. Over at the edge of the green, Brewer and Jacobs suddenly were all smiles. Gloomy Sunday had become Happy Sunday, and as for Monday—well, Monday was another day.