Jack smiled. "Gary cannot understand Lee. He says, 'How can Trevino say that?' I tell him, 'It's psychology, Gary. He says I'm the greatest, then he beats my ears off.' "
In Cincinnati Jack toured the new clubhouse and pro-shop facilities, introducing people around. He never missed a name. With the weather again pressing in he covered the two courses in a golf cart with Charles Mechem, the chairman of Taft Broadcasting, making suggestions for changes as they drove.
One course was empty of players, or seemed so until they came to the 10th green where two men, one in an orange poncho, were risking pneumonia. Jack stopped the cart behind and off to the left so as not to disturb them, but they had already seen him. Orange Poncho was face to face with a touchy chip shot over a bunker to the green. His horror was palpable: a nightmare reverse role. He was not watching the greatest golfer in the world, the greatest golfer in the world was watching him. He hunched over to prepare his shot, then pulled away. Smiling weakly, he looked toward Nicklaus. "Wanta hit this one for me?" Jack said no thanks, he would probably just foul it up. He gave a go-ahead wave.
The man returned to his task, wrenching the handle of his club like a baseball player, hoping, perhaps, to wring out an acceptable shot. He took a hurried back-swing and lined the ball over the bunker and 30 feet past the pin. He looked up in relief. Jack started up the cart. "That's the way I'd have done it," he called out. Orange Poncho grinned happily, as one who has heard the angels.