Jack Nicklaus on winning his first Open at Muirfield

In the opening round, played on a Wednesday in those days, I bettered the par of 71 by a stroke and found myself tied for the lead. Open fields are large, and the long summer days often mean a very early or very late tee time on one of the first two days. I dislike the late ones – going off when normally your thoughts would be turning to dinner plans – but I tried all day Thursday not to let my 3.22pm start bug me too much. It did, but that didn’t stop me shooting an almost error-free 67 to lead alone at the halfway mark by one shot over Peter Butler, who broke the course record with a 65, and by two from Harold Henning, Kel Nagle, and a putter-anchoring Phil Rodgers.

I finished with a big fat 75 in the third round, thanks mainly to four bogeys in the final five holes. For most of that evening, I’m sorry to say, I wasn’t much fun to be around. But in the final round I opened with a gorgeous 3-wood deadint o the wind, followed it with an equally fine 3-iron, and knocked a 25-footer cleanly into the heart of the hole. A birdie on such a tough hole so early in the round felt like a bonus.

The 10th, at 475 yards and with the wind dead across from the right, was probably the scariest hole on the course, and it nailed Phil as it had Arnold Palmer a few minutes earlier. After lengthy wars with the wheat, both took triple bogeys. I had made a cautious par 4 – 1-iron, 3-iron, two putts from 15 feet. Suddenly I was leading The Open by three strokes.

At the 11th hole I hit an excellent 1-iron from the tee and followed it with a super pitching wedge to within seven feet of the cup. “Jack,” I told myself, “you’re playing one of the finest rounds of your life. Just be sure you keep it going.” As I walked to the green, I could tell the huge galleries, pulling for me all week, believed it was all over for the prize presentation. Had that seven-footer dropped, they might have been right.

What happened is that I never touched the hole with the first putt; then, despite giving it all the care in the world, I also missed the second from 15 inches. As I watched that miserable little nothing of a putt rim out, I had one of the most severe mental jolts I’ve suffered on a golf course.

‘Jittery’ is not strong enough to describe my feelings as I walked to the 12th tee. And, of course, this had the inevitable effect. With the hole playing dead into the wind, I needed driver. It flew away into the “boonies”. But I got one of those breaks that every winner must acknowledge as critical if he has an honest soul. The shot was so bad it cleared “Micklem’s Folly” and landed where the spectators had been trampling the stuff down all week. From an almost perfect lie I hit a 9-iron to 25 feet and two-putted for par.

At the 16th, 198 yards downwind, I hit the green with a 7-iron, but 30 feet short of the hole. Looking over the putt, it occurred to me that if I was a little too strong I would be looking at a nasty down-hiller coming back. “Nicklaus,” I told myself, “with what you’ve just done to yourself there’s no way you’re going to win this thinking and playing defensively, so for goodness’ sake go ahead and hit it. Get a grip, man.” I hit the ball squarely and solidly, and only missed holing it by a couple of turns. That one firm, positive stroke restored my confidence in my shot-making abilities.Walking to the 17th tee I told myself to forget about playoffs. “This is a birdie hole,” I reminded myself. “Make one, and then a par, and let’s all go home.”

The 17th at Muirfield is a par 5 that swings to the left a couple of hundred yards from the tee. Even though I had hit 1-iron all three previous days, I decided to eliminate the risk by going down two clubs. I struck that 3-iron almost too well, the ball finishing about six feet from some knee-high rough. But it was on the short grass, which was all that mattered. I was now 238 yards from the hole, which at that time would normally have called for a 1-iron. After more deliberation, I decided on the 5-iron: one club less for the small ball, one-and-a-half clubs less for the wind, one less for extra roll resulting from firm ground, and half-a-club less for the effects of adrenaline. 

I hit the shot as well as I was capable of, and watched it land on the fairway about 20 feet short of the green, exactly as planned. Then, not being able to see the ball’s roll, I waited for what seemed an agonizingly long time for a crowd reaction. Finally, there came a big roar. Tingling with excitement, I almost jogged to the green, to find the ball 15 feet short and left of the cup. Suddenly, I felt calm as well as confident. Nevertheless, I told myself, “No heroics,” and lagged the putt a few inches short of the hole. Birdie, and half the task accomplished.

Muirfield’s 429-yard 18th is a better finishing hole than it appears visually. I decided on the tee shot that had worked the previous three days – a 1-iron with a touch of fade. Banked against the wind, the ball landed in the fairway, leaving me 208 yards. I chose a 3-iron and struck it perfectly, enjoying a thrill as I watched the wind counteract the fade just as planned, drifting the ball back to the rear portion of the green, 22 feet from the cup. I lagged it eight inches. And tapped in carefully. 

When you have dreamed of achieving something for what seems like forever, and it finally happens, and it’s been as hard a grind as that week was, so many emotions tumble around in your mind. You’re pleasurably confused and light-headed for a little while. I thought I was over that by the time of the prize presentation. By then it had occurred to me that I was only the fourth golfer to win all four of golf’s majors, joining Gene Sarazen, Ben Hogan, and Gary Player.

When I came to accept the trophy, the tears began welling up and I couldn’t get any words out. Being about to receive something I had genuinely doubted would ever be mine, was extremely emotional. It’s a moment I still enjoy recalling as much as any in my career.