At 85, Jack Nicklaus Reveals the 5 Golfers He Admires Most

At 85, Jack Nicklaus Reveals the 5 Golfers He Admires Most

You know, when you reach an age like 85, people expect you to slow down, to sit back, to spend your days remembering the trophies and the records. But that is not really how it feels. What comes back to me most often are not the victories, but the people. The men I watched, the men I competed with, the men who shaped the way I understood this strange, beautiful, lonely game we call golf. Golf has a way of teaching you who you are. You stand out there by yourself. No teammates to hide behind. No excuses when the ball lands somewhere you did not want it to. And because of that, you learn to pay attention. You watch how others walk, how they breathe before a shot, how they deal with disappointment, how they turn pressure into poise. Over the decades, I found myself learning just as much from the players around me as I did from my own practice. So, when you ask me to name the five golfers I admire most, well, that is not a simple list for me, it is more like opening a memory drawer I have kept closed for a long time. Each of these men represents a lesson, a season, a turning point in my own life. And at this age, I feel a certain responsibility to share that with you, not as a speech, but as a conversation. Just me telling you the truth of what I have seen and what has stayed with me. Let me start with the one who taught me the meaning of willpower. When I talk about the golfers who shaped me, I always begin with Ben Hogan. I do not think there has ever been another figure in this sport who carried silence the way he did. The first time I watched him, I remember feeling as if the entire course had agreed to hold its breath. He had that kind of presence. Not loud, not dramatic, just absolute. You could sense that every motion came from a place deeper than mechanics. It was as if the club was simply an extension of whatever he had already decided inside himself. Long before I ever stood across from him, I knew Hogan as the man who simply refused to quit. You know the story, of course, the car accident that should have ended everything, the injuries that would have stopped almost anyone else. But with Hogan, the remarkable part was not his comeback. It was the way he never asked for admiration because of it. He came back because that was the only thing he knew how to do. Work, refine, repeat, try again. Watching him, you learned that talent can take you far, but resolve can take you places talent does not even know exist. What struck me most was the discipline. Hogan approached practice the way a craftsman approaches his tools. He repeated the same motions until they looked simple. But the simplicity was an illusion. There was a weight behind every swing, a history, a standard he set for himself long before anyone else expected anything from him. And that standard forced the rest of us to raise our own. You could not watch Hogan and allow yourself to be casual about golf. He made you honest. I remember standing near him once, close enough to hear the sound of the strike. It was different, cleaner, more certain. You could close your eyes and still know it belonged to him. And uh I think that is when I understood that greatness is not always loud or charismatic. Sometimes it is quiet, sharp, almost severe. Hogan showed me that the pursuit of excellence is in many ways a private battle. The galleries see the result, but they never truly see the war you fight with yourself. He also taught me something deeper, something I did not appreciate until many years later. Willpower is not about forcing your way through obstacles. It is about choosing day after day to become the person who can face them. Hogan did not defeat hardship. He transformed it. His strength was not in overcoming pain, but in refusing to let pain define the story. Whenever people ask me what Hogan meant to the game, I tell them this. He reminded us that golf is earned, not given, not gifted, not lucked into, earned shot by shot, morning after morning until the work becomes part of who you are. And when I look back now with more decades behind me than ahead, I realize that Hogan shaped the way I approached not only golf but life. He set a tone for an entire generation, including me. A tone that said, “If you want something to last, you have to build it with your own hands.” That is why he comes first in my mind. He was the foundation, the measure, the reminder that greatness begins long before anyone is watching. Now, let me tell you about another player, one who changed the landscape of the sport in a very different way. When I think about the golfers who shifted the entire world of this sport, Tiger is the name that rises almost immediately. I remember the first time I watched him move across a fairway. There was an energy around him, something sharp and focused, something that told you he was not just another talented young player. He carried himself with a sense of direction, as if he already knew where he was going long before the rest of us figured it out. What struck me early on was the intensity. Tiger did nothing halfway. His preparation, his fitness, his mental routine, everything felt like it came from a different blueprint than the one my generation grew up with. We prided ourselves on discipline, but Tiger elevated discipline into an art form. It was not enough for him to be good. He wanted to explore every corner of what great could mean. And in doing so, he forced the rest of the world to reimagine the limits of golf. I remember watching him in those years when he seemed almost untouchable. If you stood anywhere near the ropes, you could feel the air change when he stepped up to a shot. People did not just expect something remarkable. They waited for it. And the thing is, Tiger delivered again and again under conditions that would have broken other players. Pressure did not chase him. He did the chasing. But the part of Tiger that impressed me most was his commitment to continuous growth. Every time the sport shifted, he shifted with it. He rebuilt his swing more than once. He reworked his body. He reworked his mindset. Most players hope to hold on to success once they find it. Tiger was willing to dismantle success and rebuild it stronger. That takes courage most people never see because from the outside it looks unnecessary. From the inside it looks like truth. If you want to last, you cannot stay still. And then there is his presence. Tiger had an ability to command silence when he stood over the ball. Galleries that usually hummed with whispers would fall quiet in a way that reminded me of something sacred. It was not fear, it was respect. People knew they were watching a man who was rewriting the game in real time. Of course, he faced challenges more than many players ever will. But what I admire is not the perfection of his journey. It is the resilience. He rose, he fell, and he rose again. The resilience of Tiger Woods is not the resilience of someone untouched by failure. It is the resilience of someone who refuses to let failure be the final sentence. He showed an entire generation that greatness is not a single moment or a single season. Greatness is the willingness to evolve, to learn, to rebuild even when the world believes you have already given them everything. When people ask why I hold Tiger in such high regard, I tell them this. He changed the expectations of golf. Not just for fans, not just for players, for the sport itself. He expanded the definition of what was possible. And once you expand a definition, it never goes back. That is Tiger’s legacy to me. And from here, I want to talk about someone very different. someone whose gift was not power or precision but imagination. Whenever I think about the beauty of golf, the kind of beauty that cannot be taught or measured, my mind goes straight to Sevy. He was the kind of player who made you stop whatever you were doing just to watch what might happen next. And believe me, with Sevy, you never quite knew that unpredictability was part of his genius. The first time I saw him handle a difficult lie, I remember thinking, “Well, he is in trouble now.” But trouble to Sevy was never a dead end. It was an invitation. He approached impossible positions with the same calm you might bring to a walk in the garden. Most of us would look for the safest way out. Sevy would look for the most imaginative way out. Sometimes he created shots that did not seem to exist until he invented them. There was electricity in the way he moved around the course. You could tell he trusted his instincts more than any guide book. Some players rely on repetition, others on calculation. Sevy relied on feel. The club in his hands almost looked alive, as if it responded to emotion as much as physics. And when his creativity connected perfectly with the moment, you could sense the entire crowd feel it at the same time. It was not just golf, it was performance. What I admired about him most was not just his skill, but his freedom. Sebie refused to let golf turn him into something predictable. He preserved the wildness in his game, the spark that made him truly unique. Watching him taught me something I did not fully appreciate when I was younger. Golf is not only about discipline or precision. It is also about expression. The game has room for structure, yes, but it also has room for poetry. He uh reminded me that the course is not just a test. It is a canvas. And some players, rare players, treat it as such. They paint with risk, with courage, with imagination. That was Sevy. Even his mistakes were interesting. Even his recoveries were memorable. There was never a dull moment when he held a club. But beyond the talent, there was a spirit to him, a fire, a sense that he loved the game. Not because it was safe, but because it was unpredictable. That is something you cannot teach. You are born with it or you are not. When younger players ask me what they should learn from Sevy, I tell them this. Do not be afraid to be yourself out there. The game needs structure, but it also needs soul. It needs those who remind us that there is more than one way to chase a dream. And now after talking about a man who played with instinct and imagination, I should tell you about another figure in my life. Someone whose presence shaped my career in a completely different way. Someone who was not just a rival, but something far more lasting. When people talk about my career, Arnold’s name shows up almost as often as mine. And honestly, I would not have it any other way. Our lives were tied together long before either of us understood what it meant. He was already a beloved figure when I came along. A kind of force that pulled crowds toward him wherever he went. You could feel the energy shift just because he stepped onto the tea. I learned very quickly that if you were paired with Arnold, you needed to be ready for attention, pressure, and a different kind of atmosphere altogether. But what mattered to me was not only the way he played, it was the way he carried himself. Arnold had a presence that felt warm, human, open. He connected with people in a way few athletes ever do. You could see it in the way fans reached for him, the way they believed in him, the way he made everybody around him feel included. And yet when we stepped inside the ropes, he was a competitor through and through. fierce, determined, brave in the kind of way that came from the heart rather than from calculation. There were moments between us that shaped who I became as a player. I remember walking down a fairway beside him and realizing that rivalries are only destructive when they lack respect. Ours never did. We pushed each other, yes, but never to tear the other down. We pushed because we believed the game deserved our best. And because of that, I think both of us rose higher than we would have on our own. What I always admired was his spirit. Arnold played with emotion, with grit, with a kind of fearless intensity that made even the simplest shot feel dramatic. When he was behind, he attacked. When he was ahead, he attacked. There was no holding back. Watching him taught me that the crowd can feel everything you project. And if you give them honesty, they will give you loyalty. But it was outside the competition where Arnold left the deepest mark on my life. Despite all the pressure and expectations, he never stopped being generous. He never stopped showing kindness. Even in moments when the fans were rooting against me because they loved him so much. He treated me with nothing but fairness and grace. That sort of thing stays with you. It shapes the way you choose to treat others. As the years went on, our relationship evolved into something far more important than a rivalry. It became friendship, respect, and a shared understanding of what it means to devote your life to a sport that demands so much. I look back now and realize that some of my most meaningful memories are not about winning or losing, but about walking beside Arnold, learning from him without either of us having to say a word. People sometimes ask me how I feel about being linked to Arnold for so long. And my answer is simple. I am grateful to be connected to someone of his character, his passion, his integrity that is not a burden. That is an honor. Now, let me tell you about another man who was just as important to my journey. Someone whose discipline and spirit carried lessons of their own. Gary has been part of my story for so long that sometimes it feels as if our careers were woven together from the very beginning. When I think about him, the first word that comes to mind is discipline. Pure, relentless, unquestionable discipline. Gary never approached a day casually. Not in competition, not in practice, not even in the way he walked from one shot to the next. Everything he did carried intention. I remember seeing him train when the rest of us were still wiping sleep from our eyes. He treated his body like it was the engine of his career. And he cared for it with a dedication that was far ahead of his time. You did not see many players back then talking about fitness or nutrition. Gary was already living it. And because of that, he stayed strong, stayed competitive, stayed present long after most players had faded. There was something inspiring about that. It reminded me that longevity is not an accident. It is a choice you make every single day. But beyond the physical part of his routine, it was his mindset that stayed with me. Gary had an uncanny ability to stay positive even when the situation around him looked anything but promising. I have seen him face tough lies, difficult conditions, and setbacks that would frustrate almost anyone. But his reaction was nearly always the same. He would smile, gather himself, and move forward as if the challenge were something he had been waiting for. That attitude was not naive. It was deliberate, a declaration that the moment would not control him. One of the memories I carry with me is watching him pull himself back into a tournament that seemed to be running away from him. Most players tighten up when they feel the pressure rise. Gary grew calmer. He believed that as long as he stayed committed to his process, something good could still happen. I learned from him that momentum is not something you wait for, it is something you create. Our friendship developed over years of travel, practice rounds, long flights, and shared respect. We could not have been more different in some ways. Yet, we understood each other deeply because we understood what the game demanded. We pushed one another without ever needing to say it. When you have someone in your life who works as hard as Gary does, you do not want to fall behind. You want to match that effort, match that hunger, match that standard. What I appreciate most though is his generosity. Gary never kept his wisdom to himself. If he learned something, you could be sure he would share it. Not to show off, but to help, to encourage, to lift the people around him. That is rare. And uh when you encounter it, you remember it. He taught me that golf is not only about striking a ball well. It is about preparing your mind, your body, and your spirit to withstand everything the sport throws at you. Gary approached life with the same conviction. he brought to the tea. Be grateful. Be disciplined. Be better today than you were yesterday. When I think about the players who shaped me, he stands tall among them. And as I look back now, I realize the truth of it. Gary never asked the game to go easy on him. He simply demanded that he rise to meet whatever it gave. Now that I have shared the five men who influenced me most, it feels right to close this conversation with a few thoughts about what they truly left behind. Not only for me, but for the game itself. When I look back on my life in this game, I do not just see the tournaments or the trophies. I see the faces of the men who shaped the way I walked through every fairway and faced every moment of pressure. Hogan, Tiger, Sevy, Arnold, and Gary were not just great players. They were mirrors that reflected different parts of what golf demands from a person. Hogan showed me the weight of commitment, the kind that comes before the sun rises and long after the crowds go home. Tiger reminded me that the game evolves, and so must we, no matter how much we think we already know. Sevy brought magic into the sport. Proof that imagination has a place even in the most disciplined game. Arnold taught me heart, the kind that plays not just to win, but to lift the people watching. And uh and uh Gary, well, Gary taught me to honor every single day, to treat the game and your body with the respect they deserve. When you put all of that together, you realize something important. Golf is not really a sport about power or perfection. It is a sport about character. It is built on patience, honesty, resilience, and the kind of humility that comes from knowing the course always has one more lesson waiting for you. I am grateful for these men. Each of them entered my life at the right moment, not because fate demanded it, but because this game has a way of bringing the right teachers to you when you need them most. They helped shape who I became, not only as a golfer, but as a man. And if you are a young player listening to this, let me leave you with one thought. Do not rush past the people around you. Watch them, learn from them, let their strengths challenge you, and let their flaws remind you that we are all working our way through the same beautiful struggle. In the end, golf gives back exactly what you put into it. And these five men taught me to give it everything.

At 85, Jack Nicklaus Reveals the 5 Golfers He Admires Most

At eighty-five, Jack Nicklaus finally opens up about the five golfers who shaped his life, his game, and his understanding of greatness. In this rare, intimate reflection, Jack Nicklaus reveals the men who inspired him, challenged him, and pushed him to become the legend he is. This is Jack Nicklaus as you have never heard him before.

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