It was partly out of self-interest that I decided to walk Augusta National's par-three course with Sam Snead on the eve of the 1993 Masters tournament. Since Sam would be teeing off in the first group, he'd also be the first to finish, giving me a nice tidy column and a head-start into the evening's festivities.

But there was also ample historical justification for following Snead that day. Back in 1960 he had won the inaugural par-three contest, thereby initiating a traditional jinx: then, and in 42 successive events, no man has ever won the Wednesday par-three contest and then gone on to win a green jacket over the weekend.

Sam was in rare form that afternoon. In between his clowning on the tee, jawing with his playing partners, and bantering with the galleries, he made four birdies on his way around the course. His final score of 23 was respectable enough, particularly for an 80-year-old man, but he knew somebody would do better.

With that we repaired to the clubhouse bar, where for the next several hours Sam entertained a transient audience while doing his best to drink Augusta National out of gin, or tonic, or both.

Late that afternoon a green-jacketed club emissary approached and tugged at Snead's sleeve. The four-under had been equalled, but not bettered.

Slammin' Sammy was in a four-way tie for first place, and his presence was requested on the tee.

Since I'd been with him all day, I was probably the only one, with the possible exception of Snead himself, who knew exactly how much alcohol he'd consumed, but after sending his caddie to get his clubs, Snead dutifully made his way back to the tee of the first play-off hole.

It was a downwind, downhill shot, and Sam overclubbed. He hit an eight iron which bounced once on the fringe to the left of the green and bounded into the water behind.

He waited until his three colleagues, all of them less than half his age, had teed off, then shook each of their hands.

"Good luck, fellas," he said. "See you back at the bar." He was back at the clubhouse before the ice had even melted in the drink he'd left there.

There were reports later that he'd been involved in a smash-up driving out of the club. I wasn't surprised.

Snead, who died last week, four days short of his 90th birthday, won a record 81 official PGA Tour events. In the modern era that would have made him a zillionaire, but he never won more than $50,000 in a single year.

Of course, he handsomely supplemented his income by hustling all comers, and over most of his lifetime he was the object of a bidding war between his two "home" courses, the Greenbriar in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, and the Homestead across the mountain pass in Virginia. He shuttled back and forth between the two so frequently that either could claim him as a native son even when he happened to be in the employ of the other.

As part of the Millennium Open two years ago, the R&A brought a host of past champions back to St Andrews, and put them on display in a four-hole exhibition match on the eve of the tournament. Before he teed off that Wednesday afternoon, Sam was recalling his first visit to the Auld Grey Toon back in 1946.

In those days the railroad line still ran right into St Andrews, and the one bearing Sammy pulled in alongside the left-hand side of the Old Course. Snead, who wasn't even aware that he'd arrived at his destination, pointed out the window at the links and observed to a startled seatmate "that looks like it used to be a golf course".

That week he went out and won the British Open, but then refused all entreaties to defend his championship the next year. He explained that it was too far to travel, and that besides, he couldn't afford it. First-prize money back then was pittance, and, said Snead, "it cost me more than that to get there".

Once Snead engaged in a heated debate with Ted Williams, the Boston Red Sox outfielder widely considered the greatest student of hitting, if not the greatest hitter, in baseball history.

"In golf you're trying to hit a stationary target," Williams noted.

"Putting wood to a baseball travelling a hundred miles an hour is the most difficult thing to do in any sport." Snead acknowledged Williams' initial argument.

"But," he pointed out, "we have to play our foul balls."

A portent that the end might be near occurred early last month, when Snead joined Byron Nelson on the first tee at Augusta to strike his ceremonial first shot. He might have lost a bit of distance over the years, but for as long as anyone could remember he still drove it straight down the middle.

This time he hit a screecher which caught a spectator full in the face, breaking the man's glasses.

I thought back to one of the last conversations I'd had with Snead, which occurred a couple of years ago at a chance meeting in a rental-car courtesy-van at the Las Vegas airport.

We were each surprised to see the other. Sam told me he was in town for an appearance at a golf show over at the Convention Center. I'd been invited to play that afternoon in a media event publicizing the LPGA Championship.

"Where are you playing?" Snead asked.

"The Desert Inn," I told him.

"Where's that?" he asked.

When I told him and began to describe the course, one of Las Vegas' oldest, and he said "Hmm. I may have played there," I had to laugh.

"Sam," I told him. "You won a tournament on that course. Your picture is on a plaque in the clubhouse."

Boy, I thought to myself, getting old sure is a bitch.

It was only later that afternoon that the fuller implication of that encounter occurred to me. If Snead was on that bus, he was obviously going the same place I was, meaning that a few minutes after our conversation he had climbed behind the wheel of a car and driven it out of the parking lot.

Now, there was a frightening thought.