In fascinating, reflective moments, Jack Nicklaus has talked of the dramatic changes in his craft: of the reformed image of the professional golfer over the years, from the overweight, cigarette-smoking artisan with the whiff of whiskey on his breath, to the clean-cut, modern athlete with sharp business instincts. And he has talked of Ben Hogan.

For the small group of us granted an intimate, unofficial audience with the Bear at Augusta National at few years ago, the mention of Hogan now takes on special relevance at the end of the century. And it provides a clear pointer to the most significant golfing achievement of the last 100 years.

Acknowledged as the greatest competitor in the history of the game, who better than Nicklaus to rate the game's finest exponent? And when the question was asked in that small gathering, he replied: "Hogan was the best I have ever seen. I never saw (Bobby) Jones, so I can't comment on him. As for me, that's for others to judge."

Against that background, those of us on this side of the Atlantic are drawn, inevitably, to the occasion when Hogan became a truly international figure; when, in the absence of televised golf, his wondrous skills had to be seen to be believed.

So it was that events at Carnoustie last July provided a graphic illustration of history repeating itself. While embattled competitors screamed "foul!" at the viciously-tight fairways and horrendous rough, historians recalled the 1953 staging there, when Hogan made his only British Open appearance.

They could recall how Hogan, who had won the US Masters and US Open titles already that year, had deplored the Carnoustie greens which were described as slower than a Scottish sunset.

There were also reports of how Hogan deplored the casual, natural maintenance of the municipal links, with its burned-out, divot-pocked, unyielding fairways. And on returning to the US, he complained: "I'm not going back to a place where they never rake the goddamn bunkers."

Then there was the adjustment to the small, 1.62-inch ball, which Hogan had never played in more than 20 years as a professional. Though it travelled much further than the bigger, 1.68-inch American model, especially against the wind, there was the problem than it sank lower in the grass. Which made Hogan all the more determined that the 90-compression of his choice would be played from the fairways.

He used six of them per round: a new one from the first tee, another on the second and a third new ball on the third. Then he would use the first ball again on the fourth, the second ball on the fifth and so on. The procedure would be repeated with three new balls on the back nine.

Meanwhile, the Scots expressed a mixed reaction to the illustrious American, who had recovered almost miraculously from a near-fatal car crash four years previously. During the two weeks that he practised for the event, they grew to admire his majestic ball-striking.

The Scots were captivated by the player they christened "The wee ice mon". And for his part, Hogan proved himself to be a peerless exponent of the Royal and Ancient game, shooting progressively better rounds of 73, 71, 70, 68 to win the title by four strokes at his only attempt.

It meant he had gained the distinction of winning three major championships in the same year - a feat which has not been equalled, 46 years on.

I have previously used this wonderfully descriptive extract from the July 11th report by Pat Ward-Thomas of the 1953 Open in the Manchester Guardian, but it bears repeating. He wrote: "He (Hogan) dresses as modestly as he talks and only the piercing, deep-set eyes reveal the force of character behind them.

"Imagine him as he scrutinises a long, difficult stroke, with arms quietly folded, an inscrutable quarter-smile on his lips, for all the world like a gambler watching the wheel spin. And then the cigarette is tossed away, the club taken with abrupt decision, the glorious swing flashes and a long iron pierces the wind like an arrow. That was Hogan. We shall never see his like again."