I’ll tell you who’s having a heck of a year in professional golf right now, especially for a guy who’s 67 and has been running a slow fade pattern for 20 years. Jack Nicklaus is having a heck of a year.

That’s because every time Tiger Woods struggles – and by “struggling” we mean finishing second by one stroke in the U.S. Open and winning only $611,000 – the Golden Bear is gilded that much more, his career’s precious mettle taking on value.

Nicklaus’ record of 18 major championships once seemed inevitable for the stalking Tiger. Perhaps even an easy target. You would still not bet smart money against Eldrick, who has 12 majors in the fat of his prime at age 31.

Yet, every time Woods stalls in his pursuit – and with every near-miss like Sunday’s at Oakmont, or the Masters before that – you begin to wonder a little bit more if Woods eventually surpassing Nicklaus is such a given, after all.

The evolving perspective isn’t anything to diminish regard for Woods, the greatest golfer of his time without debate. Rather, it should cast deserved new appreciation for the record of Nicklaus.

Sometimes we need to remind ourselves, in our hurry to anoint what is, to occasionally hit the refresh button on respect for what was. It’s too easy to gradually underappreciate what went on in sports (as most of Nicklaus’ major winning did) before ESPN SportsCenter was there to incessantly jackhammer it home, and before Nike and the like were there to canonize The Next Big Thing.

Nicklaus was this round, soft fellow, likely a sex symbol only to his wife as he moved past the beloved Arnold Palmer, moved up and on to a place nobody in his sport had been. Jack did it in the unfortunate garb of the day, those polyester pastels and wide-checked slacks.

He did it back when fitness meant limiting yourself to a few beers, and before technology in equipment began pulling the sport at fast-forward.

What a contrast: Nicklaus in his pudgy prime compared with the Woods we see today, lithe but chiseled, sculpted underneath that tight-fitting blood-red shirt. Statuesque, exuding aura – the biggest thing in all of sports, or at least arguably so.

But the bottom line that cuts across the eras hasn’t changed. It’s still Nicklaus, 18 to 12. In the truest scoreboard anybody has invented for Greatest Golfer Ever, it’s still Bear over Tiger in the manicured, emerald jungle.

The title still is Nicklaus’, 18 fittingly the ultimate number for golf, and Woods needs to earn that title that cannot be given, no matter how much a hurry we are in to flatter ourselves by thinking the golden age is whatever age that includes us.

It isn’t just in golf. We hurry all across the sports landscape.

LeBron James is the latest Next Michael Jordan, right? He named his newborn baby son Bryce Maximus James. Initials: BMJ. Said phonetically: “Be M.J.” Anybody think that’s a coincidence? (Me neither).

James might be the next Jordan, too, someday. As good, maybe even better. But he doesn’t get to be that now. There are championships and scoring titles between now and then. There are a dozen can-you-believe-it moments that must be fashioned. There is a mystique to be grown above and beyond the statistics.

The kingdoms are earned. The crowns of Jordan, and of Nicklaus.

If anything, the past two majors tell us what we should have already known and should not easily forget:

That the second-hardest golfer to beat is Tiger Woods.

And that the hardest to beat remains Jack Nicklaus.