The mallet putter Jack Burke Jr. used to win the Masters half a century ago leans against his desk. Other clubs and mementos from a long life in golf adorn the big square room. But Burke’s office at Champions Golf Club in Houston is no museum; it’s the wood-paneled command center of a busy CEO.

“No,” says the old pro into the phone. “Yes. OK, that’s great. All right, I’ll talk to you later.” Hal Sutton calls a lot lately, but not, as he once did, for a lesson or tips on captaining the Ryder Cup team. The 1983 PGA champion is investing most of his time and a lot of his fortune in a golf course development called Boot Ranch in Fredericksburg, Texas. Burke knows something about this, too: He and his late partner, Jimmy Demaret, were the first (and still the only) tour professionals to build, own and operate a high-end golf club.

“Hal needs to get his ass out on the road and sell this thing,” says Burke, who served as American captain in the 1957 and 1973 Ryder Cup Matches and was Sutton’s assistant in 2004. “He needs to bring his PGA trophy and shake hands.” Some of the best golfers in the world have beat a path to Burke’s door for advice on matters on and off the course. The supplicants include Sutton, Steve Elkington and Phil Mickelson.

Elkington once wondered aloud about hanging out a shingle as a golf course architect. “Well, you dumb son of a bitch,” Burke told his neighbor and student, “you’re gonna compete with Fazio and Dye and Trent Jones? Who’d want you when they could have those guys?” The proud Aussie went ahead, but Elkington Course Design didn’t last.

It’s Burke’s unique gift to call you a dumb son of a bitch while somehow conveying a warmth and sincerity that make his message palatable. His speech gets particularly direct during a lesson. “He’s a close talker. He gets right in your face,” says Clark Dennis, a tour pro from Fort Worth, Texas. “And he jabs you in the chest, to the point that it hurts.”

Burke is direct but not dogmatic, and his disdain for the rigid approach of golf gurus knows no bounds. Burke’s stories illustrate what real players know—there’s no one true path for anything in golf.

With a full head of gray hair, penetrating blue eyes and a magnetic vibe, Burke looks good for a man of 60—yet he’s 83. He still practices the martial arts he learned and taught as a Marine, and still hits balls almost every day, working the ball left and right, high and low.

When he’s not practicing or giving lessons, he’s running his 1,000-member, 130-employee club. Champions opened in 1959, three years after Burke’s Masters victory anchored a career season in which he also won the PGA Championship and was named Player of the Year.

The 1956 Masters was played in weekend winds so strong pine trees nearly doubled over, greens became marble and sand plumed out of bunkers, irritating the eyes of players and spectators. Amateur Ken Venturi, a brooding, 24-year-old cross between Marlon Brando and Byron Nelson, shot 66-69-75 for a four-shot lead entering the final round, with Burke eight back. But when Venturi faltered (see sidebar), Burke found himself tied for the lead on the final green, with a six-foot putt for par, dead downhill. As he recalls: “I said to my caddie, Pappy, ‘It’s inside the left edge—isn’t it?’ I didn’t want a dissenting opinion.”

Wisely, Pappy nodded. Burke tapped. The putt dripped across the lip and into the hole, and wound up being the winning margin of victory. Playing partner Mike Souchak, an ex-football player, slapped Burke on the back so hard he spun in a circle.

The following year, Burke committed the faux pas of his life at the Champions Dinner. The defending champ barely knew host Bobby Jones but figured, under the circumstances, he ought to say something. “Tell me, Mr. Jones,” he said, presumably out of ignorance, “what year did you turn professional?” Jones reportedly turned a bright shade of red.

Despite the gaffe and the contrast between Jones’ patrician background and Burke’s hardscrabble formative years (he was a caddie and, by age 20, a Marine Corps drill instructor), ultimately no Masters champion had more in common with the co-founder of Augusta National—like Jones, Burke built a nationally renowned club from scratch.

In the wake of his 1956 heroics, Burke was offered the head professional job at Baltusrol in New Jersey, but he and Demaret were thinking much bigger. They succeeded: In addition to boasting a thriving membership, Champions, a 36-hole facility, hosted the 1967 Ryder Cup, 1969 U.S. Open, 1993 U.S. Amateur and five Tour Championships.

Burke is still linked to Jones, having received the USGA’s Bob Jones Award in 2004, in recognition of distinguished sportsmanship in golf. Burke is a true elder statesman, a rank earned through a lifetime of immersion in the game, and Champions provides the platform from which to dispense his golf gospel.

He has strong opinions on just about everything. On diet and exercise trends, for example: “Eat whatever you want. Just eat less of it. Don’t lift weights; don’t run. Use a rubber hose to strengthen yourself gently, without straining your joints.”

On modern equipment: “I don’t think Hagen ever talked about the ball. Jones never gave his driver credit for winning a tournament. But the commerce side leads the art side in golf today. I don’t see the ball getting scaled back. America doesn’t go backward.”

On the Ryder Cup: “We came in 12 planes; came in one. The money has gotten obscene: takes in $50 million and spends $40 million. The spectators can’t see, but a lot of them don’t care. It’s corporations entertaining their customers. It’s an event.”

On Augusta National: “I guarantee you that’s the most boring club in the world. Where’s the club feeling when your members are jetting in from all over the country?”

And finally, his lone swing thought: “The same one I’ve always had: Hit the ball.”

Burke keeps it simple, and it works.

Because you knew you’d finally have to hit the ball, didn’t you, you dumb son of a bitch?