Arnold Palmer Was Great Long After His Golf Skills Had Diminished
It was almost half my life ago, a point at which Arnold Palmer’s celebrated career had long since veered into a territory reserved for ceremonial golf. One of a very few, it should be noted, as the 1995 U.S. Senior Open was full of guys who had excelled in years past: an enduring collection of the game’s household names, dozens of whom were still capable of winning the biggest tournament contested by the over-50s all season.
Palmer, who had turned 65 nine months earlier, basically had no shot. He hadn’t won a Senior PGA Tour event since 1988. His last top-10 finish at a full-field gathering was a T-7 in the fall of 1993, but none of that stuff mattered. Icons need not reapply for certification at the behest of Father Time. Their credentials are permanent, their status eternal, and the King was in the field that week at Congressional CC.
Speaking of territory, the ’95 Senior Open fell into my jurisdiction as a columnist/general assignment writer for the Washington Times. My background in golf was not deep at the time. Four Masters, three U.S. Opens and my first British Open the previous summer, which I covered under the provision that I file daily articles from Wimbledon during the first leg of the trip. Tennis players were nauseating, self-imposed creatures of condescendence who walked out of press conferences before a second negative question could be asked.
The only Olympics I ever worked was the 1994 Winter Games in Norway. Tonya and Nancy: Catfight on Ice. I’d been blown off by Barry Bonds, cussed out by Alan Wiggins, shoved aside by Lenny Dykstra and all but physically threatened by a 6-foot-5, 350-pound former University of Maryland athletic director named Lew Perkins. By the time Palmer returned to compete in the nation’s capital for the first time since the 1976 PGA Championship, my dream job had become 10 parts job for every single part dream.
Over a 4½-hour stretch on the final Thursday in June 1995, a slightly hunched, silver-haired man who had reached retirement age reintroduced me to the subtle beauties and core values of sport. For all I’d heard and read about the King but had never actually witnessed, Palmer’s presence brought vivacious sunshine to an overcast day. He greeted spectators gathered around every tee box with authentic gratitude; a hint of sheepishness woven into that innate confidence and sense of uncompromised consideration.
These weren’t perfunctory waves to the gallery before returning to the business of striking his ball. This was living, breathing appreciation, the reflexive response of a giant-hearted legend whose best days were far behind him while the joy of the experience laid straight ahead.
As was often the case on those teeing grounds, Arnie drove the ball nicely in the opening round, roping right-to-left line drives into a majority of Congressional’s USGA-narrowed fairways. He settled for an even-par 72 because he couldn’t make a putt beyond 6 feet and missed a few inside that distance, but again, it didn’t matter.
“Oh, my God, Arnold Palmer!” shrieked a woman awaiting the arrival of the next group to the par-4 14th. Immediately upon breaking stride, Arnie leaned over the ropes and replied to the lady in a voice too soft for me to hear but loud enough for everyone who did to bellow in laughter. I felt deprived. This wasn’t Ward Cleaver they were watching.
My journey with Palmer was interrupted by the extremely unlikely performance of a local club pro named Larry Ringer, who began the week with a 68 to earn a share of the 18-hole lead with J.C. Snead. Having gotten to know Ringer over the years, I figured he would light up the media center with his endless assortment of humorous quips, but it was his account of the practice round he’d played with Arnie the day before that factored into every newspaper story the following morning.
“That made my day,” Ringer gushed. “Hell, it made my year!”
Only when he followed up his 68 with an 80 did the former golf coach at the U.S. Naval Academy turn into a comedian. “Some days you’re the dog,” Ringer would muse, “and some days, you’re the fire hydrant.”
I caught up with Palmer a few holes into the back nine, where the physical toll of walking a 6,945-yard course full of hilly terrain appeared to be creeping onto his scorecard. A weary stroke at the 14th capped a three-putt double bogey, but he headed to the 15th with a smile you’d expect from a guy who had just holed a 25-footer for par.
Palmer’s extraordinary magnetism had not taken the rest of the day off. His interaction had failed to dim among the throngs flocking to see a man who carried himself like a gentleman first, a sportsman second and a superstar eighth or ninth.
He birdied the 16th and 17th to get back to even.
At one point late in the round, he put on his glove and wasn’t keen about the way it felt, then hit the shot and made his way toward the green close to the gallery ropes, where he gave the glove to a boy who might have been 10 years old.
He signed for the 72, then spent at least a half-hour scribbling his name on an endless parade of hats, shirts and golf balls, many of which were thrust to within an inch or two of his deeply lined face. It was a scene etched in commotion and chaos, part of a day’s work many tour pros routinely choose to avoid or ignore, but to Palmer, it was like he owed them.
No lunch break, no ice-cold beer, not even a can of the lemonade/iced tea blend sold in his name. I stuck around to watch this inspirational act of kindness for those 30 minutes, but at some point, I had to hustle back to the media center and write my story.
Thank goodness it wasn’t about Tonya and Nancy.