Playing with the King

Me and the King. Bay Hill Men's Grill. November 2009

Two heroes. My Dad and Arnold Palmer.

Playing a round of golf with Arnold Palmer and my father at Bay Hill was far and away the highlight of my golf career. My father introduced me to the game at a young age and I have played more rounds of golf with my dad than anyone on this planet. And I always enjoy being on the golf course with him. I have played Winged Foot, Shinnecock and Augusta by his side, but we both grew up hacking around munis like the Sleeping Giant Golf Club in Hamden, CT and the now defunct Laurel Oak C.C. in Voorhees, NJ. For both of us to play with Mr. Palmer at Bay Hill was something way beyond special. He had met Arnold months earlier at the Bay Hill invitational to discuss a business opportunity and ended up hitting it off with him. And so here I am on the practice tee at Bay Hill, pounding left handed 8 irons into the breezy November morning. It is unseasonably chilly, but the sun is out and it is a glorious day. My dad is next to me, warming up. He is left handed, too, as is Art Sanchagrin, our generous and affable host for the day.

I keep glancing back towards the clubhouse, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man. He finally appears in a custom golf cart, complete with chromed out wheels, full leather seats and headrests festooned with the familiar multicolored umbrella logo that is and will always be the visual representation of the Arnold Palmer brand. It adorns almost everything at Bay Hill. Tee markers, shirts, cups, ball marks, glasses, airplanes, ties and lapels. Folks around him sport the symbol proudly, as if it marks inclusion into a secret society.  He is 80 now, and it shows, his body racked by years in the sun, chasing around a little white ball. But his mind is sharp and he doesn’t miss a thing. Shaking his head, the first thing he says as he watches us warm up is, “Are you kidding?” He groans, “We’re playing with three lefties?!” His eyes sparkle and his face breaks into a warm grin as I shake his hand, a catcher’s mitt of an appendage. He is in the final stages of destroying a hot dog from the starter shack (Mustard/relish, in case you care about that stuff) and he chews purposefully for a few seconds then says, “OK. Let’s go…” 


He kisses his second wife Kit goodbye and begins the arduous task of warming up. I watch, fascinated. He does some light stretching and gets right into it. Wham, wham, wham. His swing, which was never fluid, has not really changed much. It is a bit shorter - which, if I hadn’t witnessed myself, would have considered an impossibility. But there it is. Back and through. Wham, wham, wham. Mr. Palmer is positively striping golf balls off the practice tee. (I called him Mr. Palmer out of pure respect. Thankfully, he never told me to call him “Arnold” or “Arnie.” That was his show of respect back to me. A small effort of grace I will never forget)

Gone are the blades. His clubs are mostly hybrids now, except for the wedges. But what I notice immediately are the grips. They are leather and powdered with talc. Real cowhide. A bit oversized and hand wrapped. You never see grips like this anymore. Ever. It defines “old school” and is close to the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. He his a few more balls and the Bay Hill Shootout begins. It is a game that has grown to legendary status at the club. The Shootout is played weekly at Bay Hill. The golf course and club was opened in 1962, and this modified stableford format is probably as old. On this day, we have 30 players. Everyone is supposed to pony up $40 in cash at the starter shack. (Even Mr. Palmer) However, some don’t. News of the weak pot spreads amongst the players. After a wave of grumbling ensues about who has “alligator arms”, the usual culprits fess up, cough up the cash and we are off. (It’s always the same guys, I’m told)

After common golf first tee pleasantries, I am given the honor to tee off first; not noticing the small cabal of golferazzi that have now surrounded the first tee. Super. I get a target line from Mr. Palmer and try to hit it at the left edge of the fairway bunker, as suggested. There are several highly evolved cameras shooting full motion video, capturing every move in full 1080 HD. Expensive digital cameras are snapping away from all sides, images of this moment sure to be emailed around the globe seconds after impact. The ghost of every man, woman and child I have ever had the privilege to share a golf course with haunts my feeble brain. I waggle a few times, take dead aim, and proceed to completely quit on a 3-wood that had the potential to change my life. Like many times before, I watch aghast, as my brand new, freshly marked, state of the art, two-piece golf ball rockets out of bounds left. Smack in the middle of the driving range. A collective groan emits from the small crowd. For me, it is a death knell. I proceed to shoot a million. (Interesting note: the tee markers at Bay Hill are actually little iron umbrellas. When casually struck with a titanium driver after a complete block/snipe driver, it rings true in a perfect B flat)

We played the championship course, the site of the Bay Hill Invitational. It is a twisted affair. The wind is gusting at 20 plus and we were, after being lulled by the relatively benign first hole, punched in the face with hole after hole of flummoxing wind, tight, wet driving holes, and diabolical pins, with sloping Bermuda greens that made both speed and line a formidable challenge. Mr. Palmer had many little 12 footers all day. He didn’t make one. And he was mad. Really mad. He is a fierce competitor. He still expects to shoot 62 and he can’t anymore. This is the essence of the man. He can’t. And he’s pissed. There are probably three 80 year olds in the world that could break 85 in conditions like this. Mr. Palmer shoots a ho-hum 82. An 82 that absolutely could have been a 75, easy. Saw it with my own eyes. My dad and I manage to finish in the money (no thanks to me) and we collect our loot and have a few drinks in the men’s grill after the round. That’s when the real fun begins. Arnie only has one or two, but he gets the group going by questioning loudly, “Who’s drinking with me?!”

What a day. Like my dad, Mr. Palmer is one of the last real heroes. His life was his game, and his game was his life. He is, and will always be, a pioneer. As an aviator, businessman, author, designer, athlete and family man, he rose to the apex of each of these disciplines individually and with great integrity.  He invented the athlete/agent relationship, yet remains his own brand, with complete and exciting control. He accepted victory and fame with grace and humility, and paid respect to those that came before him. He surrounds himself with loyal and beautiful friends. He loves the game of golf and all that it is. He is a seven-time Major Championship winner, often winning in spectacular fashion. (1960 US Open at Cherry Hills comes to mind, roaring back from 7 down) In a word, he is Zeus. Yet, on those rare and epic occasions when he did not win, he did so with the same grace and humility. And this is perhaps his greatest lesson of all.