The People You Meet

Following my Dad’s passing a few weeks ago, I thought I would share one of my favorite golf memories with all of you.

One of the best things about golf is all the different you get to meet. Having worked as a club pro and played briefly on mini tours, I’ve had the privilege of meeting all kinds of people. I’ve met mobsters and hall of fame athletes. I worked for a former Super Bowl quarterback. I’ve met rich people who you would never guess were worth hundreds of millions of dollars. I’ve met doctors and lawyers and teachers and mechanics and the list goes on and on. I am comfortable with all of them, one of the many great attributes I learned from my Dad. People are people. Treat them the same. What they do and what they have is not who they are. I have lots of stories to tell. Some are funny, some are flat out nuts and some are even scary. But today’s story is for my Dad. It is about his favorite all time golfer, the late, great Arnold Palmer.

My ninth birthday, Arnie was participating in an exhibition at Reading C.C. in Reading, Pennsylvania. My Dad surprised me with tickets taking me out of school for the day and giving me the best birthday present. I had never seen a tour pro up close and personal. The chance to see Arnie was the thrill of a lifetime.

When we arrived at the club, my Dad bought me a program. In the center of the program was a picture of Arnie in his famous helicopter finish staring fiercely after his ball as if he would punish the ball if it didn’t do what he wanted. I studied the picture, the stare, the intensity seemingly pushing out of the picture. I was mesmerized with the thought I was about to see that same glaring stare up close and personal.

The grounds of the club teemed with people. It seemed to me there must have been tens of thousands of people gathered everywhere, although it was actually around a thousand. People were gathered everywhere.

The largest crowd stood around the practice green. Arnie was putting and getting ready to start their round. The crowd started parting, and there he was bursting into the open, Arnold Palmer. White shirt, dark pants, smiling from ear to ear. People were handing him programs and hats and visors to sign. He kept moving, signing as he went, saying something followed by laughter from the crowd moving along with him as they made their way to the first tee. I found myself in a great spot where I could look down the fairway from behind the tee box. Arnie stood there leaning against his bag, hand on his hip, looking down the fairway. And all I could do was stare at him caught in some sort of hypnotic state.

Suddenly, a bullhorn blared. A man in a sport coat and tie was speaking into the bullhorn. I have no idea to this day what was being said. I just wanted to see Arnie hit the ball.

Bullhorn man stopped. Arnie waved to the gallery. His caddie handed him his driver. Arnie teed his ball. A few seconds later, he stepped up to the ball, waggled a few times and took a mighty lash, finishing with his trademark helicopter finish. The ball hissed through the air, arcing in a soft left to right curve before landing in the center of the fairway. It was the most majestic, awesome shot I had ever seen. The ball flew farther than I had ever seen a ball fly before. The crowd applauded. Arnie smiled and acknowledged their approval.

And then we were all off, scampering down the fairway. People crowding in still getting Arnie to sign whatever they handed him.

My Dad and I followed along watching each shot. I was in awe of what I was seeing. By the sixth hole, the autograph frenzy had died down. My Dad handed me a pen and bent down to whisper in my ear, “Now’s your chance. Go get his autograph.”

I flipped open the program to Arnie’s picture and took off on a dead sprint.

What happened next was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to me in my ten years.

In my excitement, I got too close as I ran up behind him. I clipped Arnold Palmer’s heel nearly tripping him and taking his right shoe off his foot. Mouth agape, I froze, my trembling hands holding the program and pen. Arnie stopped and bent down to fix his shoe. As he pulled his shoe back into place, he looked over his shoulder at me. It was the same look as the picture in the program; the intense glaring stare. I stood there trembling.

Arnie stood straight up and faced me, his face softening, “I suppose you want that signed,” he said.

I think I nodded. I know I didn’t say anything. The glare completely disappeared, and Arnie smiled, took the program and pen from my hands and said, “C’mon, walk with me, kid.”

As scared and embarrassed as I’d been, I was now in disbelief. Arnold Palmer asked me to walk up the fairway with him while he signed my program. I was vaguely aware that my feet were moving as I walked beside him. He asked me if I played golf and how long I’d been playing. I told him 3 years. He liked the answer. By then we reached the green, and he handed me back my program and pen.

“Allright,” he said with smile, “I gotta get back to entertaining all these other folks. Hope you enjoy the rest of the day.”

I turned and ran back to my Dad who had followed along the edge of the fairway. He, too, was smiling.

For the next month, all I could talk about was meeting Arnold Palmer.

If the story ended here, it would be a nice story about a kid and one of the greatest golfers of all time. A little like the old Mean Joe Green and the kid Coke commercial. But that isn’t the end of the story.

A little over a year later my family was invited to Bay Hill for a few days before Christmas by family friends who owned a condo at Bay Hill. I was over the moon at the chance to play Arnie’s course.

Our first day there, we were hitting balls on the range getting ready to play. Just like at Reading CC on my tenth birthday, a crowd of people started emerging from the clubhouse. I asked my friend’s father what was going on.

“Arnie’s coming to practice,” he said. “Hand him your visor. He’ll have a pen.”

A second Arnie autograph. I couldn’t believe it.

And there he was again, a few feet away from me taking visors and hats and signing away talking with all the different people gathered around. I stuck out my visor.

A quick glance at me and my visor was in his hands as he signed. He handed it back to me, stopped and smiled.

“Step on any heels lately, son?”

People laughed. He winked at me, and then he was off leaving me standing there speechless as people pushed past me.

Arnold Palmer remembered me. The great man remembered some kid who had clipped his heel and nearly taken his golf shoe off his foot over a year ago. Unbelievable.

Years later, I read a story about Arnie and what made him so special to his fans. Arnie understood something a lot of athletes and celebrities fail to understand. Arnie knew it was important to you to meet him. Since it was impossible to remember the names of all the people he came into contact with, Arnie focused on remembering something unique about the encounter. In my case, it was probably pretty easy. I can’t imagine there were too many kids who clipped his heel over the years.

Sadly, the program and visor are long gone, the victims of several moves over the years. They are only memories. With the passing of my Dad a few weeks ago, the memories are far more precious to me.

I am privileged to have met all the people I’ve met playing this great game. I am humbled by what the game has done for me in my life. I am grateful each time I get to put a tee in the ground and play. I hope you feel the same.

Get out and go golf!