Arnold Palmer and TV were a match made in heaven.
Like millions of people, young and old, I got hooked on golf watching Arnold Palmer on grainy black-and-white TV. Arnie took the game off the public courses and country clubs into American living rooms, starting what became a multi-billion-dollar business.
Not until Palmer came strutting up the last few holes of the Masters, either ahead or charging at the leader, did golf come alive for millions who had never swung a club, never stepped on a course.
My father and I dug out some old wooden shafts from the garage and went out to play for the first time, because we had seen Arnie on TV that day. We stood on the first tee, and everything was so green compared to television it made the moment magical.
Once, when Palmer and Gary Player tied after 72 holes of the Masters, I ran home from school on Monday to watch the end of the playoff. Palmer had a one stroke lead as he walked up the 18th fairway, followed by the throng that would be nicknamed Arnie’s Army. But he hit his second shot into a greenside bunker shot and then blasted across the green into another trap on his third shot. He took a 6 and Player won the green jacket.
I went to my room crying because my new hero had made a human mistake and lost the tournament. But his unconventional, herky-jerky swing, his hitch of the trousers and his tossing aside that L&M cigarette before hitting his shot, plus his flair for the dramatic on the back nine, made him golf’s first national hero, joining Mickey Mantle, Jim Brown and Bill Russell from sports that had been on TV for years.
Once, as a teenager, I went out to a private club where Palmer was playing exhibition round. He made a hole in one, signed a bunch of autographs and drove to his private plane at a nearby airstrip. We were all walking to the parking lot when Palmer’s plane flew low over the course and he dipped his wings to say goodbye.
This week, we said goodbye to Arnie, the man who turned golf with his charisma and grace into an American institution.
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