A Life Well Played

by Arnold Palmer

  Naturally, everyone thinks of the 1960 U.S. Open at Cherry Hills as the gold standard of charges. Not surprisingly, I would agree. The circumstances are familiar enough by now that I won’t recount all the details again, but going out as I did and making birdie on the par-4 first hole by driving to the front of the green was that birdie I needed at that proper moment. In fact, it wasn’t just the proper moment, but the absolute crucial moment, for it set up the rest of the round, one in which I had to apply all of my energy and concentration for every stroke.

  I still had a lot of energy in the aftermath of what was an exciting day, but I bet there were few nights when I slept better than after winning the national title. I was completely drained. But that’s how I knew I had put everything into the charge. And that’s what it took to make a charge of that magnitude both in terms of the number of shots I had to make up and the stakes for which we were playing. I’d had other charges before then, but it was not until Cherry Hills that I put the concept of the charge together totally both physically and philosophically.

  I must add that I don’t think I would have won at Cherry Hills had I not won the Masters two months earlier for my second Green Jacket. The Masters that year validated for me the win at Augusta two years earlier, and the way I did it was important, making two must-have birdies on the final two holes to surge past Ken Venturi. People tend to see the Masters and U.S. Open together only in the larger picture of my going for the Grand Slam that year. But the two championships are much more interconnected than that because the belief I had in going out that afternoon and slugging it out with Cherry Hills was made possible in my mind after my Masters victory. I had proof—very recent proof—that I was capable of doing whatever I needed to do when the pressure was at its highest. Psychologically, the two majors taken together were part of one continuous thought process and spurt of inspiration.

  If I was what you might call a “fast finisher,” it was because I was always mentally receptive to a fast finish; I was receptive to the idea that there was always time to make up some ground right to the very last hole. I played to win even when common sense dictated that I no longer had a realistic chance. Even when I was playing at my worst or when all the breaks seemed to be going against me, I approached each shot as an opportunity to get going again. That was my golfing personality.

  DOWNTIME

  A LOT WAS MADE out of Tiger Woods taking a break early in 2015 because he was playing so poorly. He said he didn’t feel like he was competitive, and he was going to step back and see if he couldn’t make some adjustments that would help him play to the level that he demanded of himself.

  I fully understood what was going through his mind. And, sometimes, the best thing a golfer can do when not playing well is to take a step back. Frankly, more players should consider it when they are truly struggling. I know it’s difficult today when you have world ranking points to think about and the FedExCup Playoffs, but there are times when a break earns you more than another couple of starts would.

  In the PGA Championship in mid-August 1969, bothered by bursitis in my right hip, I shot a first-round 82 at NCR Country Club in Dayton, Ohio, and then had to withdraw. Right then and there I said I wasn’t playing again until I felt healthy and was confident I could play golf the way I wanted to play it. I came back in November and won the inaugural Heritage Golf Classic at Harbour Town Golf Links in Hilton Head, South Carolina. The following week I pulled out one of my charges down the stretch and won the Danny Thomas Classic in Memphis.

  I bit the bullet again and took time off at the end of 1972 to rest and recalibrate. I wasn’t satisfied with how I was playing, so I took a break from the tour and said that I wasn’t going to play again until I was satisfied that my game was going to be good enough. And I wanted to make sure that it was good enough not just to compete but to win. It caused me to miss a few tournaments, but I felt that was better than just going out there and building up frustration. That approach paid off when I came out early the next season and won the Bob Hope Desert Classic (as it was called then), shooting 17-under 343 in the five-round tournament to beat Jack Nicklaus and Johnny Miller by two strokes.

  It’s true that sometimes you have to work things out and play your way through some struggles, but you have to do it in a way that won’t compromise your fundamentals or damage your underlying confidence. It takes a lot of strength of mind and discipline, especially when you’re a competitive individual, to say that you’re not going to play until you feel ready.

  In my case, the time I took off did a world of good because I also was injured and needed to give my body, as well as my game and my confidence, time to heal. When I came back, it didn’t take long before I won again at the 1973 Bob Hope Classic, my last regular PGA Tour victory. It sure felt good to prove that I could still get it done.

  TOUGHNESS

  MY FATHER’S ADVICE about not listening to too much advice had implications beyond simply avoiding the temptation to tinker with the things in my game that worked. I also think he was telling me to be my own man.

  During my rookie year I let a fellow professional know that, although I was a rookie, I couldn’t be intimidated or let another player dictate how I was going to play golf. At Portland Golf Club, the site of the Western Open, I lost my composure, but made a point.

  I was playing with Doug Ford and Marty Furgol in the first round when we came to the 10th hole, a reachable par-5 that I intended to try to get to in two shots. Both Furgol and Ford had played their second shots short of the green while the group ahead of us was still putting. Furgol had a reputation of being impatient, so it was no surprise that he decided to lay up instead of waiting for the green to clear.

  As I was preparing to hit, I saw Furgol standing in the middle of the fairway between me and the green. I yelled at Doug to ask Marty to move, and Doug did, but Marty moved only a few feet. I asked Furgol to move again, and he took three more steps to the side, but he was still very much in my line. I had to ask an official to intervene before he finally moved to the edge of the fairway. By now I’m really hot, and I let a good birdie chance go by with a three-putt. Coming off the green I was as mad as I’d ever been on a golf course. I knew Marty had a reputation for this type of behavior, so I let him know how I felt. He feigned innocence, but I said to him, “If you ever pull a stunt like that again I’ll take my fists and beat the hell out of you, and if I can’t do it with my fists I’ll use a golf club.”

  I think it really shook him up. The truth is, I really wanted to flatten him on the spot, and that really shook me up, too, because I’d never lost my composure like that during a golf tournament. But the upshot was that everyone knew I was no ordinary rookie. I knew how to stand up for myself, and a few years later, in the Masters, I had to stand up for myself again. I’m referring to the 1958 Masters, when I encountered a situation on the 12th hole that could have cost me the tournament if I had not been forceful in arguing on my own behalf in a rules dispute.

  The situation came up on the 12th hole of the final round when my tee shot into the green on that tricky par-3 hole embedded into the soft turf just behind the green. I knew there was a local rule in place because of the wet weather that allowed me a free drop, but a tournament rules official named Arthur Lacey informed me that there would be no such drop given. I knew in my heart and soul that I was right, so I did the only thing I thought I could do, which was play it his way and mine. In the first, I gouged the ball out of the embedded lie and ended up with a double-bogey-five. In the second, I took my drop that I was entitled to, chipped it close, and putted for my par-3.

  This left my fate in the hands of the tournament rules committee as to whether they were going to let me have the par or saddle me with the double-bogey. Just to show everyone what I was made of, including Bob Jones, whom I saw riding in a cart as I played my second shot into the par-5 13th hole, I blistered a 3-wood to the back of the green there and made a twenty-foot putt for eagle. Then I parred the 14th. After my drive found
the fairway at 15, I was summoned to meet with members of the rules committee, who informed me that they had ruled in my favor. I finished off the round with a birdie for a 73 and 284 total. A dozen golfers were still on the course, but my score held up for a one-stroke victory.

  Granted, you don’t ever want to be that confrontational on a golf course as I was with Marty Furgol, and I never was again. But I was tough. I knew how to compete. And that served me better in the second instance cited. I had my first Green Jacket to prove it.

  TIGER

  I FIRST MET Tiger Woods in 1991 when the U.S. Junior Amateur championship was held at my Bay Hill Club & Lodge in Orlando, and I liked the kid and his father, Earl, right away. Tiger won the first of his three straight Junior Amateur titles that year (and six straight USGA championships), an omen if ever there was one as it related not only to his success in USGA events but also in my professional tournament, the Arnold Palmer Invitational Presented by MasterCard.

  Five years later, in October 1995, Tiger and I met for dinner when he drove from Stanford University, where he was a sophomore at the time, to Napa, California, where I was playing in the TransAmerica Golf Championship. He wanted to pick my brain about a range of golf-related topics, including the pros and cons of turning professional. I was delighted to oblige, and I picked up the dinner tab, naturally. It was the right thing to do as the elder person, and even though Tiger already was a two-time U.S. Amateur champion and a golfer of renown he was still a college kid.

  Unfortunately, that little gesture ended up almost getting Tiger in trouble, because the NCAA has a rule—among many—that prohibits student-athletes from receiving benefits because of their status or reputation. And Tiger was the most celebrated college golfer to come along in decades, having won five straight USGA titles at that point—three U.S. Junior Amateurs and two U.S. Amateurs. (The NCAA also could have penalized Tiger for receiving benefits from an equipment manufacturer, because I had my own club company.) To make things right, Tiger had to write a check to me for $25. Funny, I don’t remember whether or not I ever cashed that check. Oh, well, Tiger was off the hook, and thank goodness for that.

  Boy, was his mother, Kultida, angry about the NCAA’s involvement, telling one newspaper reporter, “The kid was just trying to learn knowledge.” I wasn’t too thrilled myself. Seemed like an unreasonable rule to me.

  Jack Nicklaus and I played a Masters practice round with Tiger in 1996; that’s when Jack made his famous declaration that he had just played with a kid who was going to win more Masters than him and me combined (10). The following year Tiger got off to a great start on that journey when he won the 1997 Masters by 12 strokes with a record 18-under-par 270 total.

  Many people know that he warmed up for that impressive performance by shooting a 59 at Isleworth Country Club in a practice round with his neighbor, Mark O’Meara. That occurred on a Friday, six days before the opening round of that year’s Masters. Isleworth, a par-72 layout in Windermere, Florida, is not far from Bay Hill Club. I designed the course, which opened in 1986, so I certainly knew how good a 13-under-par 59 was on the 7,179-yard layout.

  What few people know is that the day before Tiger shot his 59, he joined me for a round of golf at Bay Hill with my business manager from IMG, Alastair Johnston. I like to claim, with a wink, that I helped Tiger warm up for his first major championship win.

  Obviously, the twenty-one-year-old Tiger was at the top of his game at that time, but the old guy—I was 67 then—hung in there. We had a friendly little match for $100, and hard as I tried, I couldn’t quite hold off a player of that caliber, in his prime—not even on my own golf course. Tiger closed me out on the 17th hole. On the 18th tee, deciding that I didn’t want to let Tiger get into my pocket without a last-ditch effort, I challenged Tiger to a one-hole playoff, double or nothing. He readily accepted.

  We both hit good drives in the fairway on what is Bay Hill’s tough closing par-4 that measures 458 yards and features an oblong green that wraps around a lake. Of course, Tiger was miles ahead of me. I needed a driver to reach the green with my second shot, and I wasn’t going to back down. I pulled out the driver. You know: go for broke.

  I’ll let Alastair tell part of the story from here because I wasn’t privy to his conversation with Tiger until much later: “I was standing next to Tiger, and he was really enjoying watching Arnold grinding it out,” Alastair said. “He said to me, ‘Arnold never gives up, does he?’”

  No, I don’t. I hit my second shot through the green and into the back bunker, while Tiger found the green with his second shot. I got up and down for a par. Tiger missed his birdie putt, and we halved the hole.

  Tiger Woods has won my tournament eight times, tying a PGA Tour record, and it’s been a pleasure to shake his hand at the end and congratulate him each time. Tiger and I have had a very good relationship over the years, but I sensed that we grew closer as he got a little bit older. I know when he won my tournament for the fifth time in 2008 we shared a warm embrace, and it felt different than other years. Tiger’s father had passed away in 2005, and his relationship with his dad was as strong as mine was with Pap. Perhaps that came through when we shared that hug, and that in some small way he looked upon me as a father figure of sorts.

  Nevertheless, on this occasion, he didn’t get to walk off the 18th green with more of my hard-earned cash. But he did get a handshake. The following Sunday, he won the Masters.

  I’d say that Tiger Woods had quite a couple of weeks of good golf. I’d also like to say I helped by putting him in a good competitive frame of mind. But I think we all know he didn’t need my help for that.

  WINNING

  FROM THE MOMENT I turned professional, I suppose you could say that my goal was to win golf tournaments. That sounds like an obvious statement, but bear with me because the concept is somewhat novel given today’s environment. I’m talking about a mind-set here.

  In those early days the first thing that I thought about was winning tournaments and nothing else. I didn’t think about being in contention or getting in the top 10. I didn’t care if I was inexperienced or out of my element from time to time. My whole philosophy was based on winning, not finishing a careful fifth. And I didn’t care what tournament I was playing in. I played to win no matter what.

  Back when I turned professional in 1954, they didn’t talk about the majors like they do today. In those days the Masters and the U.S. Open were the primary focus of what you might call “big” events. A lot of people didn’t even think about the British Open and, of course, the PGA Championship. That changed over time, and, yes, I had a little something to do with that. But I remember somebody saying to me, “What are you going to do? Are you going to get really ready for the Masters, or are you going to get really ready for the U.S. Open?”

  Personally, I felt that you just win tournaments. Winning the Masters or the Open wasn’t the only thing in the world.

  Every golf tournament I played in, as far as I was concerned, was a Masters or an Open or the PGA or British Open—and I played them like that. You’re playing the same people in the same situations, and I wanted to win those tournaments as much as I wanted to win anything. That was my goal. That was my aim. And nothing was going to get in my way from trying my hardest to do exactly that.

  Granted, everyone wants to win or they wouldn’t do what they do. But not many people ever think about it. Many times I would think, “I can’t lose. I just cannot.” Maybe it’s an odd way to think, but it drove me to play harder than just “thinking” about winning. Everybody wants to win the tournament, but this “do or die” kind of outlook drove me to accomplish what I wanted and kept me moving forward. I made a lot of golf shots out of desperation, thinking that I had to pull it off because, frankly, I was afraid to lose.

  Now, having said all that, you might be persuaded to believe that I was so singular in my thinking that I didn’t have any perspective at all about what I considered my mission. But that wasn’t true. I still think back
to the 1962 Colonial National Invitation at Colonial Country Club in Fort Worth, Texas. In those days I could wrap myself up in a cocoon of concentration, which is important in tournament golf. The secret of concentration is the secret of self-discovery. You reach inside yourself to discover your personal resources and what it takes to match them to the challenge of the game.

  At Colonial that year, I was in a playoff with Johnny Pott, and at the ninth hole I found myself in a greenside bunker. I led by a stroke and desperately wanted to get down in two for a par to keep my lead. As I was standing over the ball ready to play the shot, I heard the voice of a small boy behind me. I backed off the shot and laughed as his mother shushed him. Then the boy began crying, so I backed off again. When I settled over the ball a third time, I heard the boy’s muffled cry, and when I turned around, there was the little boy turning red because his mother had clamped her hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.

  Finally I said to the mother, “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t choke him. This isn’t that important.” Then I went back to the ball, blasted out, saved par, and went on to win the tournament.

  My good friend and manager Mark McCormack used to say that he thought that episode might have been my finest hour, that another player might not have handled things as well or as coolly as I did, but I was just reacting in a way that fit my overall philosophy. For a lot of players, golf is a way of making a living. For me, golf always has been a way of being alive. And nothing compared to the feeling of going for a victory. I never felt like I had to win at all costs, but I went all out.

  LIFE