LIFE GOES ON
THERE WERE TIMES I stood on the 18th tee feeling my life would all but end if I didn’t win. And when I didn’t win I discovered my life, in fact, did not end.
When I lost to Bill Casper in 1966 at Olympic Club in the U.S. Open, it was devastating. I won’t try to kid you; it was difficult to stomach, and no setback took more time to shake off. Eventually I did, but it took many weeks of soul-searching and reflection. That final round was one of the most baffling I have ever encountered in my life, but it really reflects what’s great about golf. It’s amazing how you can just be cruising along and then all of a sudden your game disappears. And when the train leaves the tracks, it’s a real struggle to get it back.
What happens is that you let a stroke go somewhere that you know you shouldn’t have let go. It might be an easy chip or a putt, what have you. That makes you a little bit anxious, which gets you swinging a bit more quickly. You lose your innate tempo. But, worse, you start thinking quickly. You start pressing, for distance, mainly, but by and large you start trying to hit shots you have no business trying to make.
It’s very difficult to reverse your thinking once you go down this road. It’s nearly impossible, in fact. You can’t seem to find that same frame of mind that made you so comfortable just a few holes before. It happens to even the finest players. It happened to me, and that’s how the championship eventually got away from me. A seven-stroke lead with nine holes to play disappeared on me almost in a flash. Bill started playing well at the same time, which contributed further to my anxiety and increasingly poor play. As for the playoff the next day, I tried as hard as I could, but I just couldn’t muster any intensity, and my concentration was lacking, too.
Did it hurt? I won’t lie; it hurt a lot. When pressed about it, San Francisco was the toughest, given the lead that I had. Especially with my mentality about winning, about feeling that I had to win, losing was a bitter pill, and this might have been the most bitter of all. But as awful as I felt after losing to Billy in that playoff, in many ways my life improved. In the aftermath of that loss, more of life came calling, and I continued on with a slightly different perspective. I was better for the experience.
I was a better person. I had a better perspective on things. I would never have felt good if I had not experienced losing, because losing is part of your life. But there was something else. For quite a few years I had received my share of fan mail, but after the loss at Olympic, the letters were different. People wanted to help. They were comforting and encouraging. It was just a different sensation entirely, and it meant a great deal to me. I looked at everything a little bit differently because of that. I had always appreciated folks, my “Army” of fans, but their gestures of support in defeat meant more to me than any adulation I experienced in victory.
The fans have always been there for me throughout my career. But never were they more helpful and supportive and nurturing—and understanding—than after that time. I’ll never forget it, and I still have all those letters today.
ARNIE’S ARMY
IT’S TRULY ASTONISHING how something that started so simply and innocently, that started as a seed of an idea expressed in a catchy phrase born of coincidence and circumstances, can be so enduring. And special. And, eventually, so meaningful—especially now.
I’m talking about the phenomenon known as “Arnie’s Army.”
It was 1959 when I first saw the words “Arnie’s Army,” but its origin dates to the preceding year when I won my first Masters. Clifford Roberts, cofounder of Augusta National Golf Club with Bob Jones, used GIs from nearby Camp Gordon (now Fort Gordon), the military installation where Cliff spent two years as a young soldier, to man the scoreboards that updated the status of players on the course. (Augusta doesn’t use walking standards.) Cliff also gave free passes to any soldier who showed up in uniform. He did the same in 1959. As a former member of the armed services, I can tell you that it felt like my kind of crowd.
A lot of the soldiers did not necessarily know much about golf, but they were fans of this former Coast Guard member, and many of them joined my gallery. That prompted one of the GIs working a back-nine scoreboard—I never learned his name, unfortunately—to herald the arrival of “Arnie’s Army” with a handwritten sign, which is what it looked like with all those men in uniform. I can’t remember another time, other than my stint in the Coast Guard, when so many uniformed soldiers surrounded me.
A year later, when I won my second Masters title, I thanked the “army” of supporters who came out to follow me. Johnny Hendricks, a sports editor of the Augusta Chronicle, picked up on the phrase and ran the headline “Arnie’s Army” for the first time. And it stuck. Soon, anyone who occupied my gallery claimed membership in my army, and I was very grateful for that, because so many times throughout my career it was my army of supporters who kept me going and buoyed my spirits no matter how I was playing.
In 1960, during the U.S. Open at Cherry Hills in Denver, the huge gallery was back in my corner like never before as I overcame that seven-stroke deficit to Mike Souchak in the final round. That’s still the largest comeback ever orchestrated in the championship. The cheers of the crowd that day will always be among my greatest memories. I truly feel like the support of Arnie’s Army had as much to do with my winning the championship as the shots I played.
As far back as I can remember my supporters have been a great source of strength for me. The fans that I talk to and hear from every day make me want to continue to do the things I do. If you ever get the mail that I get and read the things that people have written to me, it makes me want to continue to play and compete, and I wish that I could—for them as much as for myself.
While I have always appreciated deeply the support of Arnie’s Army, I have never quite understood the phenomenon. But I think a psychologist named Dr. Ernest Dichter summed it up best once a long time ago when the Army was really getting into gear. “People see themselves winning through Palmer,” he said. “He looks and acts like a regular guy, and at the same time he does the kinds of things others wish they could do. His expressiveness makes his spectators feel that they are part of his game; he looks like he needs their help, and they respond.”
I remember teeing off in Palm Springs at the Bob Hope one year in the late 1970s, and because I had a couple of bad rounds, I had to start very early. My tee time was around 7 a.m. Only the mowers were out earlier. But out of the dusk comes Arnie’s Army in their pajamas and robes to see me tee off. And, you know, I didn’t just wave at the crowd, either; I engaged with them, because I knew many of the people in my galleries so well. At some of these places like the Bob Hope in Palm Springs or Augusta, I not only got to know my fans, but their children, and then the grandchildren.
In recent years, as I have stopped playing competitively, the concept of Arnie’s Army is as strong as ever, but it is evolving, and it’s something that excites me. We have taken the idea, which is all about support and commitment, and transformed it into a mission to help and cheer on others. I believe Arnie’s Army knows that in order to make a better future for all of us, the children need our support. We need to ensure a bright future full of opportunities for all of them.
Golf gave me the opportunity to make a significant impact in the world, to invest in the health and well-being of children. For those of you who followed me during my life, I am eternally grateful for that. But now I hope you will follow me on my next “charge,” one that is much more important as we seek to make a positive change in the lives of many people, children especially.
When we sought to create a new charitable initiative, the first thing that came to our minds was Arnie’s Army, which conjures thoughts of good folks coming together. Thus, we have started the Arnie’s Army Charitable Foundation with a three-pronged mission that puts the community back into community service, as we like to say, by investing in the well-being and development of children, supporting health and wellness initiatives for people of all ages and from all
corners of the globe, and strengthening communities and the environment.
All those many years ago an unknown soldier christened my own army for me, an incredible stroke of genius on his part and an incredible stroke of luck for me. And I sincerely hope to pass on that good fortune to children everywhere.
We’d have a slogan that says we are “marching toward a better tomorrow,” and I really like that thought. But, frankly, I’m hoping we can charge toward it.
ATTITUDE
PEOPLE HAVE OFTEN ASKED ME about the way I have gone about my career, how I have managed to keep a positive attitude, how I have embraced the challenges and so forth, weathered the disappointments, kept moving forward no matter what the obstacles. They figure that it must be hard. Well, the golf aspect of it is certainly difficult. That’s the game. And you have to work very hard if you want to be successful. You have to make sacrifices and you have to understand that if you have goals that you want to achieve, there are no shortcuts.
That is especially true when it comes to golf. It is just too hard to take any shortcuts, to think that if you practice just enough that it will be enough. No, you have to go all out. Of course, that’s easy for me, as I have already said, because going all out was my style and part of my belief system in how to approach the game.
But the rest of it was really quite easy. And by that I mean that it was easy to have the right attitude because of the way I looked at things.
I am reminded of a Callaway dinner not too long ago at which I was invited to speak. Phil Mickelson was there as well, and we took questions from the audience. A young man asked Phil how he managed to always be smiling on the golf course and to appear as if he was enjoying himself and the crowd. Phil’s answer was tremendous. He said, “You do realize that I get to play golf for a living, right?”
That answer was spot on. Indeed, we as professional golfers get to earn a living doing something that many other people elect to do when they go on vacation. So simply start with that premise. We play a game for a living. That in and of itself is a strong reason to have a positive outlook.
Now there are, of course, players on tour who don’t necessarily understand this. They know they are fortunate and they are grateful to be making a lot of money playing golf. But do they really embrace what that means? The opportunities before them are truly quite astounding, and I’m not just talking about the money, but also to be doing something that is so enjoyable—playing golf competitively. It’s rewarding to your mind and your spirit to be able to travel all over the world to unbelievable golf courses and compete and enjoy those various surroundings.
Sure, the travel can be demanding, and when you are playing poorly it is sometimes hard to remain confident. But that is something else altogether. Even when the game gets frustrating, there is absolutely no reason not to remain positive. Because the things we get to do, the opportunities that we have, are tremendous. They are the stuff of our dreams.
So when people have seen me out on the golf course throughout my years on tour, they were seeing someone who had a chance to live his dreams. That made it quite easy, whatever the outcome of any tournament, for me to move on and to be eager for the next challenge. To keep all that in mind helped to make it all worthwhile. I don’t think I could have had the successes I did have without realizing that. And even though I wanted to win in the worst way, just to have that opportunity was, in my mind, something that was a reward in itself.
To be able to say that I had the good fortune to have it happen to me, I am the most thankful person in this world.
AUTOGRAPHS
IF THERE IS ONE DEVELOPMENT in the realm of golf that has been a disappointment to me, it’s the nature of autographs.
I have always enjoyed signing autographs, and to this day it’s rare that I turn down a request. I have taken this part of my job and career seriously and I try to remain vigilant in reaching out to fans and well-wishers who want my signature on their photos, flags, and other forms of memorabilia. (You’d be surprised by some of the things I have been asked to sign over the years.) In fact, I consider it a privilege to be thought of in such a way that so many people want my autograph. One of my cardinal rules in signing autographs is to make sure that I have a signature that is legible. When they see the signature of Arnold Palmer, they can see that is says “Arnold Palmer” and not some kind of chicken scratching in which some, if not all, of the letters can’t be read. I feel so strongly about this that I constantly talk to young players about how they sign their names. Take the time to do it right and with great care. It might take an extra second or two, but it’s worth the effort.
I have no idea how much time I devote in a given week to signing things that come into my offices at Bay Hill or Latrobe, but I do know I spend more than $250,000 annually making sure to send it back. It’s a small sum in the scheme of things, but I bring it up as a way of giving some idea of the number of items that cross my desk.
What’s disappointing is that in the last several years there seem to be more and more people who collect signatures of golfers—and other athletes—for the express purpose of selling them to make money. Even worse, a few years ago Jack Nicklaus, Tiger Woods, and I had to take measures to guard against the counterfeiting of our signatures. And some of these professional signature gatherers even give little kids a few dollars to go up and ask me to autograph something.
I find these types of actions troubling. People are out there subverting the purpose of the whole endeavor, and this saddens me deeply. Is that really what we’ve come to? And who are these people who want to buy these items, even if they are genuine? Isn’t an autograph supposed to represent a personal experience, a memento on which you cannot put a price? It’s gotten to where I have, at rare times, declined signing something if I feel it is inappropriate.
Most folks are still very nice in their intentions. And I should point out that I have absolutely no trouble signing something that I know is going to be put up for sale or auction for a charity purpose. Heck, I’ll sign all day for a good cause—and there are many.
Change happens in one’s life, but like some other things that have happened in my lifetime, this is one change I don’t like. I miss the simple pleasure that used to go with the practice of signing autographs. There was something personally fulfilling about it for both me and, I hope, golf fans. If I could go back and fix something in the game, this would be near the top of the list.
ULTIMATE WIN
THE DATE WAS FEBRUARY 22, 1997, and I was standing before a roomful of familiar faces at Bay Hill Club making a few remarks after a dinner following a club function. I knew many of the people in the audience, and their applause as I stepped to the podium was especially enthusiastic.
“I’m here to tell you about prostates,” I began. “You know … I don’t have one.”
Roars of laughter followed, and I chuckled myself. But the subject was deadly serious and that’s no exaggeration. Only a month earlier I had undergone a procedure to have my prostate removed after biopsy tests revealed what PSA tests had indicated—I had cancer. There were several options available to me, but I was going to make a charge on my recovery by having the thing cut out. And then later I had to endure radiation therapy. As they often say, laughter is the best medicine.
Of course, I had to turn more serious in my remarks. “If you have a physical, you will want to have a PSA test done every year,” I told the crowd. “Believe me, there’s someone here that will be affected by this. It could save your life or save the way you like to enjoy your life.”
As many people are well aware, you’re never quite the same after you’ve received news of cancer in your life. Before I learned I had cancer, Winnie and I had to endure the endless worrying about our daughter Amy and her own private hell of an ordeal. Fortunately, Amy underwent effective treatments, and today she is cancer free. But there was probably no day darker than the one eighteen months after my cancer diagnosis. That was the day of my last radiation treatment—and on that
same day we learned that Winnie had peritoneal carcinoma. Without a doubt that day was the hardest of my life.
The days and weeks that followed were unspeakably difficult. Winnie was the light of my life, my guiding light, the anchor of our family. Losing her just before the holidays in 1999, on Saturday, November 20, was an incredibly difficult time, though the outpouring of love and the tributes to her were heartening and reminded me all the more how many people she had impacted. Her memorial service at the Unity Chapel in Latrobe was a celebration of a life well lived and lived caring about others. I thanked those who came to pay their respects and tried to share what my years with Winnie meant to me. But I didn’t have the words. To think that five days after our meeting, the elegant Winnie Walzer agreed to marry this glorified paint salesman says it all about her wonderful heart. My nickname for her was “Win,” which could not have been more appropriate.
One of the most touching moments after losing Winnie was the Metropolitan Golf Writers Association creating an award in her honor to recognize an individual in golf who has consistently given his or her time, energy, and enthusiasm to those less fortunate. The first recipient of the Winnie Palmer Award, announced the following June, was one of her dearest friends in the game—Barbara Nicklaus, which I thought was just wonderful, and I felt that Winnie would be as pleased as I was.
It was in October of the previous year that I had revealed to the public Winnie’s battle with the disease—during a dinner in Pittsburgh for cancer survivors. As I said before, cancer changes you, and although I already had been involved in various charitable initiatives related to health and medicine, I took an increasing interest in cancer research. Winnie already had a long list of philanthropic interests, including the MD Anderson Cancer Center in Orlando, and soon I found myself immersed in many other projects. Today I am proud of the work we do at the Arnold Palmer Prostate Center at the Eisenhower Medical Center in Palm Springs, California, and at Arnold Palmer Pavilion near Latrobe.
A Life Well Played Page 8
