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  INTRODUCTION

  EVERY PART OF MY GAME and every part of my life truly has been the product of the influence of my father, Milfred Jerome “Deacon” Palmer, or Deke as he was known to practically everyone. I begin with this thought because I began my journey through this golfing life with Pap’s unswerving guidance as the bedrock of just about everything I tried to do and how I chose to do it. My whole being has been a reflection of him. I wanted to emulate him, I wanted to be as tough as he was, and I wanted to do the things he did in the right way, as he did them.

  I was the first of four children to Deke and Doris Palmer, two kindhearted people who knew the value of hard work and who valued integrity, respect, and manners. My father would come to be the most influential person in my life because of the amount of time I spent with him from an early age, and what he taught me was everything that came to be important about how to play golf and how to live my life.

  It’s no stretch to say that the direction of my life was set when my father, at fifteen, quit school to go to work at American Locomotive in Latrobe but found he didn’t like being indoors. When he learned that a golf course was being built a couple of miles from his parents’ house in Youngstown, he jumped at the chance to help, and got a job on a three-man construction crew digging ditches. He knew nothing about golf or growing grass or shaping a fairway, but, nevertheless, he was asked to stay on to maintain the course when it was completed. He literally learned on the job to be a greenskeeper, and later the club’s golf pro.

  I practically grew up at my father’s side. When my sister Lois Jean came along two years after me, Pap would take me with him to work so that my mom could keep a handle on my sister and things at home. Therefore, I was around my father all day every day and around golf all day every day. There was really no way my immersion in Pap’s environment wasn’t going to have a huge influence on me. I was three when Pap put my hands on a golf club, showing me the overlapping grip, and he told me, sternly, “Now don’t ever change that.” Though I would go off on my own and practice and experiment—occasionally at times when I wasn’t supposed to—Pap taught me the proper fundamentals of the stance, alignment, and the basis of the swing. He also put me to work around the golf course and in the pro shop, and I learned a great deal about other aspects of the game.

  Most important of all, he taught me to be a sportsman, to show good sportsmanship, and there were plenty of times he reminded me of this until it was ingrained in my mind. In addition, good golf etiquette was mandatory. You fix your ball marks and divots, you don’t walk ahead of your partners, you remain still when a fellow player is hitting a shot, and so forth.

  But he didn’t just teach me to play golf. He taught me a discipline that things should be done a certain way—as well and as hard as you can.

  Pap was a tough, taciturn disciplinarian. I don’t want to say that I was afraid of him, but he certainly always had my attention, and if he told me to do something, I got it done as fast as I could. He wasn’t one to mince words, make excuses, or abide sloppiness of thoughts or actions. He believed in hard work and being a good person, and there wasn’t a lot of room in his mind for slacking off in either regard. He was highly strong-minded, something else he passed on to his son.

  What he rarely passed on to me were many compliments. He rode me hard, and as I improved as a golfer I still had to prove to him that I was good. And I always wanted to show him. Trying to tell him so would never do, anyway, because he often said that if you’re good at something, you don’t have to tell anyone. You show them. That was his way of reminding me to be humble, and I always tried to keep that in mind. He also wanted me to be humble in how I treated others. I think that was the product of his simple upbringing. He was never going to let anyone think they were better than him; conversely, he didn’t want his son thinking he was any better than anyone else. You treat people with respect and dignity, regardless of who they are or what they do, and you darn well better have proper manners. He taught me not only how to hold a golf club, but also how to hold a fork and a spoon and a knife. He taught me how to say “please” and “yes sir” and “no sir.”

  Obviously, these were important lessons. But I didn’t learn everything from Pap. Along the way I was so lucky to have amazing people come along at the right time and further shape by life, starting with Winnie Walzer, whom I courted for all of about ninety-six hours before I decided that I wanted her to marry me. Winnie was truly my better half, someone who was supportive of everything I was trying to do and knew me almost as well as I knew myself. She knew my moods, and she would help with my attitude and outlook. A friend to everyone who knew her, Winnie was selfless beyond compare. And she was wise. Her advice and good sense were indispensable, especially after I lost my father in 1976.

  Then there was Mark McCormack, who made such a huge impact on my career. Mark was brilliant, and he did amazing things on my behalf. Our partnership made us successful far beyond anything I could ever have imagined. And although I had so many wonderful friends through the years, no one compared to President Dwight Eisenhower. He was like another father to me. Our conversations were always something that gave me great comfort or food for thought. He had the kind of attitude and positive outlook that were an inspiration to me.

  And, of course, always my constant companion has been the game of golf, a game of grace and mystique, a pursuit from which I have never stopped learning. There are so many wonderful aspects to being a golfer. It’s an endless challenge, one that can’t be perfected but sometimes can be done with such transcendent skill that it just lifts the soul. And even the most inexperienced, raw golfer can feel that thrill on occasion because there’s just a certain inner satisfaction in going out and hitting a good golf shot. Equally, there is something special about walking around a golf course in the open air, smelling the grass and appreciating the wonders of nature. The people I have met have made my life special. If you’re a golfer reading this, think about how many people you’ve met and made friends with because you played golf. Then take another person who doesn’t play golf. I don’t care where you are or what sport you’re in, it can’t compare, in my mind, to golf in bringing people together. Golf is a world in itself. It’s an experience that’s really worth living.

  It’s been a wonderful life, I must say, and I say so with all humility and with appreciation for the people who made it so special. I hope the following pages adequately express that sentiment and that they illuminate for you some of those important things I learned along the way.

  GOLF

  THE GOLF SWING

  “HIT IT HARD, BOY, go find it, and hit it hard again.”

  Those early words from my father formed the very essence of my approach to golf from a very young age. From the beginning I took his advice to heart, and as a young boy I sometimes swung at the ball so hard I nearly toppled over. I remember how a prominent member at Latrobe Country Club once saw me
take a cut at the ball and commented to my father that he better do something to fix my swing. My father leveled his gaze at the man and said, simply, “You let me worry about my kid, and you just take care of your own game.”

  When I began to have some success in junior golf, well-meaning people would watch me slug a golf ball with my homemade corkscrew swing that relied a lot on my upper body strength, and they would offer me well-meaning tips on ways to improve it—as if it needed improving. I just knew it worked for me, and no one was going to convince me otherwise. Pap’s basic premise was that once you had the proper grip and understood the fundamental motion behind the swing, the trick was to find the swing that worked best for you and your body type, maximizing your power.

  And I wasn’t going to let doubters get to me, either. I remember very early in my rookie year hitting balls at Chick Harbert’s club in Detroit when I realized that George Fazio and Toney Penna were standing there watching me. Penna was practically a ball-striking legend. Well, I wanted to impress them, so I took some strong cuts with my driver to send balls to the other side of the practice range. I figured they would marvel at my power. After a few swings, I heard Penna ask Fazio if he knew who I was. Fazio replied, “That’s Arnold Palmer; he just won the National Amateur.”

  Then I heard Penna say, “Well, better tell him to get a job. With that swing of his he’ll never make it out here.” I really burned inside at that remark. And over the first few years of my professional career I heard some similar remarks.

  There was no question my swing was unique. I swung my swing, if you don’t mind me stealing a line from one of my television commercials. I had one of the biggest turns on tour, with my body rotating far to the right until I had turned my back to the target. My left hip and shoulder swung way around, something neither I nor my father ever really intended. When one fellow professional nudged Pap and asked him if he taught me that turn, he simply responded in his own reserved way, “Now wouldn’t that have been a silly thing to do?”

  What he meant was that a teaching pro—and my father made himself into an excellent teacher through his own diligence and ability—should never urge his pupils to think a certain way about the turn. I certainly never worried about it because it just occurred naturally in my swing with my hands and arms pulling my body around, something that proved a huge asset. I generated a lot of power with that swing until a hip injury started to slow me down in the late 1960s.

  But these kinds of observations continued for some time. Sam Snead once gave me a sort of backhanded compliment. He told reporters that he liked the fluid swings of players like Bert Yancey or Tommy Aaron compared to mine. But, he added, “If they ever had the determination of Arnold Palmer they would do better.”

  No one was more critical of my game than Ben Hogan.

  I’d seen Ben Hogan at various tournaments, but I didn’t meet him until the Masters in 1955. To be honest, I was so in awe of the man, and so naturally shy, I felt he was utterly unapproachable. At Augusta someone introduced us, and we shook hands. He was polite enough, but I felt the cool distance others sensed while in his presence. Hogan was still limping from his 1950 car crash but remained the most dangerous player of his age, maybe the best ball-striker who ever lived. I was at first surprised by—and later angered about—the fact that he never, in the years I knew him, called me by my first name. Ten million golf fans have felt completely comfortable calling me “Arnie,” but Hogan never called me by name. He only called me “fella,” even when I played for him in the Ryder Cup.

  Three years after that first meeting, my good friend Dow Finsterwald set up a practice-round game against Hogan and Jackie Burke at Augusta on Tuesday morning. Because I was in a Monday playoff at the Azalea Open in Wilmington, I didn’t arrive in Augusta until late that night. Well, more like early Tuesday. I played very poorly, but we took $35 apiece off the two Texans, thanks to Dow. After the match, as I was changing my shoes in the locker room, I heard Hogan talking to Burke, and he wondered aloud, loud enough for me to hear—perhaps even on purpose—how I had ever been invited to play in the Masters. The words I heard were, “Tell me something, Jackie,” he said to Burke. “How the hell did Palmer get in the Masters?”

  I was a little disappointed that Hogan talked that way. It was a real blow to my ego. And I knew that much of the source of his criticism was my aggressive style of play and my unique swing, which obviously was the antithesis of his game. Hogan was a precise shotmaker with the most repeatable swing in golf.

  But even before Hogan poked at me, I had a strong determination to play well at Augusta. My record there up to that point was decent, but there seemed to be this growing belief that I didn’t have the game to win there—or in many other places. In the early months of 1958, I had won at St. Petersburg by closing with a 65 to edge Dow and Fred Hawkins, but I had been in contention several other times without winning, including second in Tijuana, seventh in Panama, second in Baton Rouge, and third in New Orleans. Why would Augusta be any different, particularly with my low ball flight that was such an ill fit for Augusta National? Well, because I believed in myself and in my golf swing. And I had such strong determination. And I knew deep down that I was playing well enough to win. And, of course, I did just that for my first Masters and second major title after my U.S. Amateur victory.

  Golf, of course, is more than just how you swing the club. The fact is, I could easily swing a golf club as pretty as the next guy, but it wouldn’t have gotten the job done for me. Sure, my swing was herky-jerky as some of the “experts” called it, but it was effective. And I owned my swing, including that high finish with that bit of a windmill action at the top, which I began using in high school to fight off a strong draw (that sometimes was a strong hook). My swing was the exact opposite of Jack Nicklaus’s swing. His power came from the waist down with those tree-trunk legs of his. Mine came from my shoulders and arms and hands.

  But the reason my golf swing worked so effectively goes back to a few fundamentals, and not just the proper grip. I understood that keeping my head and feet—the anchor points of the swing—as quiet as possible, enabled me to hit the ball solidly all the time. Especially important was keeping my head very still; it’s almost impossible to make a bad swing if your grip is good and you keep your head in place. And although I made a big turn, I kept my swing compact, which further helped me to keep the club under control, even when I swung all out.

  I can’t tell you how important those basics were over the years. And I can’t tell you how satisfying it was to keep making people eat their words. Legendary sportswriter Jim Murray once wrote that my swing “looked like a guy beating a carpet.” Maybe so, but it was effective in beating the opposition, too.

  TAKEOFF

  I’VE NEVER MADE IT a secret that the turning point in my golf career and life was my victory in the 1954 U.S. Amateur championship at Country Club of Detroit. The U.S. Amateur was a big deal in that era, which is one reason why I consider myself a winner of eight major championships, instead of the seven that I’m given credit for in my professional career. When you finish first in such a huge tournament with the kind of talent gathered that week in Detroit, I can tell you that winning it felt like winning a major championship.

  I was pretty fortunate to be near the top of my game that week. Just seven months removed from my three-year hitch in the Coast Guard, I was coming off what was perhaps my biggest win to date, the All-American at Tam O’Shanter in Chicago, an event that has long been defunct but was a significant tournament in 1954.

  I fought my way through the field at the U.S. Amateur with a series of cliffhangers, including a rally from 2 down with seven to play in my quarterfinal match against Don Cherry. In the semifinals, I needed a birdie on the 39th hole to subdue Ed Meister. In the final against former British Amateur champion Bob Sweeny, I had fallen behind rather quickly as Bob, who at forty-three was nearly twice my age, sank a succession of lengthy birdie putts. I was 3 down after four holes before I knew it. Walking
off the fourth green, he put an arm around my shoulder and said to me, “Arnie, you know there’s one consolation: You know I can’t keep doing this.”

  Well, he was right, and eventually my advantage off the tee—I routinely outdrove him by 30–40 yards—began to make a difference. Still, I wasn’t able to claim my first lead until the 32nd hole of the 36-hole match. (I guess you could say I was charging even in match play.) I went 2 up when I sank a seven-foot birdie putt on the next hole, and although Sweeny birdied the 35th hole from 15 feet, I still felt in control and was able to close out my 2-up victory.

  What’s that you ask? Didn’t I only win 1-up? Why, yes, come to think of it, I did. At least that’s what the record book says.

  But in actuality the true score was a 2-up victory. Let me explain.

  On the par-4 18th hole I smoked a drive right down the middle of the fairway after Bob had hit a weak fade that ended up in the high fescue rough behind two trees. I hit a 4-iron into the green for my next shot while Bob couldn’t even reach the green with a 3-iron because he was blocked out by the trees. Soon after Bob conceded the hole and the match.

  On the 18th green, USGA executive director Joe Dey said to me, “Arnie, if you don’t mind, we’ll call this a 1-up victory.” Joe had known what had happened. I smiled and replied, “Joe, I don’t care what you call this.” All I cared about was that he was going to call me the champion.

  In his report on the championship the following week in Sports Illustrated, the esteemed golf writer Herbert Warren Wind delivered a riveting account of the championship, including the taut final between Bob and me. But his only reference to the final hole was in passing when he wrote: “Though Sweeny fought back to take the 35th with a 15-footer that he had to hole to keep alive and so carried the match right to the home green, in the opinion of both finalists it was the 33rd that was decisive.” So what happened on the 36th hole? Wind doesn’t say. Talk about anticlimactic.