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THE BOB HOPE Desert Classic is different from most PGA Tour stops for several reasons. For one thing, like Pebble Beach, the entire tournament is a pro-am. For another, it runs ninety holes instead of the usual seventy-two. And it’s played over three courses rather than one.

Perhaps the most distinctive feature of the Palm Springs tournament, however, was its host and namesake, Bob Hope. Like his old friend Bing Crosby, Bob Hope had a lifelong love affair with golf and was genuinely committed to making his tournament a success. Everyone associated with the Desert Classic always knew that he was no mere figurehead and that his hands-on involvement put the event in a category separate from other Tour stops.

Hope liked golfers as much as he liked the game, and they responded to his affection. Among other things, the Desert Classic was the last regular Tour event that Arnold Palmer won, in 1973, and he continues to play in it to this very day.

Which leads me to my first big rookie moment. I was told to expect a lot of neat things as I experienced my first year on the Tour, but none was better than the first time The King spoke to me. We were on the putting green on Tuesday morning. Ordinarily, there would still be two days of practice before the opening round on Thursday, but the Hope event started on Wednesday because of the extra round. I had booked a starting time for later in the day and had planned on spending the next hour or so regaining confidence in my putter.

At that point, I really hadn’t been paying much attention to the other players mulling around me. But as I bent over a putt, a ball came rolling across my line of vision, and I heard someone say, “Excuse me.” I immediately recognized the voice from Pennzoil commercials on television. It was The King.

I looked up to see the most familiar face in golf (Tiger notwithstanding), smiling and offering a needless apology for disturbing me. He then extended his hand and said, “I’m Arnold Palmer. I understand this is your first year out here. If I can do anything for you, let me know.”

I managed to grab his hand, probably more enthusiastically than I should have, and stammered, “Well, thanks very much, Mr. Palmer. I’m Bobby Reeves.” Then, on an impertinent impulse, I added, “I’d love to play a practice round with you sometime.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Well, I think we’re only three as it stands now. Why don’t you join us? We’re due off in about ten minutes.”

I don’t exactly recall what I said, but I must have communicated some kind of acceptance, because he called over his shoulder as he walked away that they would be waiting for me on the first tee.

It then dawned on me that I didn’t know where Stewart was. I had just accepted an invitation to play a round of golf with one of the game’s greats, and I couldn’t find my caddie. I immediately fell into a panic.

I bolted over to the caddie area, but Stewart wasn’t there. I ran over to the parking lot, but he wasn’t at our courtesy car. I had just about decided to carry my own bag, as silly as that might have looked for a PGA Tour player, when I saw him coming across the putting green.

“Stewart! I’ve been looking all over for you! We’re up next!”

He gave me a quizzical look and then pointed to his watch. “What are you talking about? We’ve got another hour before we’re on the tee.”

I shook my head vigorously. “No, we’re going off now. Arnold Palmer invited me to play with his group.”

Stewart smiled. “Oh, I see. Well, fine.” He eyed me carefully and said, “Now, calm down, Bobby. You can get his autograph after the round.”

I took slight offense. “Very funny,” I replied. “You can say what you want, but I think it’s pretty cool.”

He laughed as he shouldered my bag and starting walking toward the first tee. “It is cool, but remember what Joe Paterno said: Act like you’ve been there before. This is our last chance to see the course before the tournament starts.”

As we reached the first tee, I saw my idol standing with Paul Stankowski and Loren Roberts, two of the Tour’s better players. They looked just as happy to be playing with The King as I was. I was obviously not alone in my hero worship.

There are many things that make Arnold Palmer a unique figure in sports. For one thing, I doubt that anyone in the history of sport has ever managed to capture the public’s affection as he has. Here we were, about to tee off on a practice round, and a man who became eligible for Social Security when I was in high school had drawn the biggest gallery of the day.

Looking around at the adoring faces of what was once called “Arnie’s Army,” I challenged Stewart to name a single athlete who could match his appeal. He gave a gentle shrug of the shoulders and said, “It’s like someone said, they may say that Jack Nicklaus was the better player, but they will always love Arnold Palmer more.”

It is remarkable to me that no one in the world of golf has anything negative to say about Arnold Palmer. If he has ever had a bad moment and treated a fan, other golfer, or tournament official wrongly, there’s no record of it.

Palmer has always had a unique ability to connect with virtually every person in the gallery. As we walked along during the round, he seemed to answer every encouraging word with a wink, wave, or some other gesture that acknowledged his partnership with his fans in seeking a last triumphant round of golf that, beyond all reason, would carry him once again to the winner’s circle.

As we walked down the third fairway, I cocked my head in Palmer’s direction and said to Paul Stankowski, “I get chills just watching him.”

The goateed pro laughed. “Shoot, I’ve been playing with him for years, and I’ve never gotten used to it.”

My clubs finally drew some attention on the fifth hole. We were all standing together, waiting for the group ahead to clear the green, when Loren Roberts looked in my bag.

“Whatcha got there?”

I looked at Stewart. He was staring impassively ahead. No help there.

I tried to joke my way out of it. “They’re knockoffs,” I said, referring to cheap imitations of brand-name clubs that sell for a fraction of the real thing.

Roberts pulled my seven-iron out of the bag. Waggling the club, he said, “Boy, they feel good.”

He must have caught Palmer’s eye, because he came over at that point and said, “I haven’t seen clubs like that since I was a kid working in my dad’s shop.” Palmer then pulled out another of my irons and scrutinized its head. His voice rising in excitement, he said, “These things were made the old way, one at a time, by a master clubmaker.” He whistled. “I didn’t think I’d ever see something like this again except in a museum.”

I was becoming embarrassed. Handing the club back to me, Palmer smiled and said, “You better hang on to these. If they’re as old as I think they are, they’re probably a lot more valuable than anything we’re playing with.”

After we played our approaches and began walking toward the green, I said to Stewart, “Great. Now they think I’m some kind of a freak playing these antique clubs.”

He shook his head disapprovingly. “You worry about the silliest things. You’re hitting the ball well enough with them, aren’t you? What else matters?”

I was stuck for an answer. I knew one thing: These clubs came from a different time. I was beginning to think that Stewart did, too. He may have been young enough to carry my clubs, but he was old at heart, if there was such a thing.