“I know everybody by their first names.”
ON AN APRIL SUNDAY in 2004, his 13th year as a pro, Phil Mickelson surrendered the title of “best player never to win a major.” Two days earlier, he heard Sunday roars at Augusta on Friday, “echoing through the valleys and hollows,” as he said, “starting at the first hole and building all the way to the eighteenth.” That was Arnold Palmer’s last round at the Masters.
Palmer played in 50 Masters exactly, missing his 21st straight cut in 2004 at the age of 74. Even “lifetime” exemptions run out, as Billy Casper, Doug Ford, and Gay Brewer learned the hard way, by mail. “I don’t want to get a letter,” Arnold said, explaining the nice, round number on which he volunteered to take his leave.
Departing the press center for the last time, he felt a muscular arm loop about his waist and looked up to see Tiger Woods on his way in. “How did you do?” Palmer whispered, but Woods didn’t mention his 69 or say anything at all, just held on. When Tiger reached the microphone, someone asked if he could see himself still playing at Palmer’s age. “I just hope I’m on this side of the grass,” Woods said.
Earlier, finding himself deep in the grass on the 15th hole, Palmer jokingly asked the spectators flanking his ball, “With all of my friends here, how can I have such a rotten lie?” A regretful voice in the ranks, speaking for the entire division, murmured, “You should have seen it before, Arnie.”
That night Palmer said, “Hell, I know everybody in these galleries by their first names. I’m kidding a little, but not too much. I could probably tell you the first names of thousands of them.”
The first name of the guy who called him once on Christmas morning—1:06 a.m. Christmas morning in 1967—was Peter. Peter Deeks. He was a Canadian phoning from Toronto, where Palmer won his first pro tournament. Deeks had just graduated from college and with four of his mates got to wondering whom they hadn’t yet wished a Merry Christmas. (Beer was involved.)
“I called information in Latrobe,” Deeks said, “and asked if there was a listing for A. D. Palmer. ‘No,’ the operator said, ‘but there’s one for Arnold Palmer.’ I dialed the number and heard, ‘Hello.’
“‘Is Arnold there?’
“‘This is Arnold speaking.’
“‘I hope I’m not bothering you,’ I said.
“‘No, I’m just putting presents under the tree for Winnie, Amy, and Peggy.’”
They spoke for 12 minutes exactly. Deeks knew this because he kept the Bell Canada bill.
Twenty-two Christmases later, Peter’s brother Jim handed him two wrapped gifts, the smaller one marked, “Open me first.” It was a video. “On came Arnie,” Peter said, “saying, ‘Hi, I’d like to wish Peter, Wendy and Sarah and Jocelyn Deeks a very Merry Christmas. Peter, do me a favor and call me again, but don’t make it on Christmas Eve, OK?’ I was stunned.” He opened the next present, and it was that same message written out in capital letters, signed “Arnold Palmer.”
In England, one of the heartiest regulars in Arnie’s Army was a blue-haired woman named Myra, Myra Leatherdale, whom he called Mrs. Weatherbottom, because she mustered and marched even in sideways rain. When she died in the ’80s at 80, he mourned.
Palmer also knew the first names of Nate Marcoulier and his brother Adam, just two of the thousands of correspondents who made it necessary, Doc Giffin said, for six figures to be budgeted annually just to answer Arnold’s mail.
Dear Mr. Palmer,
One of the greatest gifts that we are given in life is the gift of family. As a son and older brother, I have thoroughly enjoyed the many great times spent with my parents and younger brother throughout my life. I have loved every minute with my brother Nate over our young lives. We are both avid scratch golfers from a small town in Central Massachusetts and have truly looked up to you throughout our entire lives. Your overall attitude and conduct has inspired us to wear our emotions on our sleeve in celebrating our achievements but also being gracious in defeat. You are a true role model for everyone from all walks of life, and we all ought to thank you for that.
Through hard work and a tremendous support network from our parents, both Nate and I have been very successful in both our high school and collegiate careers. While I am a junior at Stonehill College in Easton, MA, Nate is getting ready to graduate from St. Bernard’s High School in Fitchburg, MA this May. Upon graduation, Nate will be joining me once again at Stonehill College where we will continue to have many great times. While I would like to think I am the better golfer, Nate’s results speak for themselves. He has won several junior tournaments, including the Massachusetts Division II District Tournament, his biggest win to date. He is a dedicated, hard-working individual who succeeds in most everything he applies himself to. I could not be luckier to have him as a brother and best friend.
As a sibling yourself, I can imagine you can relate to my story and feelings towards Nate. I’m sure you and your siblings looked up to someone and called them your hero. Mr. Palmer, you are our hero. This gets to the root of why I am writing you this letter.
As our hero, I was wondering if you could possibly write Nate a letter wishing him good luck in college and providing him some advice along the way. I don’t think there is anyone more qualified to give Nate advice as you have truly been through it all in your life. I would be forever grateful if you would do this for me. It would truly mean the world to Nate—and maybe even provide me with the “Best Brother of the Year” award!
I wish you all the best, Mr. Palmer. Thank you so much for reading this letter, and I hope that Nate will hear from you soon!
Sincerely,
Adam Marcoulier
Dear Nate,
I understand from your brother, Adam, that you are quite a golfer and a great younger brother. I hear you’ve won several junior tournaments, including the Massachusetts Division II District Tournament. Congratulations!
As you graduate from high school and continue on to Stonehill College, I think you will find life to be enjoyable and fulfilling if you follow this advice:
Courtesy and respect are timeless principles, as well as good manners.
Knowing when to speak is just as important as knowing what you say.
Know how to win by following the rules.
Know the importance of when and how to say thank you.
Never underestimate the importance of a good education.
Good luck in college and study hard.
Sincerely,
Arnold Palmer
Chicagoans Jeff Roberts and Wally Schneider, son of a former minor-league catcher in the Cubs’ system, were serving together in the sand hills of Chu Lai, South Vietnam, at the height of the war. Splitting their time between shooting from bunkers and practicing bunker shots, they decided to write Palmer for help with one kind of explosion, addressing the letter simply:
Arnold Palmer
Latrobe, Pa.
Dear Wally and Jeff,
Was great hearing from you both, and I’m extremely gratified by your letter. It’s good to see such admirable spirit displayed by our men in Vietnam, and I send my sincere wishes for your return to Chicago safely and soon.
I’m also sending you, under separate cover, two new sand wedges and a supply of golf balls which should be arriving in the very near future from the Arnold Palmer Company in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Hope you enjoy the clubs. However, I hope you won’t be hitting too many shots out of bounds. Take care of yourselves and I’ll look forward to seeing you in Chicago sometime.
Sincerely,
Arnold
Both men made it home safely. After settling back in Illinois, Roberts went to Olympia Fields, site of the Western Open, and waited outside the clubhouse for Palmer. “I walked up to him and told him, ‘I’m one of the guys you sent sand wedges in Vietnam.’ He said, ‘Are you Jeff or Wally?’ Can you believe it? He remembered our names.”
Some people wrote Palmer to pass along cure-alls and home remedies for life’s and golf’s galling maladies, touting the benefits of Sal Hepatica, Squirt, cod liver oil, Heinz Dark Apple Cider Vinegar, and Certo (“You can get it in any supermarket”), not to mention the healing properties of radioactive plutonium (less available in supermarkets) and the benefit of just keeping a potato in your pocket, “making sure to change the potato when it calcifies, every two or three months.”
But most of the letter writers wanted only to make a connection.
Dear Arnie:
“You won’t remember me, but . . .
Dear Mr. Palmer,
If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you a little bit about something that happened last Saturday . . .
Dear Mr. Palmer:
My sister and my brother and I go to camp every summer in Ligonier, which, I understand, is not far from Latrobe. Last summer, my brother came home with his bag full of clean underwear because he wore only one pair for the whole week. (Ha! Ha!) But that is neither here nor there. The reason I’m writing you is . . .
Picking at the day’s stack of letters on his desk (one written in crayon), Palmer said, “I’m kind of like Dear Abby, aren’t I? I don’t deserve it, but I feel so complimented by it. People confiding their problems and sharing their lives, many of them repeaters, a few of them lost friends who haven’t written me in years. Questions and comments of every kind, all of them appreciated. If my secretary, Janet, and I don’t stay right on top of it, the pile can grow taller than I am.” His original secretary, Winnie, put aside the envelopes with the funniest addresses (“Arnold Palmer, world’s greatest golfer”) that, like the letters to Kris Kringle in Miracle on 34th Street, somehow made it to Latrobe. “I’d read them to him at night,” Winnie said, “sitting in front of the television, and he’d tell me what to write back.”
One day in Latrobe, in the first decade of the new century, Palmer headed out with a few others—a dentist, an agent, and a magazine editor—to play a lazy round. As they reached the third tee, adjacent to a road, a convertible screeched to a stop and the driver vaulted out. Running to the tee with his hand extended, he shouted, “Mr. Palmer! Mr. Palmer! I’ve got to shake your hand! I grew up in Pittsburgh! You’ve been my idol my whole life, since I was a kid! I talk to my own kids about you now! To be able to meet you in person, this is the greatest experience of my life! If I could just shake the hand of Arnold Palmer, it would mean the world to me!”
Arnie beamed, shook the man’s hand, and asked him, “Where do you live?” They talked for a few animated minutes, like old barracks buddies. Then Palmer turned to the others and said, “Do you guys know my friend, Bob? He’s a Pittsburgher.” After about 25 minutes of introductions and small talk, Bob started back to his car. “Hey, Bobby,” Palmer called after him. “Do you happen to have a camera with you?” “On my phone in the car,” he said. “Go get it!” Arnold said. “Wouldn’t it be nice to capture this moment? We’ll wait.”
The picture was taken, the man drove away, and the game resumed.
This was Arnie and his fans, all of whom he knew by their first names. He was kidding a little, but not too much.