Showing posts with label Bay Hill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bay Hill. Show all posts

Thursday, January 23, 2020

Return this decision to sender: Palmer stamp to be unveiled in Orlando, not Latrobe



I’m painfully aware of the personal and professional consequences of using this blog — named the 32nd most influential blog for Amish readers — to ruffle the feathers of the braintrust behind one of the world’s most beloved and iconic brands.

But when a company worth in the neighborhood $700 million gracelessly stumbles over a 55-cent postage stamp then feathers must be ruffled.

The U.S.P.S. is March 4 unveiling the Arnold Palmer commemorative stamp in Orlando, home to Mickey Mouse, rather than unveiling it in Latrobe, home to, well, Arnold Palmer.

Do I blame the post office? I do not. I suspect they’re merely doing the ill-considered bidding of Orlando-based Arnold Palmer Enterprises.

I contend it diminishes the legacy of Palmer every time something is done to put space between him and the iconic place he called home. And make no mistake, Latrobe was home to Palmer, a fact that was essential to his enduring appeal.

Palmer was raised in a home that was 320 yards from the one where he was living when they took him to the Pittsburgh hospital where he died September 25, 2016. He was 87.

Think about that. A man who could have been pampered in palaces around the planet never left the defiantly proud shot & a beer steel town that raised him. Hell, he never left the same street.

I have some authority in the matter. In the 18-months since the release of my Arnold Palmer book — the one Palmer confidant Jim Nantz says is, ahem, the best book anyone’s written on Palmer — I’ve been privileged to befriend many of the most ardent Palmer fans.

Most of them are eager to play Latrobe C.C., buy some merchandise, and have a drink or two at the Tin Lizzy. Many of them remind me of my father so I love them and their soulful motivations before we’ve even met.

Like my father, they knew all about Palmer the golfer. They didn’t need to hear about which club he’d use from the 150-marker when there was a stiff wind in his kisser.

No, they wanted to hear what it was like when you ran into him in the grocery store, the barber shop, or the local tavern.

Sure, there are those kinds of stories in Orlando, pop. 1,923,000, but they’re just more concentrated — more potent — in Latrobe, pop. 7,885

In Latrobe, Palmer was a fixture; in Orlando, a tourist.

So why is the postal ceremony there, not here?

I can only speculate but part of it seems partly pure laziness. The decision makers all live there and the ceremony will coincide with the opening of the Arnold Palmer Invitational at Bay Hill Club & Lodge. It’ll wind up as a 200-word items at the bottom of some notes column; NBC will daily run a 15-second spot.

That’s lazier than even the pampered golf writers they presume to woo. Guaranteed, they’d get more compelling and colorful stories if they at random chose a dozen golf writers and flew them to Arnold Palmer Regional Airport for an overnighter and a round of golf at LCC.

 The other part — and again I’m only speculating — is that the people who run Arnold Palmer Enterprises simply don’t believe in Latrobe. I think they’d like to shed some of the fiscal burdens of running what’s been called “sentimental aspects” of the Palmer legacy.

Who does believe in Latrobe? Palmer pal Gov. Tom Ridge who told me he envisions a day when people come to Latrobe to pay homage to Palmer the way they do in Orlando with Mickey whazisname.

“People are always going to want to see the town where Arnold Palmer grew up, see his workshop, his office, his memorabilia and play the course where he learned to golf,” Ridge says.

Oh, and I can think of one other guy who believed in Latrobe. Many of Palmer's most iconic marketing campaigns hearkened back to ol’ Latrobe.

What this town has to offer are assets, not burdens. To think otherwise is short-sighted. 

I apologize for once again ruffling feathers, but when top decision makers keep on acting like turkeys then a few feathers are bound to be ruffled.



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Friday, September 27, 2019

Banned from Latrobe C.C. ... Me!


The call informing me I was no longer welcome at Latrobe Country Club came coincidentally three years to the day after Arnold Palmer died. Now, that’s another thing I never thought I’d have in common with Ben Roethlisberger.

Ben was banned for refusing to sign autographs.

I was now being forbidden from signing them. I called the organizer of an area charity raising funds to fight the rare disease that killed his little boy and said, sorry, I can’t help.

Can anyone sense there are elements of over-reaction in this unfolding story?

Either way, we’re left with one of the most powerful and lucrative enterprises in sports business pitted against me, author of the blog that was recently named the “32nd Best Blog and Website for Amish Readers.”

How did we get here?

I’ve for more than 20 years enjoyed stellar two-way relations with leaders and rank-and-file employees of Orlando-based Arnold Palmer Enterprises. I liked them, they liked me. How much?

In 2012, I was feted at an interview/luncheon among eight company leaders where I was given a hand-shake deal on a job that would pay in the neighborhood of $70,000 plus benefits (see detail-laden link below).

And you need to understand the heirloom significance of the term “handshake deal” to the legend of Arnold Palmer. It’s foundational to his success and stature.

So did I get the job?

I don’t know.

It’s been seven years and I’ve yet to hear back. My calls and letters were all ignored. I think my wife still thinks I made the whole thing up.

I finally wrote about it in 2014, the day after I appeared in the wonderful Golf Channel documentary on Mr. Palmer.

My post was scathing. Sample line: “This isn’t behavior worthy of Arnold Palmer. This is behavior barely worthy of weasels.”

What was the reaction?

There was none. I continued to get all the opportunities I enjoyed prior to my bitter screed. In fact, an evident acclaim began to build around my Palmer Q & A’s, so much so that the vaunted chairman of APE invited himself into one of our last sessions, an imposing move that would have rattled less seasoned writers. 

His post-interview evaluation as he shook my hand (hand shake!): “They all said you were the best. They were right. Well done.”

No repercussions there. And there were none in September 2016 when a top Palmer company executive, grieving the legend's death three days prior, said, “Chris, you are the voice of Arnie’s Army.”

Google “Voice of Arnie’s Army.” You won’t get a network announcer, a Golf Channel executive or one of the flaccid sycophants from the tour press tent.

You get me. And that was a year before I wrote the book Jim Nantz said is “the best book anyone’s written about Arnold Palmer.”

Well, brace yourself, because The Voice has something that needs to be said. It is:

“No one who earns their living standing behind the name of Arnold Palmer should ever treat anyone the way Orlando-based representatives of APE have now twice and without apology treated me.”

This brings us to my second indiscretion (see second link). I used the blog to personally bash the Bay Hill director of golf. I was angry how he’d responded  to my Christmas week call of cheer with pouting complaints and surly threats.

I momentarily thought I’d called, not Arnold Palmer's club, but Sergio Garcia’s.

I let it slide for three months — didn’t want to do anything rash — before responding. Did I go too far? Probably. Was I justified? I think so.

I think it just galled me that people who are well-compensated to extol the values of Arnold Palmer fail to live up to them. My experience isn’t nearly as intense, but I still consider it a privilege to respond to strangers the way he would.

Especially at Christmas!

In lieu of that, how can we end this unseemliness?

Well, let me be the mature one.

First, I’ll not mention either incident again, despite provocations like today’s embarrassment, if my Bay Hill friend apologizes. He must have been having a bad day. No one rises to that professional elevation being the kind of jerk he was with me for two excrutiating minutes.

The second condition is even easier to settle. Just someone — anyone — from Orlando answer one question:

About that hand shake job offer, geez, when can I start?

I think a company like yours would love to employ at least one guy who really, really cares about responding to difficult situations the way most of us used to think Arnold Palmer would. 



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Thursday, March 16, 2017

Thirsting for one last drink with Arnold Palmer


Last week I confessed to a crime I’ve yet to commit.

It’ll be retail theft, a judicial term that robs my crime of all its spirituality.

See, my theft will involve spirits.

I’m vowing to one day pilfer a half-full bottle of premium whisky from behind the bar at the Tin Lizzy and sip-by-sip over maybe an hour or two transfer its entire contents from their bottle to my belly.

Cheers!

My motive?

I’m missing Arnie.

Dead nearly six months, I’m beginning to realize Arnold Palmer may not be coming back. He’s overcome long odds to succeed all his life so I still refuse to be conclusive.

It’s a pity, one that has many of us here in Latrobe feeling mighty melancholy since September 25. He was 87.

The loss is especially poignant today, the first day of the Arnold Palmer Invitational at Bay Hill Club & Lodge in Orlando. The golf news is full of tributes and reminders that, yes, he’s really gone.

It feels like it felt the week before Christmas after some big meanie said Santa was make believe.

A friend said, “I knew he wasn’t going to live forever, but that reality didn’t prepare me for the day when he’d be gone — pfft! — just like that.”

Understand, my friend isn’t a country clubber, one of the local elite who’d rub elbows with Palmer at fundraisers or galas with bankers, surgeons and others in what for a blue collar town amount to high society.

He’s a plumber.

He’d see Palmer at local restaurants, at the airport and often driving his golf cart from Latrobe Country Club to his home. Over the years he’d done some work for him, but nothing consequential.

He is — and I mean no disparagement to my friend — a nobody.

Just not to Arnold Palmer.

“Yeah, no matter who you were or what you did he just had a way of making you feel special. That’s a nice thing to do if it’s just someone you know from church. But for a celebrity known around the world to do that is just really special.”

So true.

It’s why I’m eager to thieve Palmer’s hootch.

A reliable source told me the bar kept the bottle for Palmer who’d enjoy a nip anytime he’d come into the Tin Lizzy, which he often did.

“No one will ever drink from that bottle again. We’re keeping it in memory of Mr. Palmer.”

So now I covet it.

I want to snatch the bottle from behind the bar and sneak it and two shot glasses up here to my office and enjoy a real reverie.

Or maybe a seance. 

I’d like to conjure Palmer’s ghost.

Booze — and I know this from woozy experience — is helpful when it comes to conjuring. Palmer booze, I’d have to think, would render a particularly powerful assist.

I’d just like to spend a thoughtful hour or two recalling all he meant to me and Latrobe. I’d like to immerse myself in the memory of his boisterous laugh, his twinkle, his cheer, his playful warmth and ebullience.

He was a man so buoyant I always suspected his blood was carbonated.

Many of the golf tributes over the next four days will focus on the vacancy, how they can’t believe a man like that is really gone.

Maybe we all have it backwards.

What’s really difficult to believe is that a man like that ever really lived.



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