RIP Arnold Palmer: a lucky local says goodbye

(929 words)

Half the fun of watching Arnold Palmer golf was watching him extricate himself from impossible situations.

I don’t think he can club his way out of this one.

Then again he’s only been dead one day.

I’m touched by the number of people who’ve reached out to me over the death of a man I was privileged to call a friend.

They say it’s going to be alright, that time heals all wounds and that he’s gone on to a better place.

I say any place Arnold Palmer goes is automatically better.

I imagine years from now newcomers getting heaven orientation tours and hearing winged old-timers say, “Yeah, well, it’s always been heaven, but it just got so much better when Arnie got here.”

People ask how I’m doing.

I tell them I’m feeling about one part heartbreak; three parts euphoria — roughly the same proportions one would find in a refreshing Arnold Palmer tea.

Heartbreak because I’ll never again be able to banter with one of the most legendary and beloved men America’s ever produced; euphoria because, by God, I once did.

It didn’t start out that way, not back when I treated him with all due reverence.

I treated him the way you’re hearing him being treated in many of today’s loftiest eulogies. I’d preface my questions with accolades about his accomplishments, his humanitarian endeavors, his historical significance, etc.

In short, I’d blow sweet smoke up his ass.

That’s not my description. It was his.

After we’d become friends — I interviewed him more than 100 times from 2004 through August 16 — I sat down in his office and began the interview by saying how much I looked forward to our breezy exchanges. 

His exact words: “And I can’t tell you how much I look forward to you coming in here to blow so much sweet smoke up my ass!”

I kept waiting for the day he’d ask me to pull his finger.

Understand, this is the same guy who the week before had been at the Bush White House dining with Queen Elizabeth.

Talk about having the common touch.

Arnold Palmer, the drink, is one part lemonade; three parts unsweetened ice tea.

Arnold Palmer, the person? It was like he was one part champagne; three parts beer.

My assignment during most of my hour-long interviews was to get him to answer questions dictated by upcoming content of the next Kingdom Magazine (Kingdom is his luxury boutique magazine about all things posh and Palmer).

But my goal was always to say two or three things that would get him to throw his head back in wild laughter.

I remember one autumn interview that started late because he’d just come back from having a tooth yanked. Did he want to reschedule?

Hell, no.

First question: “It’s my understanding you’ll soon be departing Latrobe, where we’re about to endure four months of bitter weather, for sunny Orlando. My question is … Will you take me with you?”

He roared with laughter.

Then he said no.

I don’t envy the men and women who are right now tasked with composing a proper obituary for a man so monumental.

Do you start that he was a great golfer who transformed sports? Or that he from scratch built a business empire Forbes estimates at $700 million?

Or do you start with the philanthropy? All the scholarships, the charity initiatives and the two renown hospitals that bear his name?

Certainly, you must include that he in 1976 set an aviation record for zooming around the globe in just 56 hours.

I wondered in 2013 why he agreed to so publicly endorse my “Use All The Crayons!” book. Then it dawned on me. I had it backwards.

My book is a de facto endorsement of his entire life.

My favorite quote about Palmer comes not from a golfer or president, but from an actor whom he barely knew. It was Kirk Douglas who in 1970 said, “No one — not Frank Sinatra, not John Wayne or Ronald Reagan — has more charisma than Arnold Palmer.”

John Paul Newport of the Wall Street Journal wrote on Palmer’s 80th birthday, “Lasting popularity of Palmer’s magnitude simply cannot be explained.”

The last question I asked him was August 16 (it may have been his last formal interview). The question: “Do you think there’ll be golf in heaven?”

Inconceivably, editors cut it from the story, hedging their bets, I guess, that Keith Richards wasn’t going to be the only one who’s going to live forever.

Palmer said: “Oh, I think there will be a lot of golf in heaven. I’ll bet Nelson and Hogan are up there having a match right now. I know a lot of guys who’ve been good golfers who are looking forward to resuming great matches with friends and family just like they did here on earth. I think the courses will be a lot like the ones here. But the hazards will include clouds that get in the way of approach shots. I’m sure it’ll be great.”

Had I known then it would be the last time I’d ever see him, I’d have dropped my pencil and thrown my arms around his once-robust, now-tottering frame and told him how much I loved him.

I’d have tried to do it in a way that would have convinced him I wasn’t just blowing sweet smoke up his ass. 

Who’s to say if there is golf in heaven?

All I know is heaven just got way more heavenly now that Arnold Palmer’s calling heaven home.

Related …

Arnold Palmer gave me noogies on Monday

Happy 80th Birthday, Arnold Palmer!

Interviewing Arnold Palmer

Playing Oakmont & Arnold Palmer says I’m the best

Kate Upton in Latrobe to visit Arnold Palmer

Yesterday, Arnold Palmer watched me golf

So what’s Arnold Palmer really like?

Latrobe abuzz: Who’ll appear in Palmer special?

Golf Channel doing Palmer interviews at The Pond

Arnold Palmer NOT attending my book signing

Jonesin’ for Xarelto: The new Palmer ad

Sunday encore: When breast implants are booby prizes

Sometimes it’s a reach for me to illustrate some of my posts with one tidy picture. But I try not to be too obvious. For instance, it would have been a cinch to snag a picture of huge boobs to bestow a picture on this one from 2009. Just a picture of a great big boob. Or a pair. But that would have been too obvious. Or, I guess, two obvious. So I used a picture of Bob Dylan because I mention Bob Dylan and I'm one of those guys who thinks you can never have too much Bob Dylan. I’m re-running this one today because the girl and her $8,000 breasts were in the bar last night. Nothing’s changed.

I pay no attention to either of the $4,000 boobs as they sashay into the bar, nor to the girl to whom they’ve been surgically attached.

As I’ve said before, I am not a boob man. I am an ass man.

And I drink in a bar with about a dozen other asses just like me.

But lots of the Regular Joes notice them, including one of the Regular Joes who’s sitting to my right and is conveniently named Joe.

“Oh, here she comes,” he says contemptuously. “Do you know he paid $8,000 to get her those breast implants? Can you believe it?”

No, I can’t believe it. It seems excessive, like ordering a new car with bigger, brighter headlights when the ones that come installed from the factory are sufficient in illuminating any darkened road.

And I’m confused by the etiquette of the gesture. How does that offer arise? Did he say he wouldn’t have anything to do with her unless she bumped up two or three cups?

I’d be hurt if my wife said I was deficient in a physical area and that she’d spend $8,000 to extend the length of my, say, nose.

The girl seems perfectly pleasant. I don’t know what would have been wrong with her old breasts. I doubt they were square or made funny corduroy noises when she was walking around bra-less.

In fact, the old breasts that the 50-something guy was concerned about probably weren’t even on this 30-something girl. They were probably on some ex-wife.

That’s fairly common. Many middle-aged men leave perfectly good wives for younger women who are bound to cause the same consternations that come with any matrimonial binding of the sexes.

I don’t see that happening to me. I love my wife and, besides, I wouldn’t want to have to go through explaining things like Bob Dylan to someone all over again.

But there’s no denying we live in a breast-obsessed society.

In truth, I’m always more interested in the guy who bought the breasts than the girl who’s accessorizing with them.

I have a lot of questions I’d like to ask him.

I’d like to know how you wrap breast implants that you intend to give as a gift. Do you put them both in the same box? Really, a box with one implant would likely spoil the surprise as to what’s in the second box, wouldn’t it?

And do you go in the operating room with the recipient during the installation? It would be like the reverse of being in the delivery room when your gal delivered twins.

But my observations lead me to believe he’s a tremendous jerk and I already have my quota of them in my life.

See, I’ve been a convivial person my whole life and I’ve always gone to all the places the other convivial people go. I’d never seen this guy before and now he and the $8,000 breasts are everywhere.

That would be fine, but he’s causing trouble in places where I seek sudsy serenity.

First I saw him being rude to a waitress at one local tavern. Already overwhelmed with customers, he summoned her by calling her name -- “Cara!” -- raising his glass and rattling the ice the way pet owners rattle keys to summon dawdling dogs.

To me, right there, that’s a hell-worthy sin -- and hell’s going to be mighty crowded if I ever get to decide who belongs there. Cara’s a professional. She’ll get there.

Then he went beyond the pale by coming into my home bar and stirring up trouble on a recent Friday afternoon. And it was all over a bar stool.

The breasts sat down in one where one guy’s wife had been sitting. A joke was made (it wasn’t even funny), then all of a sudden my Happy Hour turned into a wildlife special.

The breast buyer rose up like a fighting rooster -- cock, if you will -- and said the remark was an affront to his fair damsel.

The men had to be separated. It was all incredibly immature -- and that’s coming from a guy who sometimes wears big Wookie pajamas to work.

I kind of feel sorry for the girl, because now it looks like he owns more of her than just her $8,000 breasts.

All I can surmise is that they must have been having some kind of boob special the day she got hers.

He paid for two big ones and she wound up stuck with three.