1st 50 Palmer books here (and gone). Who got 'em?

(857 words)

I showed up Monday on Doc Giffin’s front porch with one of the worst gifts a thoughtless man could deliver.

For my friend Doc, I had a book he’d already read.

Despite the faux pas, I knew it would be okay, so my feelings were the exact opposite of how I felt in December when I’d given him a rough draft of “Arnold Palmer: Homespun Stories of The King” (pre-order here).

I was feeling anxious then because if Doc denounced the book I’d have to leave town.

Doc had been Palmer’s personal assistant for 50 years and dealing with him is a big, personal part of the book. If he thought it was reckless with the Palmer legacy, if it took cheap shots or thought it was just plain stupid, I’d be crushed and it would be “Goodbye Latrobe! Hello Dayton!” for the Rodell family.

Happily, he told me he likes it very much. He said he was looking forward to re-reading the book without having to fact-check it. In the book’s acknowledgements, I thank Doc and say how I consider having him as my friend one the greatest privileges of my life.

So, obviously, I’d want to honor my esteemed friend by giving him the first copy, right?

Then how come he wound up with something like the 18th copy?

Blame expediency.

Last Friday, the publisher sent me the first 50 books. They’re all gone. Sold. Given away. Donated. I’ll be getting another 250 copies Thursday.

The first copy went to Buck Pawlosky. He’s since 1980 owned the Tin Lizzy and, thus, been my landlord and omnibus friend since ‘15. The Tin plays a starring role in the book and, gee, I had my rent check right there …

So the first book was given away for free and included a check for $300 to the recipient. I know, I know …

Shrewd.

But Buck was deserving so the honor wasn’t squandered. He even insisted on paying. He likes the book and is inviting me to put up strategically placed cover posters boasting the book was written right here. This I will do.

Who was the recipient of the second book? Some perfect stranger. He just started waiting tables here and was checking out the building when he wandered into my office. 

Why would I bestow such an heirloom honor on a total stranger?

The kid offered $15.

The book retails for $15 and I’ve generously, I think, decided that’s what I’ll charge. Now, for out-of-towners that require a trip to the post office, each copy is $20.

If your contributions to the book are substantial, if I consider you sufficiently connected or prominent, I might offer you a freebie. If this happens, you can if you choose to offer a donation at which I’ll twice feign indignity before shoving in my pocket.

The third book went to Jessie, the Tin bartender who complained about the unfairness that Buck got his before she got hers. She ’s right, too. Buck’s the landlord, but Jessie is the one I rely on when I’m in need of soulful inebriation.

In the grand scheme of things, I should have dedicated the whole damn book to Jessie. She, too, paid me $15. Jessie is the best.

A nearby drinker saw the transaction, asked for two copies and forked over $30.

So I’d stopped in for one beer, sold 5 books and walked out with $75.

This drinking thing is really starting to pay off!

I probably filled orders for 30 people who’d already sent checks that — cha-ching! went right through.

I was very pleased by my friend John Rusbosin’s reaction to the book. He went straight to Facebook to post this:

“THE REVIEWS ARE IN!! I rate it excellent. My friend Chris Rodell personalized the Latrobe aura with home town stories about our hero ARNOLD PALMER!! The book is HOT off the PRESS and I highly recommend it to bring smiles and inspiration.

“My first thought is CHARGE! Get many copies for yourself, family and friends. I bet Arnie would call it a KEEPER.”

Thank you, John.

Looks like the 50th copy is going to another esteemed recipient. A friend has told me Mrs. (Arnold) Kit Palmer is interested. I hope she likes it.

I hope no one feels slighted that they didn’t get one of the first 50. Delivery, as you can see, has been arbitrary and haphazard. Book signings aplenty coming up.

And if you want, I’ll be happy to sign any book for you the way I signed one for Zach. He’s the bartender at Flapper’s, the beguiling second floor speakeasy at the Tin Lizzy. I make it a point to at least once a week stop in on a slow night for Wild Turkey and philosophical distraction.

For Zach, I signed it, “Because, my friend, of all your years of steadfast friendship, I wanted you to have the very FIRST COPY! You’re the best!”

I’ve known Zach for about four months.

Related …

I finished writing two books in one day

Front page of The Bulletin! My new Palmer book

Arnold Palmer gave me noogies on Monday

Playing Oakmont (and Arnold Palmer says I'm the best)

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I’m set to golf today at Oakmont C.C. in about four hours. The fact will no doubt stir resentment among my golfing friends.

Oakmont is one of the most prestigious golf clubs in the world. 

Well, let me rub it in a little more. I’ll tee off after I bid Arnold Palmer bon voyage on his way to Florida. One of my partners today is Doc Giffin. He’s been Palmer’s able assistant for the past 45 years, and Doc asked me to pick him up at Palmer’s Latrobe office where he wants to say goodbye.

And I get to tag along.

I’m on a bit of an Arnold Palmer roll right now.

And by “Arnold Palmer roll,” I don’t mean the man behind the hip Arnold Palmer tea has added a trendy new sandwich to his culinary endeavors.

I interviewed Palmer Friday for about the 75th time in the past 10 years. I started off, as I always do, with a real toughie.

“Mr. Palmer: on Monday you’re departing Latrobe for Orlando where you’ll spend the next six months while we here in Western Pennsylvania endure the wind, the snow and ice. My question is: Will you please take me with you?”

He roared with laughter.

Then he said no.

The whole interview couldn’t have gone better. It was the highlight of my day. Heck, it might have been the highlight of his, too.

I know this because at the conclusion he told me I’m the best interviewer he’s ever had. He said, “You are the best. It’s always a real treat to sit and talk with you. You’re funny and you ask great questions. I always really enjoy these interviews.”

You’re probably thinking, well, one of the reasons Arnold Palmer is so popular with the media is because he says that to everyone.

That may be true, but if it is I found out he’s said it to me more than anyone else.

Bob Drum is a legendary Pittsburgh sports writer who chronicled and assisted in Palmer’s rise to legend. I asked Palmer how far I had to go until I reached Drummer status.

“You’re right there,” he said. “I don’t think anybody’s interviewed more than you. And that’s saying something.”

Coming from him, it was incredibly flattering.

And I had it all recorded!

Or so I thought. 

I floated out of the room thinking I could take this precious audio and make a great YouTube clip of one of the most interviewed and popular men in the world saying I was the best.

Heck, Trump posts it on his website if Palmer deigns to pose for a picture with him.

So I get to my office and, I admit, foremost on my mind wasn’t transcribing the interview for which I was being paid. No, it was how I was best going to use the Palmer praise to make myself look monumental.

It was all I had on my mind.

And that’s probably the reason I somehow deleted the whole thing. 

Gone. All of it. From a fool-proof iPhone!

I wasn’t really worried about the interview. Everything he says is burned into my brain and the Q&A format makes it easy to duplicate (Doc later told me it read like a transcript).

But what was I to do about the part where Palmer said how great I was?

To ask Doc if I could come back and have him say it all again would be unseemly.

I did it anyway.

And to really up the unseemly ante I asked if this time I could film him doing it while holding a copy of my book. I was intent on an offhand compliment into a full-out infomercial.

I tell you, when it comes to shameless self-promotion, I got crass coming out my, er, ears.

But Doc said no. The timing couldn’t be worse.

So my hopes to enrich my life through something Arnold Palmer said were in vain.

It’s okay. 

There are other compensations. See, knowing Arnold Palmer means you can always get great golf tips from Arnold Palmer.

That’s what happened when I told him I was playing Oakmont. I asked if he had any suggestions about how I could get a really good score today.

And, indeed, he had a great tip.

He suggested I play someplace else.

Related  . . .

Yesterday, Arnold Palmer watches me nearly ace

Arnold Palmer NOT attending my book signing

So, what’s Arnold Palmer really like?

Arnold Palmer gave me noogies on Monday

Interviewing Arnold Palmer

Yesterday, Arnold Palmer watched me golf

I came within a two-foot putt of committing what would be one of the greatest golf sins in the game’s history. I almost asked Arnold Palmer if he’d leave Arnold Palmer’s Latrobe Country Club because Arnold Palmer was bugging me.

This would be like asking the Pope to vacate the Vatican for being too Catholic.

But, man, he was bugging me.

I was invited by Doc Giffin, Palmer’s assistant of nearly 50 years, to join him and two other golf writers to play a swanky member-guest function at the historic home to one of golf’s greatest legends.

It’s a real treat.

Both Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods have more championships, but golf has no more enduring and endearing star than Palmer. He is beloved around the world and revered here in Latrobe.

And why not?

An expert pilot, he’s set around-the-world aviation records, is best buddies with several presidents and has golfed with all but two of them since Ike. Bill Clinton says one of the great perks of office is getting to play golf with Arnold Palmer. Kirk Douglas said in 1970 that no one alive -- not Sinatra, John Wayne or Ronald Reagan -- has more charisma than Palmer. In 2007, GQ named this 82-year-old gent one of the most stylish American men from the past 50 years, and last year one of the 25 coolest athletes of all time.

And through years of chummy interviews, he’s somehow become my buddy. In fact, he was gracious enough to provide the gushy foreword for my new book, “Use All The Crayons! The Colorful Guide to Simple Human Happiness.”

I told him I’m convinced it’ll be his most successful endorsement ever which, if true, means my book is destined to become more profitable than either Cadillac or Rolex.

And wouldn’t that be a big win for the little guy!

It’s no exaggeration to say I still tingle every time I see him.

What’s odd is I now realize the only place I don’t want to see the legend is in his native habitat, the golf course.

Actually, reverse that: I don’t want him seeing me there.

But that was the situation over three holes yesterday afternoon.

Prior to spying Palmer spying us, I’d been playing well. I’d parred the first and second holes and was just off the back edge of the third hole, a tricky par 5, in 3.

That’s when I saw him glowing in the trees. He was seated in a golf cart -- and he truly does glow. I don’t know whether it comes from wealth, karmic beneficence, or some kind of pricey sunscreen he uses, but there he was shimmering in his golf cart. It was perfectly cool.

Of course, I thought of my late father, the man who bestowed upon his sons a reverence for all things Palmer.

It was a flawless western Pennsylvania afternoon. And there I was playing at Latrobe Country Club with Arnold Palmer, a man I call a friend, about to watch me golf.

So I about crapped my pants. 

In fact, that for the next three holes became my dominant swing thought. Good golfers will address the ball and say to themselves, “Now, keep your head down, use a smooth back swing, and be sure to follow through.”

I just kept thinking over and over, “Just don’t crap your pants.”

I managed to hit the first shot, a dainty little wedge, to about seven feet. I was left with a tricky downhill putt.

Having executed the wedge shot without embarrassing myself, I felt a surge of confidence now that I held the putter, even as I recognized I was on one of the club’s most dangerous greens.

I hit the putt on a nice line, but it grazed the cup and sped past about 3 feet.

“That’s good!” Palmer yelled cheerfully.

So now in addition to thoughts about loose bowels, another herd of questions come thundering across my brain.

Is he being sarcastic? Should I pick up? Is he testing my golf integrity? What if he says, “You know, if I’d have known you putt like that, I never would have endorsed your stupid book.”

Confused, I bent down to make the comeback putt. Missed it by a foot.

Now I’m coming apart. My promising round is ruined by the observing presence of one of the greatest golfers to ever live.

I made the next putt, but it had taken me three strokes to negotiate seven measly feet.

And now I begin to wonder how long he’s going to be hanging around watching us. What if he starts to heckle?

He follows us for parts of the next two holes. He’s joking, encouraging and gracious.

He sees me hit six more shots, about four of them decent, and then he simply vanishes. He either drove off without me watching or else uses some kind of time-space transportation beam available only to him. We don’t see him again the rest of the round.

I’m relieved when he’s gone, but I sense a lost opportunity. It will now haunt me that I was unable to confidently sink a long putt, scorch a perfect drive or cozy a wedge shot snug to the pin for him to see.

Arnold Palmer watched me golf and I failed to do something remarkable.

On the other hand, I guess in a way I sort of did.

At least I somehow managed to keep from crapping myself.