Honorable Discharge

You may have heard that golfer Arnold Palmer decided to retire from competitive golf last week. The 77 year old legend hasn't been truly competitive in a long time, but he still regularly tees it up. Unfortunately, after dumping golf balls in a water hazard repeatedly early in his round, he finally came to the realization that he can't do it any more. However, he soldiered on through the round without keeping score, because he felt an obligation to the fans, Arnie's Army, to carry on. It was his dedication to his fans that kept him going for as many years as he did, long after he was capable of putting up competitive scores. He was one of the first sports superstars, who brought both the sport of golf and the cult of personality to the culture at large. Well played, sir.

One of my very few brushes with celebrities involves Arnold Palmer. About twenty years ago I had the opportunity to attend a Senior golf event in Lake Tahoe. Palmer was the featured player. The crowds were relatively sparse, so it was possible to get right up to the action just about anywhere on the course. Unfortunately, being that I was but a callow youth, I had heard of almost none of the players, so while the golf was interesting, I was not terribly star-struck.

Until late in the day, that is, when we followed Mr. Palmer down one of the last fairways. On that beautiful day in the mountains, with a brisk breeze blowing in off the lake, Arnie had not had a very good day. As we tracked with him from behind the yellow rope that separated the players from the crowd, which at that time was just myself and my stepdad, he made a rather poor shot from the fairway. Shockingly, instead of trudging up the fairway toward whereever it was that his ball had landed, he walked directly toward us. From thirty feet away, as he approached, he looked me directly in the eyes with an expression that showed his resigned frustration at his poor play. In that split second, I processed a whole bunch of competing thoughts: ohmygod, here he comes; wow, he looks really sad; well, he should -- that was a terrible shot; oh man, he wants me to say something; geez, all I can think to say is "sorry that was such a bad shot" -- no! don't say that! To my everlasting regret, with all of these thoughts swirling in my brain, I simply stared back, unable to say anything at all. I may not have even managed to muster up a cognizable facial expression. Then (and the memory still pains me), he gave a little grimace, looked down, and headed up the edge of the fairway ahead of us. Just to twist the knife a bit more, the two guys walking ten yards ahead of us engaged Palmer in a friendly, animated conversation. Gah! That could have been me!

I learned a lot in those brief seconds. The ability to engage in small talk is a valuable skill. A friendly word, no matter how innocuous, is always welcome. And Arnold Palmer really was a man of the people. I am convinced that he would have been happy just to gab with a fan for a few minutes. Meanwhile, I stewed about not breaking his concentration by saying anything, or by saying the wrong thing, so I said nothing. I determined much later that what I should have said, and what I will say if I'm ever in a similar position again, is simply that it was fun for me to watch him play.

I can only imagine how difficult it was for Palmer to end his career in the middle of a round because he was no longer able to do thing one thing to which he had devoted his life's work. That is the dark side of the coin for athletes, or anyone else whose identity comes from skills that deteriorate over time. Most people are permitted to preserve their dignity by aging in private, a luxury that celebrities are not afforded. They are well compensated in the meantime, but every now and then their humanity shows through and we see the void appear. At least Arnold Palmer can say that he played better, for longer, than nearly everyone else of his time.