Blue-collar Arnie and his Tintin quiff
OPINION: Arnold Palmer walked out of the Pennsylvania woods and away from the choking smoke of the Pittsburgh steel mills and became an American folk hero. He hitched up the pants of world sport and strode brazenly towards the new millennium. Without blue collar Arnie there would be no Roger Federer or Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods or Lionel Messi.
Palmer launched sport into the billion dollar business it is today. He had his portrait painted by a president and a drink named after him. You can’t breeze into an American bar and order a Tiger Woods or a Lebron James, but you can order an Arnold Palmer and expect to get a mocktail of iced tea and lemonade. That is fame.
Woods said, ‘‘Arnold meant everything to golf. Are you kidding me? I mean, without his charisma, without his personality…’’
That is an understatement. Palmer meant everything to sport. When he met Mark McCormack, a law graduate from Yale, the world was transformed with a handshake. In the first year Palmer’s endorsement earnings grew from $US6000 to $US500,000. Glorified by the power of television, he sold cars into thousands of American homes and became a global brand.
The American fans loved him. Arnie’s Army surged round golf courses in the wake of their hero. Arnie played fast and smashed the ball with a terrible fury. With his popeye arms, Tintin quiff, homespun cardigans and burning cigarettes, Arnie was one of the people.
Jack Nicklaus was the imposter. Big, crew cut and Teutonic, Nicklaus made Donald Trump look like the most popular man on the planet. Americans hated the fact that Arnie was threatened. They spat on Nicklaus. He wasn’t the Golden Bear back then. He was the enemy.
Nicklaus says, ’’Arnold Palmer was the everyday man’s hero. From the modest upbringing, Arnold embodied the hardworking strength of America.’’
At the 1960 US Open Arnold Palmer was told he was too far back to win. Riled up with youthful indignation he smashed his ball onto the green of the 300 metre opening hole and surged through the field to victory. The crowd went wild.
On occasions his collapses were as spectacular as his victories. Arnie was Everyman, sometimes pulled low by his demons, sometimes on top of the world. And win or lose, Palmer had a handshake and a signature for everyone.
He came to Britain and singlehandedly revived the Open from a sepia-tinged Commonwealth Reunion Party into a glamorous, global spectacle beamed around the planet. There is still a plaque on the 16th hole at Birkdale to commemorate Palmer’s shot out of the blackberry bushes in 1961, a whirling 6-iron that reassembled the vegetation and sent his ball into orbit.
And at the end Arnie still had it. He inaugurated his own tournament at Bay Hill and held a dinner on the Saturday night when he would host the press and shake hands as if he had known each and every one one of us his whole life. Palmer had courtesy and he had charm, always a lethal combination.
I saw Palmer still playing at the Masters in his 80s and he was still drawing bigger crowds than almost anyone else on the course. Arnie would grandstand and sometimes other players would get ticked off because the furore of the crowd would crack their fragile concentration.
Really, they should have laid their towel at the feet of ‘the King’ and got down on their hands and knees and given thanks. Gene Littler once remarked that when Arnie hit the ball the earth shakes. And even now that Palmer has walked off the 18th green for the final time, the tremors and aftershocks are still being felt across the sporting world.