Golf: Arnold Palmer Bows Out at the Masters

I should never have said yes. But the flight had been delayed due to mechanical failure, which always adds an edge to proceedings, and then matters became more fraught when, dying for a cigarette on arrival, I was directed into Further Immigration. And then, on the cusp of finding myself in Deep Immigration, the customs official informed me that in the past I had just got lucky; I so nearly replied: 'And everyone knows terrorists only need to get lucky once.'

Fortunately I was saved by an instance of what might be termed a reverse esprit de l'escalier . However, despite having been spared 20 years inside for making a joke about the War on Terror, I was still sufficiently frazzled when a chauffeur approached and asked: 'Are you William Buckley the writer?' Stupidly I replied: 'Yes.'

Within minutes of the two-and-a-half-hour drive it became apparent that the driver had mistaken me for the septuagenarian William F. Buckley. And once someone has made a mistake as to your identity it is hard to correct it without embarrassment (an acquaintance of mine has called me Ian for nearly a decade). I threw a few rogue opinions into the conversation, but this merely convinced the driver that the venerable political pundit might have regained his youth - and picked up an English accent along the way - but at the cost of losing his marbles. As we arrived in Augusta, he asked me to sign the placard with my and my namesake's name upon it for 'Donald Maybe and Martha Quimby and everyone at Appliance Land'. This I did, inserting a comma between Donald and Maybe because I'd like to think there is someone called Maybe Quimby out there, and signing off with an 'all the best'.

None of which is strictly relevant, but it did get me thinking about the elderly, specifically Arnold Palmer, who, like an aged relative invited for Christmas who stays for years, was once again claiming to be saying farewell. Golf is a sentimental sport and it doesn't get more gushing than Arnie at Augusta.

Or so I thought until, after his round on Thursday, I saw Arnie on the lawn in front of the clubhouse drinking a beer and chatting with friends. There was a grace and humility to the man, qualities entirely absent from the preening bumptiousness with which most modern sports stars carry on. Uniquely, he was neither surrounded by yes men nor appeared to have any need for them. 'Please stay for another year, Arnie,' I wanted to say, except it would have embarrassed both of us. Nor was I alone. Palmer's consecutive rounds of 84 gave more people more pleasure than anything lower scored by anyone younger.

One of the weaknesses of sport is its ephemerality. It's here, it's gone. Youth must have its day. Moments such as a 41-year-old Cyril Washbrook returning to open the innings for England or a 48-year-old Dick Saunders winning the National on Grittar are as rare as they are memorable.But people wane rather than wax with the passing of the years.

Yet in golf the ancient greats can carry on and provide glimpses of how they were in their pomp. The middle-aged can compete; at Augusta the average age of the winner is 32.9 and Jack Nicklaus won there in 1986 at the age of 46. There is less emphasis on youth.

Watching Palmer brought to mind something Robert Hughes wrote last week when comparing Lucian Freud's new exhibition with the Brit Art mob's effort: 'His work is supremely tough, ruthless even. But it has none of the facile emotional posturing that appeals to the kind of institutional ad man's taste, the bratty cynicism and quick-fix sensationalism that pervades the Saatchi collection.' The sight of Palmer playing golf came as a welcome relief after spending the early part of the week submerged in coverage of another famous sportsman, which was characterised by 'facile emotional posturing', 'bratty cynicism' and 'quick-fix sensationalism'.

The nadir was the claim by one columnist that David Beckham was 'arguably the most happily married sportsman in the world'. What a magnificent use of 'arguably'. As if anyone has ever debated the subject. As if anyone can truthfully claim to pronounce on the happiness or not of the marriage of Latvia's number-three ping-pong player. As if anyone cares.

Yet without Palmer we might never have reached the state we have reached with Beckham. It was Palmer and Mark McCormack, the late founder of IMG, who initiated the branding of sports stars. It is Beckham who has profited and lost from such branding. Had he escaped from the public eye to Augusta for some carefully stage-managed photographs with Less Posh he wouldn't have known whether to thank Arnie or damn him.