A day to remember

The sun streams through the just opened blinds of my bedroom window striking me full in the face. My wife stands there, smile on her face, knowing what a joy I am at 6:45 in the morning. "C'mon Hon, time to get up," she says, "you told me to make sure that you were up," her voice trails off as she walks out the door. I lay there for a moment as my brain slowly begins to become active. It is Thursday morning, April 11th, and this will be a day to remember.

Growing up on Long Island in New York, in a family that loved sports and where each member had a passion for the game of golf, the second week in April marked the arrival of our ability to play. The weather was now warming, the bushes showing leaves with flowers in bud and beginning blooms. It was now warm enough for my father to play golf and that meant that we kids could play as well. I always knew it was time to start swinging clubs because the Masters was being played and that meant that I could also.

As a child of the '60s I was exposed to many unique events that would be looked back on in later years as groundbreaking for their place in the history of our country and mankind in general. President Kennedy's assassination, the space race and Neal Armstrong's first steps on the moon, the miracle Mets of 1969, the coming of age of televised sports. This was when we first met Arnold Palmer and the Masters.

As I lay back in bed I can still close my eyes and see those grainy black and white images of my hero (for so he was and shall always remain) striding up the majestic fairways of the Augusta National Country Club. Back then the coverage was limited to the final four holes; the invention of portable cameras still just a concept in some inventors visionary eye. One would tune in for a magical two hours of coverage and immediately ask the box sitting on the floor in front of them, "How is Arnie doing?"

Almost as if it were answering that singular question asked in so many homes, an announcer would tell us exactly where he stood and on what hole he was now playing. Unable to see the action until he reached the fifteenth hole, one could picture Arnold performing his feats of golfing magic as if it were being shown on the screen because, after all, he was Arnold Palmer.

And so we would get to see such greats as Dow Finsterwald, Julius Boros and Gene Littler with his perfect swing, play those four holes as we awaited Arnold's presence on the fifteenth tee. The crowds swelled on the small screen as Hogan came by and Sam Snead played on. The hated Nicklaus name at the top of the leaderboard incited cries of "Go get 'em Arnie, you can do it!" even though it was just a TV screen that we said it to.

The camera would zoom slowly in to the tee and the crowds would part as if it was Moses walking through the Red Sea; and there he was, Arnold Palmer. He would remove the cigarette he was smoking and drop it to the ground. Walking over to his caddy he would stop, hitch his pants up and reach into his bag, taking out his driver. Standing in the middle of the tee box he would bend down and set his ball, stepping back now for just an instant to waggle his club in his hands, the muscles of his arms flexing to a tautness reserved for the gods of Olympus and then he set himself for his swing.

Like every other living room in America where this spectacle was being watched, the silence reached out to become part of that collective breath being held by the crowd around him. His swing, now quick and visciously slashing, leaving nothing back of his majestic strength as the club tore the ball off the wooden tee it was perched on, arms snapping skyward as he followed through; his wrists jerking it to a stop and he walking off the tee watching his ball in flight the entire time. With each of his strides (for our hero never took mere steps) he walked into the hallowed halls of our memories.

A few days ago, during a television interview, Arnold hinted that this might be it for him, that if he didn't make the cut he might not tee it up in another Masters. The song that said "you don't know what you've got till it's gone" was not referring to Arnold Palmer. We do know what we have in this treasure of a man and it tears at the heartsrtings of every true lover of the game of golf to think that at long last our hero's quest may be at an end.

I sat in front of my computer yesterday, all day, watching in my head every swing that he took as his hole-by-hole scores were posted on the Masters Web site. I sat in the quiet of my room rooting with all my heart that my hero can go out as he deserves; slaying the dragon and finding a way to shoot par. I want to hear those crowds cheering madly with every swing he takes, the echoes reverberating in my room all the way from Augusta.

When the round is over and his quest is finished at last, I will get in my car and drive over to my course where I will spend a quiet hour on the putting green, doing what I did so long ago in my youth, trying to roll a ball into a cup as if I was playing against Arnold, the Masters green jacket in balance. I will hear once again those imaginary cheers that I used to pretend were spurring me on as I stood there, alone on the eighteenth green of Augusta National, needing to make this putt to beat the great Arnold Palmer for the Masters championship.

After a time I will take one last look at the cup, lining up mu ten foot putt. "This is it," I will say in the quiet of my mind, "I sink this and I will beat Arnold Palmer and win the Masters." I will look up and he will be standing there, a steelt-eyed smile that says "go ahead and sink it if you have it in you." I will look back down, staring at the top of the ball. As I lock my knees together one last time, a tear will be running down my face as I remember.