When the PGA Tour arrives at Bay Hill for the Arnold Palmer Invitational every March, I feel a touch nostalgic.
In the late 1990s, I lived 10 minutes from Arnie’s place and covered what was then known as the Bay Hill Invitational. While chronicling the victories of future Hall of Famers Phil Mickelson (1997) and Ernie Els (’98), I reveled in the atmosphere of the tournament, which at the time was the third stop on a four-event Florida Swing that began at Doral and concluded at the Players Championship. Back then, as now, the event attracted a top-notch field as the Masters approached. Thousands of fans flocked to Bay Hill to watch a new sensation named Tiger and the rest of the world’s best compete in the Orlando sunshine. And after my days inside the ropes with a notebook, I’d join friends at a nearby nightspot, the golf-themed Sam Snead’s Tavern being a favorite.
And then there was the host, Arnold Palmer, brimming with charisma and still playing in the tournament as he neared 70. I’d usually catch glimpses of him striding down a fairway, holding court at a press conference or presenting the trophy (a sword back then) to the champion. Bay Hill exuded Palmer, so much so that a 26-year-old Mickelson drew inspiration from the wall hangings on the way to winning in ’97.
“Having seen a couple of pictures in the locker room with Arnold holding that putter up and giving it the ‘Arnie charge,’ I thought, ‘It would be cool if I was able to do that,’” Mickelson explained after shooting a Sunday 65 reminiscent of Arnie at Cherry Hills. “I tried to emulate the master.”
Shortly after covering Bay Hill one year, I visited my New Hampshire hometown and stopped in to see my grandmother. Over homemade chocolate chip cookies in her kitchen, I updated her on my recent activities and mentioned Bay Hill. As soon as the words escaped my mouth, her eyes lit up and she asked intently: “Did you see Arnold Palmer?”
When I told her I had, she was thrilled. My grandmother never played golf, but my late grandfather had been a single-digit player. They had built their lives together and raised six children in 1950s and ’60s, when Arnie was setting the golf world ablaze. And by the time he reached his 60s, my grandfather somewhat resembled Arnie – white hair, pink golf shirts and cardigans, with a personal magnetism that made him a favorite pick in the annual women’s “raffle a pro” tournament at his club.
I suspect my grandmother, too, saw the similarities. Remembering her question always warms my heart.
Seventeen years later, I returned to Bay Hill for a Global Golf Post editorial retreat. At 85, Arnie graciously accepted an invitation to recognize a soon-to-retire editor at our meeting. He showed up at the appointed time, congratulated our colleague and circled the room, greeting each of us individually. As I shook his hand, I thought of my grandmother, who had passed away a decade earlier.
“Did you meet Arnold Palmer?” I imagined her asking.
Yes, Gram, I did. How delighted she’d have been.
Mike Cullity
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