There was an unusually expectant throng framing the No. 1 tee box around 1 p.m. Thursday, a pristine day in this time capsule.
Many of these patrons, as they’re called at the Masters, had just seen Jack Nicklaus off. Still others were standing in place for the featured twosome of defending champion Nick Faldo and the young lion, Tiger Woods.
Yet when people dropped their utensils and started clapping from as far away as the dining room, there wasn’t a figment of doubt. The Augusta National stage belonged to the man who would forever be king, Arnold Palmer, hitching his pants as the audience parted.
“Not in this world is there a place I’d rather be,” Palmer said later. “It’s just great to be looking down at the ground, if you know what I mean, especially here.”
Exactly three months ago, the 67-year-old Palmer was diagnosed with prostate cancer and we all held our breath for this giant who transcends golf. He is an enduring presence, as believable and genuine an athlete who ever lived, and we weren’t ready to think the unthinkable.
So when Palmer made it official, coiling within that green sweater and launching that first ball skyward, the four-hour love-in began. Every 30 yards he walked, the procession line along the ropes would provide another ovation, not unlike a domino effect. Here comes the king, pass the applause.
“They’re like friends and family,” Palmer said. “Wish I could have given them something to cheer about.”
Not a problem. Palmer posted an 89, by six strokes his worst score in 136 rounds of 43 Masters. But rarely have so many wayward shots been ignored so blithely by so fastidious a jury. At No. 15, for example, Arnie twice dunked aborted approaches into the water, yet the biggest waves rolled in from the bleachers. Elbow to elbow, they arose.
How many times did Palmer say thanks? Who could count? The white visor was off his head more than it was on, and when Palmer didn’t acknowledge admirers from afar, he did so from gimme range. That woman seated behind the No. 14 green? The one who simply extended her arms when Palmer was still 20 yards removed from a hug? He didn’t miss her either.
“Posed for a few pictures along the way too,” he said. “I’m embarrassed how I played, and the people were embarrassed for me. But believe me, I’m just happy to be here.”
The magnitude of Palmer even affected austere rules officials. He penalized himself at No. 6, where the ball wobbled before he chipped it toward the green. He wound up with a quintuple-bogey 7, although officials were still chatting with him on the climb up the No. 8 fairway.
“They were asking me if I was absolutely sure I’d grounded by club, or if the ball had moved on its own,” Palmer said. “Heck, I’m not sure. I told them I hadn’t seen a ball before I’ve hit it in 20 years, but I’ve got a clear conscience. I just want to have a beer and sit down.”
Palmer and the green coats cackled then, and he still was giggling after his round. On a day when a 76 felt like 72, there was no justifying an 89, not to this four-time Masters champion. There were no excuses either.
“Tiger shot 30 on the back nine,” Palmer said. “Greens are fast, but they must be playable for him. My first contract was for $5,000. His was $50 million. So much has changed in golf, so much growth. And for me, a new swing tomorrow.”
The King laughed again, because only one number matters.
“Last week, 0.0,” Palmer said. “Had a checkup. That’s how much cancer they found in my body. Birdied that hole.”
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