On the Death of Arnie Palmer

AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS POST APPEARS IN THE LETTERS TO THE SPORTS EDITOR IN THE NEW YORK TIMES ON OCTOBER 2, 2016

He played the game with passion, with swagger. Hitching up his pants, showing off those massive forearms, he was a swashbuckler, an Errol Flynn of the links.

And if John Kennedy was made for the age of television, so was Arnie Palmer. He revealed his emotions, he captured our hearts and we became his Army. When he won, we were overjoyed. And when the failures came, when he had that double bogey on the 72nd at the Masters, we suffered almost as much as the King.

His battles with Jack Nicklaus were the stuff of legend, the Golden Bear with all his length and his youth challenging the undeniable greatness that was Arnie. Along with Gary Player, these three dominated an era of golf and made the game compelling for an entire generation. 

Arnie never really faded from view, his appeal and magnetism still present to the last. And we, the members of his Army, never left his side. Now and forever we will recall his love of competition, his passion and that strange swing that didn't so much strike the ball as attack it.

There are few athletes in any sport who change the entire complexion of their game. From a sport of kings, Palmer made it a sport of the people, as we were inevitably and inexorably drawn in by the sheer force of Palmer's skills and personality. Before there was "I wanna be like Mike" there was Arnie, and we all wanted to be just like him. And for those who grew up with Arnie as our first hero of sport, we still do.