He is still the best. Not always in the way he played, although his record – 62 PGA Tour victories – is nothing to be ashamed of, but in the way he acted, the way he treated people, the way he treated the game. There’s never been anyone in golf like Arnold Palmer. There’s never been anyone in sport like Arnold Palmer.

“Arnold Palmer,’’ said Curtis Strange, a great player himself, a back-to-back US Open winner, “makes everybody feel like he’s their best friend.’’

Arnie hits 80 on Thursday, that’s years not strokes, so he’s not complaining. Neither are his fans, who, as he aged and his game declined, never wavered in their loyalty. Sport is more than just hitting or kicking balls. It’s hitting a target, providing a performance, a show, endearing yourself and your particular game to those who buy the tickets or watch the television. To use Strange’s wonderful analysis, it’s making everybody feel like your best friend.

Arnold Palmer made golf what it is today, he gave it pizzazz and excitement. It had been played for hundreds of years. Then Arnie arrived from the coal country of Western Pennsylvania, flinging cigarettes disdainfully to the ground – he gave up smoking years ago – smashing golf balls relentlessly to the ends of the earth. He was everyman, shirt-tail hanging out, hair a bit mussed, lashing at a tee shot, laughing after a victory. He took golf out of, not the dark ages, but the silent age. In America in the late 1950s, people were curious about the new guy with the blacksmith arms and the devil-may-care ways.

Golf used to be grim. Ben Hogan just wanted to hit balls. “It’s in the dirt,’’ he growled to people who wanted to know how to improve, alluding to repetitive practice. Somebody once said to Ben: “I bet I could get you to say three words,’’ and Hogan responded, “You lose.’’

But Arnie never refused an autograph or a press interview. He appeared to be having as good a time as those who surrounded him with pens or questions.
Hogan was known as the Hawk, a menacing if accurate description. Jack Nicklaus was a more enticing Golden Bear. But Arnie was The King, the same nickname applied to Elvis Presley. Royalty cannot be denied. And yet Arnie’s familiar logo is not a crown but an umbrella, a symbol of golf. It’s on his bag and on his jet.

Until the late 1950s golf was a cult sport in the United States, with 
exceptions such as Bobby Jones’ Grand Slam in 1930 and Hogan’s Open Champ-ionship at Carnoustie in 1953, both of which were celebrated with ticker-tape parades in New York City.

Then came a wonderful convergence: a golfing president Dwight Eisenhower, television in the American home and Arnie on the fairways. Who wouldn’t want to join in?

“Arnie’s Army” his galleries were called, not only because of the alliter-ation but because when in 1958 Palmer won the first of his four Masters, the scoreboards were kept by soldiers from Fort Gordon, about 10 miles from the Augusta National course. As the final groups passed a board, the soldiers would leave their posts and join the rest of the crowd. The “army’’ was genuine.

So, we have learned, is Palmer. He never won a PGA, but there were seven Majors, the four Masters, two Opens and the 1960 US Open. And Arnie almost single-handedly was respons-ible for American pros returning to the Open after a long absence.

It didn’t pay a US golfer to travel to Britain in the 1950s, especially before the arrival of the commercial jet around 1957-58. The trip was long, the purse was small; it was better to stay at home. And that’s what most golfers did. But after he won the Masters and US Open in 1960, Palmer alluded to Jones’ Slam and implied he could win a different one, a modern one.

Hogan got close in 1953, with three victories but nobody had swept the four. That was all Palmer needed. “Let me at ’em,’’ he said. He crossed the ocean to St Andrews and almost won the battle, coming in second to Kel Nagle. Unsatisfied, he returned to Royal Birkdale in 1961 and Royal Troon in 1962, winning both. The feeling among his colleagues was, if Arnie’s over there, we’d better go. He was. They did.

Arnie is fearless but not flawless, and together those factors were a major part of his mystique. At Rancho Park Muni in Los Angeles, where the LA Open was played for a few years before returning to Riviera, there’s a plaque on the 18th hole “honouring’’ Palmer’s 12 there during the tournament. Arnie hated making the score, but he doesn’t mind being remembered.

Arnie could get emotional. He cried when in 1994 he played his last US Open round at Oakmont. He cried when in 2004 he played his final round at Augusta. And who can forget him posing on the bridge across Swilcan Burn as said farewell to St Andrews?

His last tears came in 2006 when it was time to leave the Champions Tour. “The people want to see a good shot,’’ was his valedictory address, “and you know you can’t give it to them, that’s when it’s time.’’

Arnie gave us more than enough. We’ve enjoyed the journey maybe even more than he has. Arnold Palmer is a gentleman, a sportsman and a 
champion. Happy birthday, Arnie.

Tribute to golfing great Arnold Palmer as he approaches 80

Art Spander