The King, A Jacket and Me
The ringing of the phone was a distraction. It was the landline, not my cell phone that I usually kept close by when I was working, and I would have to get up from my desk to answer it. Finally, after the sixth ring, I jumped up and grabbed the receiver. “Hello” I grumbled into the phone, but what I heard in reply surprised me. “What size jacket do you wear?” No opening, none of the usual salutations one would expect when answering the phone. But the bigger surprise was the voice on the other end of the line was heavy British, not the Cockney of Central London, nor the cultural highbrow of midland Cambridge, but more the raspy industrial of Liverpool or Birmingham. “I beg your pardon?” I asked. And he repeated. “What size jacket do you wear?” After a long pause on my part, he explained, “I am calling on behalf of the McDougal Agency, and we are handling the media arrangements for the Arnold Palmer dinner in conjunction with the Ryder Cup, and we need to know what size jacket you wear?” “What kind of jacket are you talking about?” I asked somewhat impatiently. “I’m sorry,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “but a jacket is what you in America would call a sweater.”
“Double-XL,” I replied quickly, now that I understood what he meant. But he immediately answered, “that x-large was the largest they offered but the jackets, of course, ran very big and I am quite positive x-large would be entirely adequate.” He announced this with that very certain British authority that I had no reason to doubt but, just to be sure, I told him “I was pretty big” he again assured me “that the x-large would be appropriate.” We exchanged pleasantries, and after he rang off, I sat for a while and thought back on how this invitation had transpired.
In the media business, it is not uncommon to fill guest lists to parties, book signings, junkets, and new hotel or golf course openings with friends and acquaintances. It’s kind of a quid pro quo where you take care of me, and I will take care of you sort of a thing. I get invited to all kinds of them, and I usually turn most of them down. But an opportunity to have dinner with Arnold Palmer, especially when I would be in the area, was too good of a thing to let pass.
The dinner invite was in conjunction with the 2006 Ryder Cup at the K Club just outside Dublin, Ireland. The developers of the White Oak Plantation of Tryon, North Carolina, would be using the event to announce the first “Arnold Palmer Premier Course” to be built in North America. The guest list was small, important and a lot of big names in golf would be there. My wife and I were on the guest list because of a favor I had done for a client of Reid Nelson at RN Promotions which was the media agency handling the guest arraignments for the White Oak people. It was payback and because I would already be in Ireland covering the tournament I thought it would be a nice evening out and a chance for my wife to meet “The King.”
I had, of course, met and interviewed Arnold many times over the years and, although I realized everybody thought of him this way, I considered him a friend. You, and just about everybody else in the world that has met him, probably feel the same way.
The dinner was held at the Lynch-Green Isle Hotel, Newland’s Cross, in Dublin. The property was a very fancy and upscale resort just north of the city and, as you would expect, everything was first-class. The cocktail party, dinner, and entertainment were the best Ireland could offer.
My wife and I were seated just to the left of the Palmer table which included Arnold, his new wife Kit, and the developers of White Oaks. My place setting included myself, my wife Shirley, two Public Relations people from Ireland, and Ann Liguori from WFAN in New York City. Ann, and I go back a long way. Ann is known as the queen of press row; she does radio, television, writes books and seems to know everybody and anybody in the media business. The fact she likes my wife a lot more than she cares for me made it a comfortable table to join.
Except it wasn’t a table. It was more like a Starbucks coffee station than a place setting for five people especially when most of the middle was taken up with a massive arrangement of flowers in a cut-glass vase that had to be three feet tall. The Irish guys were ordering copious amounts of liquor and wine trying to impress Ann dressed to the hilt in her New York finest. With five people gathered around a full table, sitting on what seemed like ice cream parlor stools, you can imagine how crowded it felt.
Other than the cramped table the evening was going well. Everything was picture-perfect, Arnold was as gracious as always, making everybody in the room feel they were his long-lost friend. The entertainment was of the Irish variety. Singers, dancers, and comedians filled the night with a gaiety you would expect from people of the Emerald Isle. The finale was a group of Irish folk dancers performing the traditional Irish Step Dance and wow what a performance they put on. Individuals and pairs of dancers flew around the stage with feet moving as fast as the eye could see. I turned and glanced to my right at Arnold. His enjoyment of the dancers was obvious. His feet were tapping to the music, and a huge grin split his face as he nodded his head in glee. And that’s when disaster struck.
I had moved my stool away from the table to watch the dancers, and as I slid back, I leaned my elbow on the table edge to boost myself up into my chair. The plate glass tabletop suddenly tipped, spilling everything towards Ann and her designer dress. Plates, silverware, drinks, and wine went cascading on to her lap which made quite a racket not to mention a mess that ended the evening for her. With a scream and a loud “I’m out of here,” she quickly gathered her things and left as I frantically tried to clean up the mess. The Irish guys avoided a greater disaster when they immediately grabbed the three-foot-high vase with the flowers and kept it from falling on the floor. Both were laughing hysterically as they called for more whiskey. Nervously, I glanced at Arnold, but, as he continued bobbing his head to the music, he looked at me, gave me that famous smile and a wink and then turned back to the dancers.
Looking back on that evening and what could have been a horrible disaster, ended reasonably well. Ann eventually forgave me, the Irish thought it was great fun, and even Arnold smiled when he saw what had happened. Despite the mess and ruining Ann’s dress the evening was terrific and one to remember.
When I reflect on how much Arnold Palmer meant to the game of golf, the immeasurable contributions he made and how fortunate I was to have known him on a personal level, I think back on that night. When my wife and I shared an evening with the King, and remember, along with his generosity, grace, and humility, that somewhere, hidden deep in my closet, I have an original, Irish, virgin lamb’s wool sweater with Arnie’s distinctive logo on it that I have never worn. Despite what that very confident British voice on the end of the phone had said so long ago, the extra-large jacket never came close to fitting.
