With over fifty years of involvement in the Business and Sport of Golf as a Player, Teacher, and Broadcast Journalist, I have traveled the world visiting, playing, reporting, and broadcasting from some of the most famous, scenic, and iconic Golf Courses in the history of the game.
Along the way, I’ve recorded, reported, and described the stories and narratives of the people I’ve met, places I’ve seen, and events that have transpired, occurred, and been contested.
Some of these accounts have previously appeared in other media outlets, magazines, blogs, and internet forums, but all have been updated, edited, and compiled into my latest release.
From the Club House-Musings from my Half-Century as a PGA Golf Professional
The publication release date is scheduled for the fall of 2023.
The following excerpt is one of those stories.
The King, a Jacket, and Me
The ringing of the phone was a distraction.
It was the landline, not my cellphone, which I usually kept close by while 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 or chit-chat one would expect when answering the phone.
But the real 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 slang of Liverpool or Birmingham.
“I beg your pardon,” I asked.
And he repeated. “What size jacket do you wear?”
After a long silence and questioning pause on my part, he replied, “I am calling on behalf of the McDougal Agency in London, 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 impetuous. “I’m sorry,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “but a jacket is what you Americans would call a sweater.”
“Double-XL,” I replied quickly, now that I understood what he was referring to.
However, he immediately countered, “X-large was the biggest they offered, but the jackets, of course, ran quite large, and I am quite positive X-large would be entirely adequate.”
He said this with that supremely confident British authority that I had no reason to doubt but to be sure, I told him “I was a pretty stout guy,” but he again assured me “that the X-large would be appropriate.”
After he finished explaining, we exchanged pleasantries, said goodbye, and I sat for a while and pondered 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, acquaintances, and fellow writers.
It’s a quid pro quo where you take care of me, and I will take care of you.
I get invited to many of them and usually turn them down. But an opportunity to have dinner with Arnold Palmer, especially when I would already be in the area, was too good of a thing to let go by.
The evening in question was in conjunction with the 2006 Ryder Cup contested at the posh, fashionable, and very private K Club outside Dublin, Ireland.
The developers of the White Oak Plantation of Tryon, North Carolina, would use the event to announce the first “Arnold Palmer Premier Course” built in North America.
The guest list was small and influential, with many notable names in Golf in attendance.
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 golf tournament, I thought it would be an enjoyable night out and a chance for my wife to meet “The King.”
Of course, I 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.
He’s that type of person.
The event, conducted at the Lynch Green Isle Hotel, Newland’s Cross, on Dublin’s outskirts, was a fancy and upscale resort just north of the city.
As you would expect, everything presented 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 main table, which included Arnold, his new wife Kit, and the developers of White Oaks.
My table had myself, my wife Shirley, two Public Relations people representing the advertising agency in Ireland, and Ann Liguori from WFAN radio in New York City.
Ann and I go back a long way. She is called the queen of the press row, does radio and television, writes books, and seems to be acquainted with everybody and anybody in the media business.
Because she knows and likes my wife more than yours truly, she made it an easy table to join.
Except it was not a table. It was more like a Starbucks coffee station than a place setting for five people, especially when the middle was filled with a massive arrangement of flowers in a huge cut glass vase that had to be three feet tall.
The Irish guys were happy, playful, and ordering copious amounts of liquor and wine 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 seemed.
Other than the cramped table, the evening was going well.
Everything was picture-p
erfect, and Arnold was as gracious as always, making everybody in the room feel like his long-lost friend.
The entertainment was of the Irish variety.
Singers, dancers, and comedians filled the night with the joy you would expect from people of the Emerald Isle.
The night’s 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 their feet moving as fast as the eye could see.
I turned and glanced to my right at Arnold. His delight with the dancers was evident, his feet were tapping to the music, and a huge grin split his face as he nodded 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 it back to the table, I leaned my elbow on the edge to boost myself up into my chair.
The plate glass on the tabletop suddenly tipped, spilling everything on the table toward Ann and her designer dress.
Plates, silverware, glasses, and wine cascaded onto 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 much larger disaster as they quickly grabbed the sizable vase with the flowers in the middle of the table and kept it from crashing on the floor.
Both Irish guys were grinning and laughing uproariously as they called for more whiskey and tried to rearrange the table.
I stole a glance at Arnold.
He seemed unruffled by the commotion as he continued bobbing his head to the music, but after a pause, he slowly turned to me, conveyed to me that great smile of his, produced a big wink, and then turned back to the festivities.
Looking back on the special celebration, it could have been a horrible disaster, but Ann eventually forgave me, and we continued to be good friends.
The Irish thought it was great fun, and even Arnold smiled when he saw what had happened.
Despite the mess and ruining Ann’s stylish dress, the evening was memorable in many ways and one to remember for all time.
I sometimes reminisce about that evening and reflect on how much Arnold Palmer meant to the game of Golf, his many contributions to its rich history, and how fortunate I was to have known him personally.
And then I reflect on that night when I shared an evening with the King and appreciated, buried deep in my closet, back in its most distant reaches, I have a genuine Irish, virgin lamb’s wool sweater with Arnie’s distinctive logo embroidered on the front that I have never worn.
Despite what that very confident and distinctive British voice on the phone had proclaimed so many months ago, the extra-large jacket never came close to fitting.
Jeff Waters is a PGA Master Professional and a member of the Golf Writers Association of America.
