A King, An Army and Little Things

"The King is dead... the Army marches on...  and little things matter." - Anonymous




An umbrella seems like a little thing - until it rains. Seeing a 'thumbs up' sign might seem like a little thing - unless you're one stroke down, in the rough with one hole to play - and the sign comes from Arnold Palmer. And whether you call a man Arnie, Arnold, The King or some other popular moniker might be a small matter - but not if he deserves to be called Mr. Palmer.

I was a young executive with IMG when I first met Arnold Palmer in 1986. He was bigger than life and even nicer than his press clippings declared. I could see why they called him The King in an instant.

Here was a man, who could 'walk with kings and keep the common touch'. By now everyone knows Arnold Palmer was a transformative figure. Not only did he alter the game of competitive golf and shift the balance of power, but he did it while opening the game to a new generation of golfers. He did it by being the 'everyman' who walked into a country club setting and claimed his place - politely, with respect... but make no mistake, forcefully.



"Golf is deceptively simple and endlessly complicated" - Arnold Palmer

My favorite story about Mr. Palmer is not about his golf prowess, his excellence as a businessman or the way he defined the American Dream. It is not about his overwhelming charisma, his humble nature, or how he helped invent modern day sports marketing.

My story is about the day he took time out from his very busy schedule to pose for a photograph with my wife Sally... and later signed it to her dad Ken, for his 75th birthday. Unbeknownst to Arnold, Ken had once golfed with his father Deke at Latrobe G&CC in 1960 (give or take a year or two).



But that's just a part of the story. Fifteen years later, I asked Mr. Palmer if he might send a note of congratulations to Ken on is 90th birthday. Arnold agreed, on the condition that I send him some information about Ken, so he could send a customized note.

True to his word, shortly before Ken's birthday a letter arrived on APE letterhead bearing the signature of one Arnold Daniel Palmer. In the long letter, he complimented Ken on his many holes-in-one (more than I have had!) congratulated him on continuing to play into his nineties and encouraged him to keep it up. "It will keep you young" he said in closing.

A man who is among the most famous sportsmen of all time, doesn't have to take the time to send a personal note. But to this man... it was simply a part of who he was.

Little things.

Arnold Palmer and Mark McCormack formed a team that created an entirely new industry. IMG was an audacious experiment in 1959 when it was formed by a handshake between these two men.  It became an amazing agency... one that created the opportunity for me to earn a living, doing things I loved, in an electric environment. I owe much that I have accomplished and the lions share of what I have learned in business to these two giants.




















So we lost a King last week, one that led an army of people into a new age of golf, leaving a legacy that transcends the game and one that firmly proves that "Nice guys can finish first."

To me he will forever be Mr. Palmer.

Just one of those little things.

Love One

The 2016 US Open Tennis Championships were, as usual, filled with surprises, upsets, winners and losers, joy and despair, great moments and small.

Y'know - Life!

I was fortunate to travel to New York City to attend a day at the Billie Jean King Tennis Center and to sit in Arthur Ashe Stadium, watching a Scot named Andy play the quarter finals.



But as I travelled 40,000 feet above the ground back to Oregon from the Big Apple - I wasn't thinking about Billie Jean, Arthur or Andy Murray. I was thinking about another Scot... Isabel Mary MacKenzie.

My mother.

To my knowledge, my mother was not a very athletic person. She was a cultured woman. She knew The Messiah by heart, loved classical music, played the piano, read great books, wrote with impeccable grammar, enjoyed art, had a beautiful voice and was a polished host.

But sports? - as a twelve year old I just didn't see it.

Then one day I learned that the parks department was offering free tennis lessons. All you needed was a racquet... everything else was supplied no charge. I asked if we might be able to afford a racquet... my mother replied, beaming, "You can have mine."

I was flabbergasted. "You have a racquet?"

And then there it was, neatly fixed into a press... a beautiful varnished racquet... just one problem. It had a wicked curve on it, much like the way a hockey stick blade was curved in the 1960's.



But for me... it was amazing... and mine.

I learned to play with that racquet, how to replace broken strings myself and I won my fair share of junior matches and a high school championship along the way.

I learned how to keep score. What deuce meant - that the game was scored love, fifteen, thirty, forty, game. That a Set was first to six games, win by two. That a Match was two of three sets.

I learned that you respected your opponent, never cheated on line calls, never used bad language on the court and shook hands win or lose... and that you meant it.

But I learned something else along the way, something more meaningful, something that stays with me today.

I learned that you could start with a twisted, hand-me-down racquet - you could win tournaments and lose them - you could even attend the Canadian Open and watch Borg and Chrissie, the US Open and see Connors and Martina or Wimbledon to enjoy Sampras and Steffi.

But those tennis life lessons really started with a mother who not only loved me, protected me, taught me - all the while encouraging me to live my own life. She once wrote to me "Be yourself - but be your best self."

I learned that keeping score is a good thing - particularly if you remember to start with-

Love - One.


"When the game is over, the kings and the pawns go back into the same box."

Backing Our Guardians In Blue

Speaker of the United States House of Representatives Tip O'Neil once said, "All politics is local".  So is policing.

It is difficult to process the murders of five Dallas police officers as they were serving the very public demonstrating against some of them. Shoulders sag all across our nation as we grapple with issues of race, ingrained in our history, and complex beyond the simplistic talking points broadcast during the latest news cycle.

I can remember a number of times in my life when the sight of a police officer has given me a sense of confidence, made me feel safer.  I always hold these thoughts in my mind when dealing with the police - they chose to be here, they swore an oath to protect and serve their fellow Americans - and when we all want to run away - they run in to deal with - whatever!

This week, citizens of all political stripes yearn to be a part of the solution. But what to do?

For me, I was moved to do something simple - something I should have been doing with regularity, yet was not.

I wrote a note of support on a card and hand delivered it to my local police precinct here in Portland. Since the front desk was not manned over the weekend, I could not access the station.  I noticed an officer in his patrol car and approached him to see if he would drop off the card for me. Once we engaged in conversation and I extended condolences on the loss of fellow officers, while thanking him for his service, it became crystal clear to me that here was a man shaken, a man in mourning, but an officer of the law, sworn to protect and serve - me. And he was going back onto the street, courageously, to keep the public safe.

The officer then ushered me into the station and introduced me to several other policewomen and men, who were readying for their shifts. They all introduced themselves and there was a moment of emotion in the room. I felt both humbled and remiss.

Remiss because such a small act of thanks, which took very little effort on my part, was so long in coming. Humbled, because I realized I had taken these brave souls for granted for too long.  

Turns out I knew what to do all along. Reach out to your police officers today. Thank them, talk with them, encourage them, back them up, get to know them. We should not leave the idea of community policing to the police only. We are the community.

They need us now.

All policing is local. 

Let's play an active part in keeping it that way.

A Good Walk

The 2016 Masters golf tournament was played this past weekend.

There were many fine shots, angst, gorgeous scenery, exciting moments and a nail-biting ending.

But I was in a bit of a fog whenever I tuned in to watch. And I know why.

On July 18th, 2015 our golden retriever Molly passed away after an almost fifteen year life with my wife and me. The British Open was being broadcast the weekend she left us behind on this planet and Sally was traveling. Molly was not her usual self and I knew she was coming to the end of her life.

It was almost surreal sitting beside her, watching golfers stride the course, hour after hour... my mind on Molly... running through so many memories with her.

One memory very vivid to me was a trip we took to Florida ten or more years ago. I took her for a walk at the end of the day along the golf course behind where we were staying.  All the players had passed and so we had the entire eleventh hole to ourselves.

I tossed Molly's tennis ball as far as I could and, as usual, she tore after it in a flash of golden fur.  At about fifty feet away, she appeared to slow, then disappeared from my view, only to reappear a moment later, in pursuit of the ball.

As I ran towards her I noticed the obstacle... a bunker about eight feet deep, hidden from my earlier viewpoint.

Clearly Molly had sized up that she could make the leap, and pressed on through the sand, in pursuit of her ball.

This was a defining characteristic of our golden girl. She was all in - all the time... and as a result, she lived a life of courage, exploration and... fun.

I know there is some disagreement over who first coined the phrase below (I'll go with Twain for now) -

Mark Twain: Golf is a good walk spoiled.    —The Saturday Evening Post

For me, I think I will leave that analysis to golfers... my favorite walk was with a sweet golden named Molly.  And I would say we likely took over ten thousand walks together during her lifetime.

Not one of them spoiled.