Tom Johnson -- NOTEBOOK

It was June 1966.

I was 12 years old.

My family was vacationing for two weeks on the South Shore of Lake Tahoe.

There was boating, swimming, hiking and horseback riding -- everything a

kid would want to do.

But first things first.

Each morning at the crack of dawn I walked to the general store to buy a

newspaper. Heading straight to the sports section, I’d look to see what

was happening.

This particular week Arnold Palmer was winning the U.S. Open at the

Olympic Club in San Francisco. As a young golfer, I loved Arnold Palmer.

On the Monday morning following the final round, I remember running to

the store. The news, however, shocked me. It was like the Kennedy

assassination. I’ll always remember where I was.

Palmer had blown a seven-shot lead on the final nine holes and was caught

and tied by Billy Casper. I cried on that walk back to the cabin.

Palmer lost the next day in an 18-hole playoff.

Fast forward to 1978: I’m selling radio advertising in the Palm Springs

market. I also do a live sports show each weekday evening. On this

particular week, I’m covering the Bob Hope Desert Classic with live

updates from the media tent at Bermuda Dunes.

During the five days, I interviewed many of the pros and celebs. But one

stands out. After one of his rounds, Palmer joined me for a one-on-one

interview.

After each of my questions, Palmer began his answer with, “Well, Tom” --

or simply, “Tom.” I couldn’t believe it. He knew me. He was familiar with

my work. After all, he supposedly owned a home in Ironwood just above

Palm Desert.

That night I rushed home to tell my wife about the Palmer interview. I

boldly surmised he had to be a listener and, maybe, even a fan.

She asked how I could tell.

“He called me by my name,” I proudly responded. “He has to be a

listener.”

Then she burst my bubble. “Did you ever think he might just be reading

your name tag?”

I looked down, and there on my left shirt pocket was my media name tag

with “Tom” prominently displayed.

The realization set in.

He wasn’t a listener. He didn’t even know me. He was just being polite.

Well, it’s 2000 and Arnie’s back in my life. Or at least he will be for

three shining days at the Toshiba Senior Classic. Today, I plan to walk

18 holes with “The King.”

Sure, I’ll have my media name tag on. I’ll know that we’ve met before.

And chances are, he probably won’t remember.

Nevertheless, it promises to be a great time.

See you in the “Army.”

* TOM JOHNSON is publisher of the Daily Pilot.