This week, we lost the greatest golfer ever, the man who brought the sport to the masses, a name synonymous with competition, the king, the legend: Mr. Arnold Palmer. Arnie was a favorite son and native of Latrobe, Pennsylvania, a city where roads, an airport, a drink, a hospital, and so much more are named after him. Latrobe is also the home of Mr. Rogers, the banana split, and summer home to the Pittsburgh Steelers; but Arnold clearly is their favorite. And with good reason. Some athletes play to make a name for themselves, but Arnie did it to build up the sport. And build it up he did. He made the sport of golf a game for the common man. It is no wonder he was followed by Arnie's Army through the world. Some athletes won't give autographs unless you pay them, or they will walk by, unmoved when a child asks for one; but Arnie never refused. He signed his name millions of times, never refusing anyone in his entire lifetime. I saw him just last month, surrounded by his usual stack of letters, pictures, and paraphernalia piled next to his desk, waiting to be signed by him. He signed every single one with that perfect and unmistakable signature and not with a generic scribble so you have no idea whose name it was. Arnie made sure he made his name legible. Later in life, he stopped signing golf balls not because he did not want to, but, rather, he thought it was important that whoever he was signing for could read his name clearly.…
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