Tired Palmer fails badly

Press, Volume CXVI, Issue 34126, 12 April 1976, Page 3

Tired Palmer fails badly

(N.Z.P.A.Reuter—Copyright) AUGUSTA (Georgia). Arnold Palmer sat wearily in front of his locker, with a can of beer in his hand and his head bowed. Not all the way down to his chest but far enough to show he knew he was all through. For this Masters, anyway. He had just come in from a wretched secondround 81, which was nine strokes over par and the worst score he has ever made here. Coupled with his first round 74, that gave him an 11-over 155 and this meant he had failed to make the cut for only the second time in 22 Masters at Augusta National, the place everybody once called his own private shooting preserve. Sitting there dejectedly, his eyes red-rimmed and his hair mussed, 46-year-old Palmer looked as if he might announce he no longer was going to continue competing regularly on the tour. Someone asked him if that was in his mind. “No,” said the man with four Masters championships and 79 professional titles to his credit. “I feel I still want to play some golf but I don’t want to play like I’m playing now. “When I’m playing well, I love it. I certainty am not enjoying it now.” Palmer went out in 39 in today’s second round, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, he stumbled home in 42, with a triple bogey eight, on the thirteenth.

His 81 was his second worst score ever in his 21-year professional career, topped only by the 82 he posted in the 1969 P.G.A. championship at Dayton, Ohio. The wind bothered many of today’s competitors but Palmer, never one to make excuses even when he was going well, certamly wasn’t going to make excuses for himself now. “It wasn’t the wind,” he said, firmly. “It was me. I just played bad. Very bad.” What was going to be his next appearance on the tour? Painter hesitated before answering. “I dunno,” he said, finally, “I’m gonna sit down and debate that with myself. I may play at Houston.” lie sat silent for a while and nobody among the reporters gathered around him asked him any questions. Nobody really had the heart to. He looked so tired, so whipped. “I’ve worked pretty hard coming into this tournament,” he said, breaking the silence, “But, Jeez, the way I played, I think I should’ve rested.” He smiled, and for the first time he looked like the old Arnold Palmer. Then he turned solemn again. “No timing, nothing,” he said. “I was just swinging bad. I started hitting the ball well enough in Florida. I thought I was strong enough. As it turned out though, it just wasn’t there. I hit so many bad shots.”