If you didn't understand the Masters Tournament, if you didn't appreciate its history and traditions, you would have thought it silly to be standing around the first tee at the Augusta National Golf Club at 7:15 Thursday morning, waiting for an old man to hit one golf shot.

The sun wasn't yet high enough to take the chill out of the morning air and 2,000 people were waiting patiently, reverently, for a 77-year-old man with silver hair, hearing aids and a slightly stooped back to walk onto the tee and hit one shot. . . .

The man hitting the shot was Arnold Palmer. No man is bigger than his sport, but in golf, Arnie comes close. Not only because he was so talented and so charismatic and so passionate about what he did, but because he never lost sight of the fact that he was one of us.

He was the son of a greens superintendent from Latrobe, Pa., a pants-hitching, chain-smoking commoner with uncommon talent. He winked at cameras and pretty women in the gallery, tousled young boys' hair and attacked golf courses with a style all his own.

Palmer first came to Augusta in 1955 and first won the Masters in '58. He would win the green jacket three more times. He would charge to victory in other majors and win dozens of tournaments around the world but he would fail, too, sometimes spectacularly, reminding us of our own struggles and imperfections.

He would age, like all of us, and begin to lose his skills. He would fight valiantly but futilely to retain his youthful power and steady hands. There was pride involved, sure, and ego, too. But mostly, he just couldn't let go of the game that had given him everything.

After his final Masters as a competitor in 2004, tournament officials asked him to become the honorary starter, a role that had been vacant since Sam Snead died in 2002.

Arnie had to think about it. He wasn't ready to admit he was a ceremonial golfer. He was still looking for the driver that would give him 10 more yards, still working on his game, still hoping for a miracle. Like all of us.

The truth was he couldn't. Palmer could beat 99.9% of the men his age, but he couldn't beat 0.1% of the men he wanted to beat. So this year, he accepted the offer by Masters chairman Billy Payne to hit the ceremonial first shot of the tournament.

And that's why those 2,000 people set their alarm clocks early and rushed to the course and gathered expectantly around the first tee in the morning chill. They were waiting to watch just one shot. . . .

When he emerged from the clubhouse, dressed in a powder-blue sweater over a royal blue shirt, the ovation was warm and respectful and grew louder as he approached the tee.

For a moment, there was a faraway look in his eyes. Maybe he was recalling his first Masters, when he was paired with Gene Sarazen, or his thrilling duels with Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player, or the way the fans cheered him as he strolled the emerald fairways, young and strong, hitching his pants and going for broke.

Instead, he posed for photos with important men in green jackets and waved one more time to the adoring crowd. Then he made way for Tiger Woods and Phil Mickelson and the kids.

"I was thinking back to when I went to Wake Forest and I used to watch the Masters," Palmer would say later, fighting back tears. "Whoever would have thought that 60 years later, here we are."

"I suppose," Palmer said, "that I wish every young player and every young person who eventually plays at Augusta National understands what it means and how I feel about it and the effect that it has had on my life."

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