A refreshed Palmer got up at about 8. He put on a pair of gray slacks and a many-splendored blouse with vertical stripes that made you think of the coat of Joseph. After breakfast he went downstairs to the rumpus room, where McCormack was already deep in conference with lawyers and officers of the Arnold Palmer Company, working out new projects. Palmer sat in on the talks, looked over blueprints that were spread out on the pool table, offered suggestions, signed papers and then shut himself up in his workshop next door.
Palmer's clubs always look as if they had spent a couple of years in Vulcan's forge, and there he was, battering and grinding and bending them on the intricate machinery he keeps for the purpose. The one-iron got special attention when Palmer calibrated it and found it was "weak"—that is, had a bit too much loft. "Clubs always change just a little bit after you've used them," he explained. For a while the one-iron looked like a gooseneck putter, but eventually he got the "goose" out of it. He fiddled with a new one-iron, put a little extra weight on the head of a driver and finally unwrapped and wrapped a few grips. His clubs were ready.
McCormack and the lawyers were still in conference when Palmer came back to the rumpus room. He chatted with them for a few minutes before going upstairs to the kitchen to construct a ham-and-cheese-on-rye sandwich out of the makings that Winnie had put out. He washed that down with a glass of milk and went into the bedroom to lie down for a while. He started to read a magazine, got sleepy and snoozed for half an hour. By then it was time to drive to the golf course.
After the customary warmup, Palmer started down the 10th hole. The only problem at this point seemed to be whether the threatening clouds above would bring rain and whether they could finish the round before dark.
Palmer played No. 10 in a routine par 4. On the par-5 11th he pushed his drive into a bunker protecting the elbow of this doglegged hole, and then, because a spectator had been knocked unconscious just ahead, had to wait a good 20 minutes before playing his second shot. By the time he did he had lost some of his early concentration. He pushed the ball far to the right, and it rolled into a nest of large stones at the bottom of a small drainage ditch that had been staked out as a lateral hazard.
From the predicament Palmer tried to extricate himself with a sand wedge. It was an extremely awkward shot to hit from a contrived stance, and he just did get the ball out and into some long rough about 20 yards ahead, leaving him with a delicate 50-yard pitch to the green. He already lay 3 and, worse yet—which nobody but Palmer knew at the time—his Sand wedge had just barely nicked one of the stones during his backswing.
After hitting the next shot into a bunker alongside the green and exploding out, Palmer was on the green in 5. He missed a tricky, slippery two-foot putt and, at last, got the ball in the hole in seven strokes. After holing out he asked someone to send for Tuthill, the tournament supervisor, so he could report what had happened in the ditch.
Tuthill arrived when Palmer was waiting to putt on the 14th green. They conferred for a few minutes as the gigantic gallery buzzed in a puzzled sort of way. Tuthill officially confirmed what Arnold already knew: he had to take a two-stroke penalty on the 11th hole. So, instead of a double-bogey 7, he had a 9.
There seemed little hope for Palmer now—unless the thunder and lightning that was beginning to rattle the skies overhead should produce a squall that would wash out the round. Palmer looked up at the dark clouds and said, "Come on down."