Excuse Me, Mr. Palmer, Sir

"A guy who could afford it might have four specialists, or a dozen, out there on the course advising him. That's why they have the rule."

"Oh, yes," I said slowly, my fancy rather struck by the thought of a convocation of advisers over a difficult shot—a clutch of them sitting around on shooting sticks, the binoculars out, the pencils and the slide rules working like military people studying maps on war maneuvers.

"The only intrusions I'm aware of," Palmer was saying, "are the cameras—the whir and click of them. Of course, these have been banned from the courses recently, so it hasn't been anything of a problem."

"Hi there, Arnie!" A man looked around the corner of the locker.

"Howzitgoin'?" Palmer said pleasantly.

"Great! Great! Great!" the man said. He fussed for another sentence, but nothing was forthcoming; he backed away and disappeared around the corner.

"Superstitions?" I asked. "Do you indulge in any rituals?"

"Oh, no," Palmer said, almost in disgust it seemed, in that loud honking voice. "Oh, sure, I wear certain outfits on certain days. I use the same marker to mark the ball."

"Do you stick to a ball throughout a round if it's going O.K. for you?" I asked.

"A golf ball loosens everytime you hit it; even one shot loosens it. So your professional golfer'll change his ball every three holes or so—though, of course, he'll stick to the same trademark." He spoke as if by rote, or as if reading from a training manual.