ST. ANDREWS, Scotland -- The Rusacks Hotel looms on the side of the final hole at the Old Course, near the foot of the Valley of Sin.
The lobby is old-world: porcelain vases, fine carpets, bright white molding on the doorjambs. Four clocks behind the front desk mark time at Royal Melbourne, St. Andrews, Augusta and Pebble Beach. It's not over-the-top, like the American-owned Old Course Hotel down the way. Think a 1958 Porsche versus a Hummer. On Tuesday afternoon, old men trickle in with their families and friends. The past winners of the Open Championship are arriving for the 150th anniversary celebration. Some are immediately recognizable. Others seem only vaguely familiar, bellies and white hair hiding the young man they used to be. As I write this, Tony Jacklin, two-time major champion, checks into the hotel with his wife.
Then Roberto de Vicenzo walks in. He won an Open Championship but is most famous for losing the Masters after signing an incorrect scorecard.
Both men grin and greet each other like old teammates.
"Como estas?" Jacklin says. "It's lovely to see you. Look at you. You look fantastic!"
The men tell stories about the good days. Jacklin introduces his wife to de Vicenzo and cracks, "There was a time when he'd have run off with you."
There is laughter, and jokes about big noses and old age. Golf swings are mimed. They laugh at how all the young men with whom they played are now old men with vanishing hairlines and stooped backs. Jacklin tells de Vicenzo about a recent picture he saw of Gary Player, Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus. Once, Jack and Arnie were about 5-foot-10, and Gary was 5-7. Now?
"They're all the same height," he says, cackling.
De Vicenzo slips away, and as Jacklin stands near the elevator, Arnold Palmer arrives -- a private jet brought him direct from Latrobe, Pa., to St. Andrews. He comes into the lobby, which has an enormous mural of him above the fireplace. Even at 80, the man is a ball of energy. His voice is immediately familiar.
"Tony Jacklin!" he says.
"How are you, my friend?" Jacklin says.
"Can I have your autograph?" Palmer says.
They introduce their guests and catch up on each other's lives.
"Getting in here is not easy," Jacklin says. "The traffic. You just can't do anything about it."
"You've been making the rounds, young man," Palmer says.
They both head upstairs. Palmer emerges an hour or so later from the elevator wearing a white bowtie. He's on his way to receive an honorary doctorate from St. Andrews. The young women behind the desk fuss over him.
"I like your tie."
"It's very swish."
"If I could find someone to tighten it for me," Palmer says.
The leggy brunette, No. 1, lets the sentence hang there for, well, not at all.
"Do you want me to?" she asks.
He leans on the counter, and two front-desk brunettes fawn over him and his tie while another blonde stands close by.
"You mind me passing around you?" Brunette No. 1 asks.
"Whatever you want," Palmer says.
Everyone laughs. They pull and straighten, pull and straighten. Finally, she's done.
"That tight enough?" she asks.
"Perfect," Palmer says.
She grins.
"Would you like to marry me?" she asks.
Palmer laughs. He's got a good laugh.
"Well," he says, "I got to get rid of my wife."
The girls cackle and ooh and aah. Palmer thanks them and slips outside into a waiting Lexus, headed to Younger Hall. Back in the lobby of the Rusacks Hotel, one of the women behind the counter looks at Brunette No. 1 and, without a word, points up at the huge mural of Palmer.
