There is always a special story from The Masters. On Master Friday, 2004, there were fifty stories.

Fifty years. A half century. From Einsenhower to the Bush the Second. Nine Presidents. And Arnold Palmer has played with every one of them, well, not the last Bush since Arnie has some taste and though he is a good person, even Arnie can't play with someone who can't tell which end of the club to use on a golf course.

Fifty years of consecutive play in The Masters. Four green jackets, second only to Jack Nicklaus. Follow Arnie's career through The Masters and follow history. Presidents, wars, economic boons and busts, protests, and peace. World leaders born, dead or assassinated. Through it all Palmer has been the general of his army. Four green jackets later, Arnie is leaving the competition of Augusta.

He'll probably come back next year for some of the ceremony and tradition of the event, probably become the honorary starter of the tournament, taking the place of Byron Nelson, Gene Sarazen, and Sam Snead. Eventually, he'll probably be joined by Nicklaus and Gary Player.

It's a marking of time and its passage as the golfing world says goodbye. As he walked the 18th fairway for the last time, the cheers of the throng of fans, young and old, rolled across the course and shook the Augusta pines to their roots. The Army was saluting its general.

The man left his second shot short of the green, more the result of the ravages of age on his game rather than a poor shot. As if he knew he had to give the crowd one last thing to cheer for, as if the 18 holes he just played weren't enough, as if his career wasn't enough, he stiffed his chip shot.

There wasn't a dry eye anywhere at Augusta on Good Friday, 2004. The tears were enough to make the greens soft for an entire generation.

Arnie's army has always been there. One hook of the thumb, one hitching up of his pants was their signal for another charge.

When Arnie played his first masters, the big names in golf were Sarazen, Snead, and Hogan. Now it's Woods, and whoever thinks they're as good as Woods. Arnie has seen greatness and been greatness.

No other athlete, bar none, has ever embodied his sport like Arnie has golf. He literally made the game what it is today. He literally turned millions of people into fans and players themselves. As great as Nicklaus was, as great as Woods may become, their achievements would be asterisks in sporting news if not for Arnie.

His fellow pros know that. That's why so many of them circled the 18th green at the end of Arnie's round. That's why they cheered and applauded as loudly as the rest of the fans. Most of them followed Arnie when both he and they were younger. Some of them pretended like so many others that they were him. Back when the pros of today still dreamed, they were members of Arnie's Army, and the only uniform they wanted to wear was a green jacket. For a brief moment they, too, reenlisted.

For me, I too grew up watching Arnold Palmer play his game with reckless abandon and emotion. He is, more than any other reason, why I love the game and still play even if I know I will never be any where near as good. But that is part of the draw of the game. On any given hole, I can shoot a par or birdie. On the courses that I play regularly, I have parred or birdied every hole at least once. At least once, I was as good as Nicklaus, Woods, or Arnie.

The last competitive Masters hole for Arnold Palmer was the end of an era. That 18th fairway is all uphill. Arnie walked it by himself, hobbled a bit by 74 years of walking fairways. He walked it alone. Normally a group of pros will walk together down any fairway. This time, his playing partners let him have this last moment with the fans for himself.

I know that if I was ever lucky enough to be in such a position, I would have done the same. My thoughts would have turned to the end of my career, and what throngs might greet me at the end of my last fairway. My thoughts would be only that I wish the hurrahs would be as loud and loving as they were for Palmer. It truly was a measure of the man that others would judge their lives by his.

Golf is a game of honesty. It's also a game where etiquette takes second place to no one. After Palmer stiffed his chip, the other players had to putt out. They could have marked their balls and waited for him. Instead they played out their strokes. Arnie was the last one on the green.

Golf crowds, too, have a certain etiquette of being silent as a player prepares to take his stroke. The silence as Arnie stood over his last putt spoke of the love of the man. The camera panned to the crowd. Then back to a close shot of Palmer. The silence remained. He smiled as if he was smiling at everyone there and everyone watching on television. He smiled as if that smile, that wink, was just for whoever caught a glimpse of it. He was that personable, as if he was looking right at you, as if that smile was meant just for you.

Amid that roaring silence, a lone bird of Augusta could be heard. I don't know what winged creatures make home in those Georgia pines. It doesn't matter. Except for one, the birds too were silent. And that one, I swear, was singing a mournful song.

Like I said, not a dry eye in the place.