In the late 1990s, my brother and I drove to Hot Springs to play the Lower Cascades. We pulled into a mostly empty parking lot and walked into the clubhouse to check in. On the way to the first tee, the starter said "Mr. Snead is in front of you today. It might be smart not to play into him."
We played as slowly as possible, staying two holes behind the five-cart group that included the legend himself. We watched him hit a number of shots and did our best to remain invisible.
We we stopped at the turn, J.C. Snead was chipping balls on the practice green. We were planning to stop for a while (to avoid being seen behind his uncle) when he said "Catch up to them. They want you to play through."
On the twelfth tee, all members of the group were waiting on the tee, save Mr. Snead, who was waiting well ahead (having driven down the fairway so his golden retriever, who was accompanying him, could run). They told us to hit and we did. By the time we reached our drives, Mr. Snead had progressed to the green, where he was waiting for us to hit.
The par five hole is reachable but my brother laid up. I couldn't figure out which was worse: laying up from 220 yards or risking hitting Sam Snead. I picked a five wood and hit a good shot into the fringe, about twenty-five feet from the hole.
When we arrived at the green, Mr. Snead was tending the pin and his dog was laying on the green a few feet away. I had downhill chip with about eight feet of break. I addressed my ball, hit, and watched as it checked, caught the intended line, and trickled just past the hole. I made the short return putt for a birdie 4 and managed a "Thank you, sir" to Mr. Snead as he replaced the flagstick.
From under his straw hat he looked me in the eyes and said "If it hadn't rained last night, that son of a bitch chip would have rolled off the green." He neither smiled nor winked.
I said "Thank you, sir" again and walked to my cart.
WW