Eight years ago, I was sitting in a T.G.I. Fridays in Times Square with Calvin Peete waiting on our order to come. I had just moderated a panel discussion on the past, present and future of African-Americans in golf that featured Peete. After the panel discussion came the obligatory pictures and handshakes with his many admirers that had attended the event. A quiet and dignified man, Peete always seemed pleased but slightly surprised by the attention he would attract.

When I came up to shake his hand and thank him for his participation he mentioned that he was a little hungry. I offered to treat him to dinner, with the full expectation that the golf legend would have a far better offer. To my surprise, he accepted my offer and asked if Friday’s would be too expensive. I told him that I would take him anywhere he wanted; “Oh no, I like Friday’s. They have a great steak.” Despite my protestations and offers to indulge in Manhattan’s finest he insisted on Friday’s, so off to Friday’s we went.

It was a modest choice made by a modest man. Born in Detroit, Mich., and reared in central Florida as one of his father’s 19 children from two marriages, Peete dropped out of high school to earn money for his family. One of his jobs was picking corn for endless hours in the hot Florida sun. When his friends asked him to play golf at the local course, he told them he had enough of being outside.

In addition to his aversion to being outdoors in the heat, Peete’s left arm wouldn’t fully straighten as a result of a broken elbow suffered as a child. Eventually he relented and took up the game at age 23, beginning one of the most meteoric career arcs in golf’s long history. Just nine short years from picking up his first club, he refined his game to the point where he made the PGA Tour, playing in his first Tour event at the age of 32, a point where most pros are prime for their first victory. Just nine years later, Peete won the Vardon Trophy, given annually to the professional golfer with the lowest per-round score, averaging 70.56 shots per round, giving him statistical claim to the title of the Tour’s best player. And the following year he won The Players Championship, considered the sport’s “fifth major” and host to one of the strongest fields of competitors in golf each year.

In the time it takes most people to figure out if they are worthy to compete at the highest level, Peete had ascended to the pinnacle. He only had about 10 truly competitive years, but amassed 12 wins and 73 top-10 finishes in that time, a stunning success rate. And he was also the straightest driver in the history of the game, racking up 10 consecutive driving accuracy titles on Tour. Ironically, Peete said that it was his disfigured left arm that helped him to create the most repeatable swing in the game.

But my lasting impression of Peete comes more from his demeanor off the course than his exploits on it. He never forgot that he had honed his game on the ill-kempt, often segregated muni courses that were a far cry from the manicured tracks that his competitors had grown up with. He gave his time generously to kids, volunteering with The First Tee of Washington, DC at historic Langston Golf Course, the National Park Service course built in 1939 specifically to accommodate African-Americans who were barred from other courses. Peete didn’t like to show off, but when he gave a demonstration of how to hit a golf ball it was like watching Tony Gwynn give a demonstration of how to hit a baseball. It was like he was simply born to do it.

Despite his sterling record of accomplishment and pioneering legacy, Peete was never selected to the World Golf Hall of Fame. Like many others, I lobbied persistently with the sport to honor the man while he was still alive. My entreaties intensified after attending the Hall of Fame induction for the late Charlie Sifford, the man who broke the PGA Tour’s color line. Sifford died earlier this year but he had the opportunity to attend his own induction ceremony. I know for a fact that the honor changed him; he had harbored much anger from the indignities he had suffered while competing as the only Black golfer on the Tour. He told me the night before the induction that he was going to “get some back” at his awards speech, but when the waves of applause hit him, his heart melted and he spent a solid hour thanking those whom he had intended to curse. It was a cathartic moment, a public baptism that cleansed Sifford and every soul within the sound of his voice. Sifford cried, but he was probably that last one in the house to do so. 

I wanted Calvin Peete to have that moment, that magical experience of achievement and acceptance. He was not going to lift a finger to make it happen; asking him to promote himself would be like asking him to hit a drive out of bounds intentionally. Waiting for our steak to come at Friday’s that night, I asked him about the Hall of Fame. “It would be nice,” he said. Understated as always, but in his eyes was a combination of competitive fire and a longing for the respect of his peers that communicated how important it would be for him. And if his peers voted he would have been in years ago. But the votes come from those with other agendas, and so he waited.

As the old folks say, Calvin Peete is gone to glory now. His wait is over. But here in the mortal realm, the wait continues for the game to pay proper homage to the man with the crooked arm who hit the straightest ball anyone ever saw. He overcame poverty, injury and society to become the heart and soul of a game that was not ready to accept him as its face. He deserves a hell of a lot more than a steak dinner.