This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2014, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

Cherry Hills is most famous for being the site of Arnold Palmer's victory in the 1960 U.S. Open, when he charged past Ben Hogan and Jack Nicklaus in the final round.

This weekend, the BMW Championship is being played at Cherry Hills, where Rory McIlroy can solidify his claim as the world's best golfer — just as Palmer did 54 years ago.

Sometime between Arnie's historic win and McIlroy's bid in the BMW, Cherry Hills became part of my life, too.

One hot, summer Colorado morning, it was the place where I decided I didn't want to be a caddy.

But we'll come back to that.

On June 18, 1960, Palmer trailed by seven strokes when he teed off for the final round at Cherry Hills, located in south Denver along University Blvd. Now surrounded by multimillion dollar mansions — some owned by Denver's highest-paid athletes — Cherry Hills sat mostly alone in those days as a bucolic cathedral to wealth and golf.

Palmer's magic started immediately.

On the par-4 first hole, Palmer drove the green for a two-putt birdie. On the second hole, he chipped in from 90 feet. He also birdied Nos. 4, 6 and 7.

Once in contention, Palmer held off the 47-year-old Hogan and 20-year-old amateur Nicklaus to win his only U.S. Open.

Fast-forward a few years.

One day, my best friend Bill showed up at my house with two crisp $20 bills in his pocket. Since gas cost 30 cents a gallon, we knew there was little chance his old Chevy would ever run dry again.

I was intrigued about Bill's new-found wealth. He said he got the money caddying at Cherry Hills.

My reaction: "I'm in."

The following Saturday, we drove to Cherry Hills. I, too, was going to caddy.

Unfortunately, things didn't work out. The caddy master gave Bill a bag right away. But I just sat alone in my corner of the caddy shack. All morning.

In my mind, my problem was obvious.

Bill had warned me about the frat-boy caddy master. He was an entrepreneur who often gave bags to those who bought him a coke or brought him a candy bar from home.

I failed to heed the warning and showed up thinking I would get a bag (or two) on my own merits.

Wrong.

As morning turned to afternoon, I was still sitting in the caddy shack. Some guys were going out a second time, including my buddy Bill. So I sat ... and sat ... and finally left.

I walked home and, later that summer, got a job sacking groceries, the highlight coming when a woman in her 70s tipped me a dime for carrying two bags to her car.

Cherry Hills?

It's a wonderful, historic golf course. But I wouldn't want to caddy there.