by Dan Jenkins
I had only one. “Who let you out?”
THE PUTTER MAN. That was the sign on the booth. The proprietor could have passed for a Texas Ranger. He wore his Stetson barely above eye level. Pressed Western shirt, neatly creased jeans, ostrich boots.
On display was a variety of traditional putters. No bellies or broomsticks. Only old Armours, Cash-ins, Bullseyes, and Ted Smith Mallets. All of them in mint condition. Mixed in with the Pings, Camerons, Mortal Locks, what have you.
There was a decent crowd standing around. I managed to work my way up to the front row.
The Putter Man, who wore a Stetson and could pass for a ranch foreman, was holding up a Bullseye.
“Now, this dude,” he said. “What I’ve got right here will get the job done. When the flash mobs come over the fence and onto the fairway to get your goods, you can take out the first wave by yourself. Pop, pop, pop, pop. Like that.”
He went on. “The trigger on this dude is down on top of the blade. The shaft is loaded with nine-millimeter Golden Sabre 147 grain jacketed hollow points. You can get thirteen hundred feet a second at the muzzle.”
I looked at the other people. They were absorbed.
I said, “All these putters you have are made into weapons, like guns?”
“You bet your sweet life, they are,” he said. “I designed ’em myself and did the work. You must not be keepin’ up with the news. In the past two months alone, we’ve had twelve robberies on golf courses right here in Northwest Central Mid-Texas. The scum come out of nowhere. Sometimes they take more than your money; they drive off with the whole dern cart.”
I asked what the police were doing about it.
“The police?” he said. “I’ll tell you what the police is good for. When the police ain’t causing traffic jams by stoppin’ old ladies to check their IDs, they get a call about a break-in, go to the wrong address, and shoot an innocent man watering his front yard.”
The Putter Man said there was another splendid use for his putters.
“With one of these,” he said, “you can take care of the assistant pro who sold you the square-head hybrid for $550 when it should have cost $119. Go in the shop with this putter when there’s nobody around, and pop-pop-pop.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “Are we talking about actually shooting people?”
The Putter Man said, “No, my man, we’re not. For the good of golf, we’re talkin’ about killin’ people that ought to be kilt.”
Holding on to my posters, I scurried out of the merchandise hall as quickly as possible without knocking anyone down.
THE NEW WORLD TOUR
The PGA of America has announced that it is entertaining the idea of taking its PGA Championship, one of the year’s four majors, to countries outside the United States.
—NEWS ITEM
I AM PLEASED TO greet you today as the commissioner of the Global Tour of Professional Golf, or the GTPG, which is how my staff is already referring to it. Their pronunciation seems to have settled on “Gitpig.” That may have legs.
This is a great time for me to speak to you in light of the recent announcement from the PGA of America about taking its major to foreign lands.
Such a move is bound to have volcanic eruptions within our sport. Rest assured, however, that no ruling body of the game is going to beat us to Istanbul, Budapest, Hamburg, Beirut, or any other desirable area.
Many of you remember me from the days when I was the managing director of Cruise Golf, the company I rescued financially after the Princess of the Fairways was lost off the coast of Java due to overcrowding.
Others among you may recall I was once the editor in chief of Vacation Golf, the publication in which I came up with the successful ad campaign “Leave the Kids at Home If They Know How to Feed Themselves.”
Before I continue, let me publicly thank the people who selected me for this prestigious position. I refer to the leaders of our PGA Tour, the European Tour, the Asian Tour, the Japan Golf Tour, the Sunshine Tour—that’s in South Africa—and the PGA Tour of Australasia.
Oh, and the Tour de las Americas, which, quite frankly, I didn’t know existed until a day ago.
I found out about it when I received an email wishing me luck in the new job. It came from an American tournament sponsor in Mexico City who was only hours away from facing a firing squad. It had something to do with missing funds.
All he had done, he assured me, was make the casual remark that Emiliano Zapata would have lived longer if he had devoted his life to golf instead of raiding villages.
That aside, I want to fill you in on some of the promising tournaments I’m hoping to see launched. My basic plan is to remain global but take the Tour to more familiar places around the world.
I’m known for my slogans, as you are aware. A few I’ve come up with might give you a hint of the directions our tour will be taking. One: “Let the pygmies keep New Guinea.” Two: “Malaysia is for National Geographic.” Three: “If you order the paella in Spain, make sure to find out how much in it is dead and how much is still alive.”
As I said, I’m going to stick to major cities for tournament sites. No more of this Johor Open in Bahru foolishness. I mean, who knew about that one other than some birds and insects?
Already under way is a unique tournament we’re calling the Socialist Paradise Invitational in Buenos Aires. We would like to have the support of the Argentine president, and we’re in the process of finding out if Argentina has a current president.
Some lady is reported to hold the office, but my people haven’t been able to grab her for a statement. I’m told we had her pinned down at a jewelry counter in Saks Fifth Avenue in New York City a week ago, but she slipped away. We now hear she may be browsing around Harrods in London.
A government official has given us guidelines for the event. The field must be limited to fifty pros who have never won a tournament of any kind and hate the capitalistic societies into which they were born. All fifty will be declared winners and given equal prize money and identical trophies.
We do need the approval of the Argentine president, or at least a statement from one of her assistants carrying the shopping bags.
While in that part of the world, we would follow up with a tournament in Bogotá, Colombia. We’re tentatively calling it the Coca Leaf Classic. It would be played at The Country Club of Raul’s Cartel. We hear it’s a challenging course that winds through groves of coca trees and processing plants that were uncovered by the DEA.
To attract a good field we’re thinking the winner should receive $2 million in prize money along with a squad of armed guards to see him to the airport, plus a fighter escort to accompany his Avianca flight out of the country.
The Middle East holds some promise for us. I can’t imagine anyone not getting excited over a tournament I’m calling The Fracas in Damascus.
I say a truce could be put in place for a week in the capital city of Syria, and top pros from various tours could compete with golfing members of al-Qaeda, ISIS, and the Syrian army. Apart from the competition, it would be GTPG’s effort in advancing the cause of peace in the region.
Not to ignore the USA. I have a team event in mind. The Immigration. It has that one-word ring to it. Like the Masters, the Players, the Tradition.
I envision forty four-man teams battling it out over 72 holes on one of the three thousand courses we can choose from in Scottsdale. A team would consist of a name pro, an illegal alien, a border guard, and a member of the United States Senate. First prize for the winning team would be Yuma, Arizona. Second prize, Nogales.
I can’t tell you how proud I am to be a part of golf’s explosion.
So I will close with this statement. The torch has been passed to a new organization. Let the word go forth from this time and this place to the PGA of America—Mogadishu is ours!
JUNIOR GOLF
Yesterday’s Junior Golfer
Billy Bob rises, gets dressed, makes his bed, goes to breakfast, talks sports and ne
ws of the day with mom and dad. Asks if it’s okay if he plays a round of golf after school today at Dirt Track Muny.
Billy Bob’s dad says, “Sure, son. But keep your head down, swing slowly.” With a smile, mom says, “Fairways and greens, sweetheart.” Billy Bob gives mom a kiss, dad a hug, leaves.
Billy Bob goes to school. Learns that America is beautiful, the hope of the world. Hears several foreign countries don’t speak English, don’t like cheeseburgers, and could be trouble in the future. Teacher says America may have to teach them a thing or two someday.
Billy Bob rides his bike to Dirt Track Muny, his canvas bag of golf clubs strapped over his shoulder. Billy Bob sweeps out pro shop, unloads boxes, helps head pro do other chores. Head pro says Billy Bob is good kid, lets him play for free today.
Billy Bob plays 18 with a postman, a mechanic, and a truck driver.
Billy Bob shoots even-par 72, his best score ever at Dirt Track. Postman, mechanic, and truck driver each lose a quarter to Billy Bob. He believes this is the best day of his life.
Billy Bob rides his bike to girlfriend’s house, takes her through his round. Tells her about his birdies at 1, 7, and 14, and the unlucky bogeys at 5, 10, and 13. He describes in detail the long chip shot that saves his par at 15. His girlfriend, Patricia Mary Alice, seems excited to hear all this.
Billy Bob and Patricia Mary Alice play records and dance in her living room. Their favorite songs are “The Old Piano Roll Blues” and “Walkin’ My Baby Back Home.”
Billy Bob thinks he may be in love. Kisses Patricia Mary Alice and goes home for a good night’s sleep so he can wake up fresh tomorrow, mow the lawn, run errands for mom, and tackle Dirt Track Muny again.
Today’s Junior Golfer
Ricky Sean rises in his bedroom suite of family’s 35,000-square-foot home. Selects new golf shirt he will wear only once. Goes downstairs for breakfast. Finds dad sitting at breakfast table, talking on cell, firing people.
Ricky Sean sneers at yolk broken on egg and bread not toasted properly, gives mother holy hell. Mother begs forgiveness. Ricky Sean shrugs, tells mother to go clean a room, sweep a floor, whatever.
Ricky Sean cranks up his bright blue Maserati, impatiently plows through slow-rising garage door. Says garage door is stupid. Dad should have it fixed.
Ricky Sean speeds through city, causes city bus to turn over, injuring twenty-six people. Ricky Sean cusses city bus for hogging road. Ricky Sean fazes school today. School is boring. All teachers do is talk about things.
Ricky Sean cruises to Nasdaq Country Club, eases Maserati into handicap parking space near entrance. So-called music blares from Maserati’s stereo. The Transgender Vampires are performing “Tattooed Skinny People.”
Ricky Sean is told by valet parker he can’t stay in handicap space. Ricky Sean says he can because he is handicapped. Valet parker asks how he’s handicapped. Ricky Sean says, “I’m hitting a hot pull. Gotta work on it.” Valet parker says okay, leave car here, accepts $100 bill from Ricky Sean.
Ricky Sean goes to practice range, removes clubs from golf bag made of white rhino leather. Club member strolls over, admires clubs, asks what model they are. Ricky Sean says, “Weapons of mass destruction. They cost more than your neighborhood. Get away from me, old fool.”
Ricky Sean hits practice balls. Turns hot pull into crop-duster cut. Turns crop-duster cut into flame-out sky dive. Turns flame-out sky dive into freeway divider. Goes back to hot pull. Works hot pull into Javelin rocket launch.
Ricky Sean joins game with three low-handicap club members. Shoots 62, wins $8,000. Members insist on emergency nine. Ricky Sean fires a 31, wins $16,000 more.
Ricky Sean picks up girlfriend, Ashley Amber. They dine at In-N-Out Caviar, go to Movie Tomb, drink champagne, watch Flesh Eating Swamp Fiends. Ricky Sean drives to lake with Ashley Amber, parks. They listen to so-called music on car stereo. Ricky Sean says his favorite rock group is Bleeding Scabs. Ashley Amber says her favorite rock group is Loudmouth Sluts. They argue. Ricky Sean says he’s too tired for sex. Dumps Ashley Amber at after-hours club, goes home.
At home Ricky Sean discovers college acceptance letters waiting for him from Stanford, Duke, Yale, Harvard, Northwestern, and Notre Dame. Ricky Sean decides to skip college, go straight to PGA Tour. Won’t have to talk about things.
Q-AND-A WITH SERGIO
THE AUTHOR OF Sometimes It Goes In and Me, Sergio has been a star in the sport of golf for more than fifteen years. Has he met his own expectations as a writer and a golfer? What does the future hold for him?
What are you currently reading?
I have just finished Mr. Tiger Goes Wild. They tricked me. It was not about golf. Now I plan to start on Winnie-the-Pooh. I have always been interested in Churchill and what he meant to the world. If Churchill had not won the war, there would not be a European Tour. This is true, yes? Not to speak badly about Germans. I have many German friends through golf. I like their schnitzel.
Do you prefer to read old books or new books?
No book is old if you have not read it. That is a dumb question.
How often do you reread a book?
The hardest book I ever tried to reread was The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry, and the Big Hungry Bear. When I got through the title I was too tired to go on. But I was not tricked this time. I asked if the book was about golf, and when they laughed, I put it back on the shelf. I should have known Jack Nicklaus would choose a shorter title.
What is the most important thing you have learned about the game of golf since you wrote Sometimes It Goes In, your instruction book?
I should have included a chapter on how to talk to the golf ball. For too many years I made the mistake of standing up to a drive and at the moment of impact yelling, “Vámonos!” I have learned this is not the way. It is better to whisper, “Qué estupendo.”
The greatest players did not need to know this. The golf ball knew who held the club. When Jack Nicklaus hit the ball, the ball knew not to go crooked into the sea, where it would live until a shark ate it like a peanut. The ball knew not to soar into the forest, where it would lead a lonely life until the brown bear found himself an hors d’oeuvre.
It is an amazing thing. Today the golf ball is a rock and goes straight no matter who swings at it, except for me, Sergio. For me, it looks for sand, weeds, water, wind. This is a curiosity, is it not?
What golf books would you be embarrassed not to have read yet?
First I would say Ben Hogan’s Nine Lessons, the Modern Funerals of Golf. I hear Hogan would tell me to pronate. But I am already a pro, so this information would be useless to me.
They say Bobby Jones wrote good books, but he played with hickory. Wood is for cooking or nailing a plank.
I started to read Tommy Armour’s classic, How to Play Your Best Golf All the Time, but the title put me off. It is impossible, what he says to do. Golf does not allow this, except for Tiger Woods, who acts like he has played the best golf even when he suffers back spasms. I can hear him whine from here.
Let’s talk about your autobiography.
My what?
Your new book, Me, Sergio. It is aptly named.
It wasn’t named by anybody but me. Some of my friends wanted to call it El Niño, but that is something the press made up. I am not a storm or an ocean or a weatherman. I am a human, like almost everybody else.
What is the most important thing you would like someone to take away from your book?
I would like for the person to take away the whole book and leave $26.95 on the table. I am making a joke here. You should write it down. It is funnier than anything Tiger Woods ever said.
What does the book say about you that we may not know?
My book proves in detail that I am a greater player than people realize. I have won many tournaments in Europe, the United States, South Africa, Asia, and some country I can’t pronounce. It was down near Malaysia or someplace. I am also a Ryder Cup hero. Why do Ryder Cups not count as majors? It is a g
ood question, yes?
I have finished in a lot of top fives in the majors. I would have won three or four if enough people had lost. But they didn’t. It was a cruel thing.
I was this close three times, but my putt missed and someone else’s putt went in. How do you explain this? I have beaten my head against the wall thinking about it, but not so hard as to hurt myself. A golfer needs to be careful that the wall is not made of brick.
But time is on my side. I am only thirty-five. I have many future majors to win or lose. And in the meantime, I am a celebrity who is called by only one name, me, Sergio. Like Madonna.
MASTERS MEMORIES
ARITHMETIC TELLS ME I’ve covered sixty-four consecutive Masters tournaments through 2014. By any stretch of the imagination that’s a lot of peach cobbler in the clubhouse. Oh, and golf.
The streak started in 1951 when I was a college sophomore but was also working for a daily newspaper in Fort Worth, and I was mainly in Augusta to cover the exploits of a contestant from the hometown. Guy named Ben Hogan.
Best Parking Spot
Mine. The one that Chairman Billy Payne awarded me in 2010. It’s only a few steps from the media center marked: CHAIRMAN RESERVED. He and I agreed that I’d earned it.
Best Street
Magnolia Lane, the heavily shaded main entrance to the clubhouse. No sharp turns toward Appomattox, happily.
