EXCERPT 

I can safely say that before me, no one in the history of my family ever swung a golf club—that wasn’t swung in anger.

My first club was a Spalding 7-iron. It actually wasn’t mine; my grandmother kept it propped up between the garage and the backyard gate to keep the dog from pushing open the gate and running loose. As a kid, I used it to hit lemons that fell from our tree down the back alley.

My first memory of real golf was watching it on TV in the early Seventies—and falling asleep. It was more of a sleeping aid than an actual sport. I’d turn it on, and immediately I’d be out. 

But I knew who the guys were, like Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus. I’d see their signature gear at the sporting goods stores. And, of course, Lee Trevino. Trevino was the first Latino I ever saw play golf, and one of my great thrills recently was playing a round with Lee in Dallas. 

On that day he was just like I always remember him, whatever he did he did it with a smile on his face. He’s still very much the Merry Mex, funny and engaging, the happiest guy of all.

 ..

Still, my friends and I never thought about playing golf. It was invisible. Sure, there are courses but we never saw them; it was like a restaurant that serves food you’re not into; you don’t even know it’s in your neighborhood until somebody points it out.

We probably had a better chance of kayaking than golfing. And the fact of the matter is that my life would have turned out very different if a golf course had not been the only place open on Christmas Day 1982.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon, and me and Ernie were just hanging out. We’d spent the morning with our families, opened what few presents we got and were looking for something to do. Ernie suggested we go play golf. I laughed it off.

But everything else was closed, so we drove out to this 18 hole, par-62 executive course called El Cariso in Sylmar. We rented clubs and had to give them our car keys to make sure we brought them back. Me and Ernie bought some used balls and a couple of beers and were off.

We literally did not know which club to use. We figured to hit with the biggest one first, but after our drives it was anybody’s guess. There was no danger of hitting anyone because there was nobody else on the course. It was wonderful.

I don’t remember how well I (didn’t) hit them that day, but the thing that sticks in my mind is how it was the first time me and Ernie actually talked while we were doing something together. We were best friends and always together, but it struck me that we either did something but didn’t talk, like cruising around town, or we talked but did nothing, like hanging in the backyard.

But that day, we talked the whole time, and after we were finished we sat down and talked about everything all over again. That day on the golf course deepened our friendship, and that is something I have experienced over and over again: golf brings people together and creates bonds like no other activity I’ve ever experienced.

I was hooked. I fell in love with the game the first time I played.

I got my first set of real clubs in Indianapolis. I was in town doing stand-up and met a guy at the radio station who worked at a golf store. “Give me $300 and I’ll get you a set,” he said. They were Wilson Dyna-Power II blades—$300 even and no receipt. Looking back, I’m guessing he carried them out the back door rather than the front.

I played steadily throughout the Eighties, but it wasn’t really until the early Nineties that I started to take my clubs on the road. In most towns I wouldn’t make it to a course; I just liked having my clubs with me. The first thing I’d do when I got into a hotel room is unpack my sticks, soak them in the toilet, and buff them with a towel. If I stayed at a place like a Residence Inn with a kitchen I’d open up the dishwasher, dump all my golf balls in the silverware basket and run a load to clean them.

I got so serious about the game that in 1988, with no more than $500 to my name, I went to El Cariso and dropped $250 on a set of Ping Eye2s. The good news was I had the tools. The bad news was I also had a temper.

I started playing golf, and I’d throw clubs and cuss and cheat – acting out all the negative shit that was doing in my life.

Finally it hit me that I really cared about this thing, this game, but I would never improve, much less succeed, if I continued disrespecting it. I made that realization through golf, but it holds true with comedy, friendships, marriage, parenthood, everything.

Golf taught me patience, temperament, honesty, and balance. I found a focus in the game, and once I quit flinging clubs, slamming them into the turf, and fudging my score, I not only became a better golfer, I came to appreciate and enjoy the game on a level I never knew existed.

I came to liken golf to a martial art. It’s rhythmic, like Tai Chi. Both are best done slowly because it’s not about speed and strength, it’s about power and precision.

My mindset now is to laugh, have fun, and enjoy myself. I probably ought to be more focused on my shot rather than who I can make laugh or where my cigar is. At some point I should start concerning myself with breaking 80, but I don’t want to get to the point where I am upset because I did not shoot a certain score.

Being a celebrity golfer has its privileges. For one, you get to play courses most golfers can only wet dream about. Cypress Point on the Monterey Peninsula is one such place, right up there with Augusta National on every serious golfer’s “Courses I Must Play Before I Die” list. My round at Cypress was truly unforgettable, and not just because of the spectacular design and majestic setting, but more so because of the company. 

I was graciously invited by the chef at Cypress Point, Jorge, whose benefits include a foursome a month, along with my friends RJ and Hector. For a group of Latino laborers digging an irrigation ditch, this day was no different than any other—until they saw four Mexican dudes playing golf with four white caddies. Those maintenance guys stopped, leaned on their shovels and watched us play the entire hole, savoring the moment. And when we finished they all raised their fists in unison in that famous show of solidarity. It looked like the closing theme from the movie Billy Jack.

Copyright © 2004 by Encanto Enterprises, Inc. and Lights Out Productions LLC