I'm Not Gonna Lie Page 12

  But I’ll never give up golf.

  When I die, I either want to go in my sleep or after sinking a thirty-foot birdie putt.

  I don’t just love golf. I am golf. It’s in my DNA.

  Without a doubt, I am happiest and most relaxed when I’m on a golf course. When I finish a round, it’s hard for me to leave. I like to hang out at the clubhouse afterward and have a drink with the guys, chilling and watching other guys playing golf. If I have nothing else to do after that, I’ll go home and watch a golf match or the Golf Channel. It doesn’t stop there. At night, to relax, I sneak off to my secret undisclosed location and take out my special box of tees, balls, and ball markers that I’ve accumulated over the years. I climb into bed, turn over the box, and dump out all the contents. I sift through all my tees and markers—my cherished mementos—look them over, polish them, and put them carefully back into the box, one by one.

  One time my girlfriend came in and caught me sorting my tees and markers. I didn’t hear her walk in, and I don’t know how long she stood in the doorway watching me, because I was too engrossed going through my tee stash.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  She didn’t sound happy. In fact, she sounded a little put out, as if she’d caught me in bed with another woman instead of a box of tees.

  “I’m going through my tees and markers.”

  “You’re sorting your old golf tees?”

  “And markers. It relaxes me. What’s the problem?”

  “No problem. It just seems a little . . . unusual.”

  “Well, I can do this or I can watch porn.”

  “No, no, have a good time. Okay, well, I’m gonna get ready for bed. Think I’ll have a glass of wine, take a bath, maybe slip into something more comfortable, like that new nightgown, in case, you know, you might want to—”

  “Is it Wednesday already?”

  She left. I waited about ten seconds before I packed up all my tees and markers and got ready to go after her. I filled the box up and started to get off the bed when my hand brushed against a golf ball that had rolled under my pillow. I picked it up and looked at it. It had a picture of Bugs Bunny on it.

  “My Looney Tunes golf balls,” I said.

  I remembered the day not that long ago that I ended up with a package of golf balls with a different Looney Tunes character painted on each one. I decided to play a round with one.

  I teed up Bugs Bunny on the first hole at my local course. I hadn’t played in a while and I felt a little rusty. I probably should’ve hit a bucket before playing a round, but I didn’t. I jumped right in.

  I decided to play it safe and hit my drive with a threeiron. I swung and immediately knew I shanked my shot. I looked up and Bugs Bunny flew in a line over the fence to my right and bounced into a construction site.

  “Damn,” I said. “I hit poor Bugs sideways. Let’s see what I do with Yosemite Sam.”

  I got into my stance and hit my second drive.

  Crraaank.

  “Whoa. There goes Sam.”

  Yosemite Sam sailed over the fence and banged off a bulldozer.

  “I can’t shank all of them,” I said. “Wile E. Coyote. Come on, man.”

  I swung and hit the three iron.

  I might as well have been facing the damn fence.

  Wile E. Coyote landed two feet away from Bugs.

  “This is ridiculous. I can’t hit all six over. Come on, Tweety Bird; straighten your feathery little ass out.”

  Whack.

  Shanked in a line over the fence.

  “Well, I know this: I hold the record for hitting the most consecutive Looney Tunes characters into a construction site.”

  Normally, at that point I would have felt somewhere between trying to bottle up my frustration and not scream at the top of my lungs and about to throw my clubs over the fence after the Looney Tunes balls, but as I watched Tweety Bird clang around the construction site, I started to laugh.

  “All right, Sylvester, are you gonna go down the fairway or chase Tweety Bird?”

  I swung.

  He went after Tweety.

  I held the next Looney Tunes ball in my hand and stared at it.

  Speedy Gonzales.

  “Speedy, it’s you and me, brother. Do not let me down. Do not join your cartoon brothers. Go straight down the fairway. Prove your Mexican mettle. I want to see your loyalty.”

  I teed up Speedy, slowed my swing way down, and concentrated on not lifting my head or pulling my shot.

  Whacccckkkkk.

  “Yes! That felt so good. . . . No! Not you, too, Speedy. Nooo!”

  He flew over the fence and nestled right up next to Bugs Bunny.

  “Really, Speedy? What are you doing going after Bugs? I knew it. You two are gay!”

  Six Looney Tunes balls over the fence. Two more left. Taz Devil and a second Bugs Bunny. I shook my head. I smiled, placed Taz on a tee, stuck him into the ground, and walked off the course, laughing. I put Bugs in my pocket. As a result of my worst driving exhibition ever, Bugs the Second earned a cherished spot in my box of mementos.

  Golf Lesson Number One:

  Some days just suck. The only thing you can change about that is your attitude.

  On those days, if you can, laugh.

  • • •

  IT doesn’t matter who you are—how rich or how powerful—golf does not discriminate. The game is an equal opportunity torturer. I’ve played with Donald Trump, and as wealthy as he is, he could not buy a par.

  The game not only tests your will and patience; you also have to factor in several outside forces. The course itself, for one. In basketball, for example, it doesn’t matter where you play; the court is always the same size. A twenty-foot jump shot in L.A. is still a twenty-foot jump shot in Boston or Miami. In golf, every hole you play is different, not only on every course, but on the same course. Plus you have to deal with all sorts of complications and distractions—sand traps, water hazards, trees, rough, wind, the glare of the sun, the cut of the grass, the placement of the pin, slow players, fast players, players who wear loud pants or clothes that don’t match or stupid hats.

  Ultimately, I think that golf is an addiction. It sucks you in and then grabs hold of you and won’t let you go. I’ve heard experts say that the reason people get addicted to drugs like cocaine and heroin is that they are always chasing that first high. Same with golf. When you hit a great shot, a sensation runs through your entire body, pulsing up from the face of the club all the way into your chest. It’s a deep feeling of joy and power.

  Once you get that feeling—especially the first time—you jones to get it again. You can’t wait to hit your next shot. And if the next time you swing, you top the ball and it trickles ten feet in front of you and rolls into a pond, you can’t wait to erase that crappy feeling and take your next swing, hoping to experience that indescribable feeling of joy and power again. You chase that high from swing to swing and from round to round.

  If you play a great round, you can’t wait for your next round so you can experience those feelings again. If you play a bad round, you can’t wait to play again to redeem yourself, always chasing that sensation of joy and power. No doubt: Golf is a high.

  Golf is also a great teacher. I think people should give up therapy and take up golf. It’s cheaper and more effective. I know I wouldn’t be the comedian I turned out to be or the man I am if it weren’t for golf.

  When I was younger, if I hit a couple of really awful shots in a row, I used to throw the club. I’d curse and wind up and let the club fly. I’d wing it into the bushes and storm off the course. One day, playing in a foursome with RJ, I lost it after nine horrible holes. I dropped my clubs into the rough and headed straight for my car.

  “Where you going?” RJ said.

  “I’m out.”

  �
��What? Come on. We got the back nine to play.”

  “I’m done, man. I play like crap. I’m out. The hell with this.”

  I got into the car, started it up, and froze. I couldn’t move. I sat behind the wheel staring through the windshield, seething, my chest heaving. I said to myself, “What are you doing? You can’t keep reacting this way. How you gonna get better if you quit? You’ve been a quitter your whole life. You gonna quit now, too?”

  “No,” I said aloud. “I’m gonna stick it out.”

  I got out of the car, slowly walked back to RJ, and picked up my clubs. “You gotta be a fool to play this stupid game,” I said.

  “That’s true. Or a masochist.”

  I sighed. “I’ll do better on the back nine.”

  “That wouldn’t be hard,” he said.

  Lesson Number Two:

  You can’t get better at something if you quit.

  • • •

  I used to spend half my round in the trees. When I swung, I developed a bad habit of leaning back too much. I’d end up pushing my shot to the right. Way to the right. Every time. I’d charge into the woods, find my ball, select a long iron, and hit some crazy-ass shot to try to save par. Even though I’d be in the middle of a damn forest, I’d try to make my ball curl around a tree, or I’d attempt to lift the ball over the top of the trees. I had to get on the green. I had to salvage the hole. That’s what I thought. Even if I had an impossible lie, I’d go for it. I was insane.

  Guess what. The same thing happened every time.

  I’d hit my shot, and instead of going around a tree or sailing over the trees, my ball would whack into the tree right in front of me and shoot back at me like a bullet. I’d cover my head and duck to get out of the way. Sometimes I hit the ground. It took me years, but I finally figured out that being so reckless wasn’t working. I needed another plan. I realized I had to calm down, slow down, and . . . play it safe.

  The next time I pushed my ball into the trees, which was pretty much the next time I teed off, I tried something completely different. Instead of hitting some wild, crazy, impossible shot, I took out my pitching wedge and chipped easily out to the fairway. Much less dramatic, but much safer. I didn’t get my hat knocked off. Or my head. And I didn’t lose two extra strokes.

  Yes, I was in trouble, but I accepted it rather than doing something ridiculous that would make it worse. I should’ve been true to my heritage. Because if there’s one thing a Mexican can do, it’s get out of trouble.

  Lesson Number Three:

  If you get in trouble, don’t try to do too much. Take the safe way out. You can’t fix everything with one wild, dramatic swing.

  If you get in trouble, the first thing you have to do is get out of trouble.

  • • •

  PEOPLE do some crazy stuff on a golf course.

  I once played with a guy, call him Clem, a serious golfer and seriously cheap, who fell in love with a new golf ball that had just come out, call it the Suprema Pro. According to Clem, the Suprema Pro was superball, the greatest golf ball ever made, a duffer’s dream. Scientists had supposedly spent years locked away in a laboratory perfecting this golf ball, adding extra dimples so that you’d always hit it straight, and inventing a special core made of Flubber or some magic dust so you’d always add an extra fifty yards to every shot. Of course, you had to pay a premium price for the Suprema Pro, something like nine bucks a ball.

  One Sunday, I played Pebble Beach and the starter paired me up with Clem. In addition to a three-pack of the new Suprema Pros, Clem brought along his five-year-old son, Tommy. Fine with me. Might as well get kids started young.

  First hole. Clem teed up his nine-dollar Suprema Pro, waggled his ass like a stripper, wound up, and hit his drive. The ball flew way off to the right, sailed out-of-bounds and over a fence, and landed in someone’s backyard right near a swing set.

  “Nice shot, Daddy,” the kid said.

  “I wasn’t aiming for the swing set, Tommy. Come on; let’s go get that ball. It cost me nine dollars.”

  He lifted Tommy into the cart and roared off. He drove along the fence, finally stopping at the house with the swing set. His Suprema Pro lay on the other side of the fence, twenty feet away. He parked the golf cart as snugly as he could against the fence.

  “Tommy,” Clem said, “I want you to get Daddy’s ball. I’m gonna lift you over the fence. You run to the ball, pick it up, then run back to the fence, reach your arms up, and I’ll bring you back.”

  The kid stared at his father. He didn’t look so sure about this plan.

  “It’s no big deal,” Clem said. “It’ll be fun.”

  Before the kid could say anything, Clem stood up on the seat of the golf cart and picked up Tommy.

  “You ready?”

  The kid nodded.

  “One . . . two . . . three!”

  Clem lifted Tommy up and over the fence and gently deposited him into the backyard of the house.

  “You see the ball? It’s right over there. You can’t miss it.”

  Tommy turned and located the Suprema Pro lying against a metal support of the swing set. “I see it,” Tommy mumbled.

  “Great! Now go get it!”

  Tommy popped his thumb into his mouth, hesitated, sucked up his courage, and walked slowly over to the Suprema Pro. He squatted, picked up the ball, rolled it over in his hands, and examined it.

  “That’s it! You got it! Now come on back and—”

  RRRRRRAAARRGH!

  A distant rumble that rolled into a horrific growl sent a chill through Clem and Tommy simultaneously. They both froze.

  A rottweiler—fangs bared, saliva dripping from wide-open jaws, eyes narrowed and yellow—streaked around the corner of the house, running low and ferociously toward Tommy.

  “Uh-oh,” Clem said.

  “Daddy!”

  “Tommy! Run!”

  RRRRRRRAAARGGGGH!

  The rottweiler bared his teeth and charged toward Tommy.

  Tommy looked at the Suprema Pro that he held in his hands.

  “Tommy, run! Forget the ball! It’s okay! I got two more! Run!”

  A blur of black fur and white fangs.

  All Clem could see.

  Filling his line of vision.

  The rottweiler rushing at Tommy.

  Tommy screamed. The ball rolled out of his hands. He lowered his head and raced toward the fence.

  He took two steps and fell.

  The dog bore down on him.

  “I’m putting my son’s life in jeopardy for a nine-dollar golf ball,” Clem moaned. “Your mother’s gonna kill me.”

  The five-year-old scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the fence. Flying around the side of the swing set, the rottweiler skidded to avoid the metal support. He opened his mouth, planted his front legs, and leaped at Tommy.

  But his right front paw landed on the Suprema Pro.

  His legs flew out from under him.

  The rottweiler flipped into the air and sprawled onto the ground with a thud—at the same moment Tommy grabbed onto the fence.

  The rottweiler righted himself, shook his head, and charged.

  Clem threw himself onto the fence on the other side, reached his arms over, and hauled Tommy up, just as the rottweiler chomped at Tommy, missing his ass by an inch, biting the air.

  Clem and Tommy landed in the front of the golf cart and Clem gunned it, the frustrated, hellish howl of the rottweiler at their backs.

  “Golf’s a hard game,” Tommy said with a shiver.

  “Sure is,” Clem said, and then he muttered under his breath, “Nine bucks for that ball. Damn Cujo.”

  Lesson Number Four:

  Get your priorities straight.

  IMMORTALITY, OR FREEZING MY ASS FOR THE NEXT HUNDRED YEARS

  I think
about my mortality every day.

  Because you never know. This could be it. The end of the line. You can’t predict if you’re gonna go peacefully in your sleep or if some dude working construction thirty stories up is gonna accidentally knock off a piece of rebar and bash in your skull while you’re standing at a corner, sending a text. I knew a guy who was putting up his Christmas lights and fell off his house. Boom. Gone. That’s all she wrote.

  That’s why you have to enjoy life and make the most of every moment. Of course, take care of yourself, but don’t go over-the-top. Don’t shut yourself down. If you want to have a shot of tequila at two in the afternoon, so what? If you have an urge for a piece of cake, go for it. What are you waiting for? Do it. If that rebar boomerangs out of the sky and clunks you in the head and you’re lying on the sidewalk with your life passing before your eyes, you don’t want your dying words to be, “I wish I had that piece of cake.”

  I always keep a box of doughnuts in my house, because when I was a kid, my grandmother didn’t allow them in the house. She gave me a million reasons. They were treats, only for special occasions. Or they were bad for you. Or they cost too much. Or I’d abuse my doughnut privilege and eat too many at the same time. Whatever the real reason, I never had any doughnuts when I was growing up. Now, at night, when I’m foraging around the kitchen deciding on a late-night snack, I want to know that I have the option of a doughnut. I never eat them, but I like seeing them there. Makes me feel safe. Gives me comfort.

  IF YOU WANT TO HAVE A SHOT OF TEQUILA AT TWO IN THE AFTERNOON, SO WHAT?

  I also don’t believe in the saying, “He who dies with the most toys wins.” No. He who dies with the most toys has too many toys. And I think we’re potentially looking at a selfish hoarder. Get rid of your stuff. Liquidate. I’m on a mission to give a lot of my stuff away. I have accumulated too much—too many cars, watches, golf clubs. I’ve begun to purge, and it feels great.