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Buddy Golf
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Buddy Golf
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"I'm calling about tickets to the Buddy Hackett comedy night," I told the man who answered the phone.
"Dis is Buddy Hackett," he said in his familiar voice.
"You've gotta be kidding," I chuckled. "Don't you have people?"
"Nah. Sherri (his wife, the lovely Sherri Dubois) takes care of everything. But she doesn't answer the phone till nine o'clock. it's only eight-thirty." He thought for a second and, out of nowhere, asked, "Do you want to hear some jokes?"
"Sure," I said, thinking I'd swap my Rolex, a roll of 50s and a body part for a tape of the conversation. A private audience, pinch me.
He never let me come up for air. The stories, his delivery and impeccable timing put me away. Most of it was material he would use at the performance, a fundraiser for Singita Animal Shelter, the Hackett's favorite charity. He talked about his cat. "He's a bit confused, he's neutered. He spends the whole day walking around the house as if he's searching for something. I think he's looking for his balls.
"Buy the expensive tickets," he urged, "the ones down front. If we don't raise enough money to save the dogs and cats we're gonna have to eat them." Then he shifted gears. "Where are you calling from?"
"Scottsdale, Arizona," I said, still quaking.
"Oh, d'ya know Lou Goldstein? I'm gonna play golf with him at Troon Country Club."
"Around the corner," I said. "I live nearby. How's your golf game?"
"It's a memorable day when I don't fall out of the cart. As far as I'm concerned, golf is more fun than walking naked in a strange place. But not much."
He said he was thinking about playing in a charity event for insane people. "I'd fit right in," he explained. "Besides, I'd be doing myself a favor." I fell down laughing.
Imagine playing golf with Buddy Hackett. He'd have a bartender doubling as his caddie (instant pandemonium, just add scotch) and a comic, his friend Paul Rodriguez, perhaps, doing sand schtick in lieu of raking traps. HOLD IT DOWN threats would boom from adjacent fairways.
You may have heard the classic story, a true one, about Buddy in the woods. It merits retelling: During a round at Concord International Golf Course, he sliced a ball into the trees where it disappeared in a patch of dead leaves, knee-high weeds and tangled branches. Buddy waddled in to search, but found himself struck by a comedic urge. He took off his clothes and shouted, "Help! Help!" repeatedly until his playing partners rushed to his aid. As they closed in, Buddy catapulted from the trees, buck naked, waving a golf club, screaming, "Locusts!"
How does one concentrate with that going on?
Answer: Avoid eye contact.
"Um, would you mind putting your pants on?"
"Oh, excuse me, I'm sorry if I distracted you. Have you heard the one about the rabbi, the golf pro and the goat?"
Buddy was the comedy laureate. He could entertain a stump, do ten minutes to an empty chair, amuse a mannequin. His attitude was infectious enough to start a trend. I wish he had. There's nothing in the rulebook (although some think there is) against having a personality, and golf personalities are in short supply––particularly on the pro tours. Amen Corner has become Anonymous Corner. Now and then, golfers express individuality. Duffy Waldorf's hats from the Mary Louise Shop come to mind, Bill Murray's antics, Tim Conway's Dorf on Golf routine, perhaps Pete Dye's penchant for railroad ties where there's no railroad. It's hard to name many more.
A golf course is an oasis, a place to dodge gloom, job pressure and personal burdens; a place to cut loose, dress like Bozo or Jesper Parnevik, but not Dennis Rodman. Watching an opponent grumble as he digs a trench through a pot bunker has a certain entertainment value.
Buddy's approach to the game was brilliant. He was an avid golfer, as serious as a surgeon, just not a tree surgeon. If his ball was stymied behind a tree, his playing partners knew from experience what was coming. Show time!
Golfer: The usual game today, a five-dollar Nassau with automatic presses?
Partner: I don't think so. The sign says we gotta play Buddy Golf. Take off your clothes.
Sorta gives new meaning to the term "waggle," don't you think?
"Dis is Buddy Hackett," he said in his familiar voice.
"You've gotta be kidding," I chuckled. "Don't you have people?"
"Nah. Sherri (his wife, the lovely Sherri Dubois) takes care of everything. But she doesn't answer the phone till nine o'clock. it's only eight-thirty." He thought for a second and, out of nowhere, asked, "Do you want to hear some jokes?"
"Sure," I said, thinking I'd swap my Rolex, a roll of 50s and a body part for a tape of the conversation. A private audience, pinch me.
He never let me come up for air. The stories, his delivery and impeccable timing put me away. Most of it was material he would use at the performance, a fundraiser for Singita Animal Shelter, the Hackett's favorite charity. He talked about his cat. "He's a bit confused, he's neutered. He spends the whole day walking around the house as if he's searching for something. I think he's looking for his balls.
"Buy the expensive tickets," he urged, "the ones down front. If we don't raise enough money to save the dogs and cats we're gonna have to eat them." Then he shifted gears. "Where are you calling from?"
"Scottsdale, Arizona," I said, still quaking.
"Oh, d'ya know Lou Goldstein? I'm gonna play golf with him at Troon Country Club."
"Around the corner," I said. "I live nearby. How's your golf game?"
"It's a memorable day when I don't fall out of the cart. As far as I'm concerned, golf is more fun than walking naked in a strange place. But not much."
He said he was thinking about playing in a charity event for insane people. "I'd fit right in," he explained. "Besides, I'd be doing myself a favor." I fell down laughing.
Imagine playing golf with Buddy Hackett. He'd have a bartender doubling as his caddie (instant pandemonium, just add scotch) and a comic, his friend Paul Rodriguez, perhaps, doing sand schtick in lieu of raking traps. HOLD IT DOWN threats would boom from adjacent fairways.
You may have heard the classic story, a true one, about Buddy in the woods. It merits retelling: During a round at Concord International Golf Course, he sliced a ball into the trees where it disappeared in a patch of dead leaves, knee-high weeds and tangled branches. Buddy waddled in to search, but found himself struck by a comedic urge. He took off his clothes and shouted, "Help! Help!" repeatedly until his playing partners rushed to his aid. As they closed in, Buddy catapulted from the trees, buck naked, waving a golf club, screaming, "Locusts!"
How does one concentrate with that going on?
Answer: Avoid eye contact.
"Um, would you mind putting your pants on?"
"Oh, excuse me, I'm sorry if I distracted you. Have you heard the one about the rabbi, the golf pro and the goat?"
Buddy was the comedy laureate. He could entertain a stump, do ten minutes to an empty chair, amuse a mannequin. His attitude was infectious enough to start a trend. I wish he had. There's nothing in the rulebook (although some think there is) against having a personality, and golf personalities are in short supply––particularly on the pro tours. Amen Corner has become Anonymous Corner. Now and then, golfers express individuality. Duffy Waldorf's hats from the Mary Louise Shop come to mind, Bill Murray's antics, Tim Conway's Dorf on Golf routine, perhaps Pete Dye's penchant for railroad ties where there's no railroad. It's hard to name many more.
A golf course is an oasis, a place to dodge gloom, job pressure and personal burdens; a place to cut loose, dress like Bozo or Jesper Parnevik, but not Dennis Rodman. Watching an opponent grumble as he digs a trench through a pot bunker has a certain entertainment value.
Buddy's approach to the game was brilliant. He was an avid golfer, as serious as a surgeon, just not a tree surgeon. If his ball was stymied behind a tree, his playing partners knew from experience what was coming. Show time!
* * *
Golfer: The usual game today, a five-dollar Nassau with automatic presses?
Partner: I don't think so. The sign says we gotta play Buddy Golf. Take off your clothes.
Sorta gives new meaning to the term "waggle," don't you think?
