MUNI

“Those of us who still cling, however desperately, to the vestiges of the enlightenment belief that truth and falsity exist, are aghast at the extent and depth of the US government and media’s willingness to lie, deceive, distort, falsify and exaggerate evidence to serve their geo-political goal of ruling the world.” Dr. Michael Welton

Tonight I’m thinking about Charlie Sifford, one of the first African-American professional golfers. Long before Tiger Woods, there was Charlie Sifford, a black man playing the whitest of sports. Charlie Sifford died recently. I remember him, in particular because he smoked cigars, which, to my very young self, was as unusual as the fact of his skin color.

My father, a butcher by trade and gambler by inclination, took up golf either shortly before or soon after my brother was born in 1957, and by dint of determination and practice, made himself a decent amateur player. His home course was Muni – the Municipal Golf Course on McCaw Avenue here in Santa Barbara. My father spent his every free moment at Muni, working on his game, or – when he wasn’t – playing gin rummy for money on the wooden picnic tables under the pine trees. A man could do that back then, in the early and mid 60’s; try it now and a SWAT team would descend and arrest every man within a hundred feet of the tables. 

Progress, I suppose.

Anyway, my father took to golf like a redneck to NASCAR, and he taught my brother and I the game. From the age of six to twelve or thirteen, my summers were spent at Muni, playing golf, working on the driving range, caddying. I spent so much time at Muni that I knew the greens keepers by name. My brother went on to become a fine amateur golfer, captain of the San Marcos High School golf team that captured the state title in1975. I was never better than an 8 or 9 handicap player; I liked golf, but when football, basketball, or baseball season came along, I ditched my clubs for those sports. Not that I didn’t work hard to make myself an accomplished golfer. I remember summer days when we played 36 or even 54 holes, and then spent another hour or two on the driving range or putting green. Looking back, I think the only reason I practiced so much for no reason other than to win my father’s approval. This was also the reason I threw outrageous temper tantrums when I shanked a shot or missed a short putt.

I don’t play golf now and have no desire to do so. Muni has become a fiscal albatross around the City of Santa Barbara’s neck (not enough players), and there has been talk of turning the course over to a private entity. I have a set of clubs in our garage, classic old Power Built irons that my brother gave me years ago. While I have no desire to use them, I also cannot bring myself to give them away; they remind me of my youth, my father, they bring back summer afternoons after my father got off work and would take my brother and I out to play 9 holes. That was a treat.

And the clubs remind me of Charlie Sifford, the black PGA pro who smoked cigars, though I never had any clue about the racism Sifford endured, the insults, heckling and death threats from white people outraged that a black man had the temerity to walk on their green fairways. White people made Charlie’s life on the tour hell, but he kept playing. How good might Charlie Sifford have been without all that racist noise? We will never know.

My father has been dead for a quarter of a century, my brother lives in Oregon and hasn’t touched a golf club in years, but I every time I drive past Muni, I think of long summer days, and see my father standing over a putt with a cigarette dangling between his lips.