As I had never painted a golfer before and have shown little interest in golf, some of my friends asked why I painted the great PGA champion golfer, Phil Mickelson. They know I am a sports fan but didn’t think I had any connection with golf.
In my early twenties – twenty, to be exact, I was just out of the service and I needed a job. To paraphrase William Makepeace Thayer, I wanted to become wealthy, influential, virtuous and a honored man. The mother of the girl I was seeing was dating a man who owned a golf driving range. It was on Wilshire Blvd. in Westwood, Ca and only a few blocks from UCLA. Originally I was hired to drive the picker – an old, opened army jeep with a wire mesh cage around the driver’s area. Behind it dragged the picker, which scoured the earth for golf balls and rolled them up into a bin. I was on my way to great success.
When driving the picker the people practicing on the driving range found great sport in trying to hit the moving target – me in the jeep. When the golf balls hit their target they bounced off the cage with a loud bang the scared the crap out of me. The golf balls could never penetrate the cage but sometimes they embedded themselves in the wire mesh. I never got used to the balls ricocheting off the wire and jeep.
After picking up the balls they were then brought into the golf shack and dumped into a big, upright, wringer washing machine and cleaned. Then they were pulled out onto huge drying trays. And now I was able to make my own, very important decisions – sort the golf balls by quality. Uncut golf balls went into the premium basket, slightly cut went into a good basket and the badly cut golf balls went into a third, really crappy basket of golf balls. Each was then put out front for the golfers to choose the price and quality of golf balls they wanted to hit.
I drove the picker and sorted balls for about three months, and then the manager quit. The owner promoted me (with a raise in salary) and I became “The Manager.” Greater success was coming faster than I had anticipated. I think I made about $1.45 an hour. Yes, it was a long time ago. Minimum wage was $1.25 an hour. My responsibility, as manager, was to stand behind the counter and hand out golf balls. “Premium or cut?” I would ask. It was better than working at Uncle John’s Pancake House but not as fun as working at the Wilshire Gas Station (where premium gas sold for 29.9 cents. Yes. 30 cents a gallon.
The golf range land was leased from the Federal Government and after about a year of working there the government cancelled the range owner’s lease, (something to do with not paying his rent) took back the land and eventually built a whole Federal Government Complex in Westwood – the Wilshire Federal Building. And there went my interest and success in a golfing career.