Mea Culpa, Riviera

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Golf Book

BY: Tony Mohr

What other people may find in poetry or art museums, I find in the flight of a good drive.
~Arnold Palmer

If any veteran member of the Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades, California, is reading this, mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa. I'm the reason all those golf balls mysteriously appeared on your fairways lo those many years ago.

Please understand. There was no better place to practice than my parents' lawn. Bordering your club from the top of a hundred-foot cliff, Mom and Dad's backyard offered a sweeping view of Hogan's Alley and the Santa Monica Mountains beyond. With a perch like that for teeing ground, how could a youngster resist? It was one of the most gorgeous spots in Los Angeles's corner of the golfing world.

It also was one of the most challenging. Between my roost and your course lay a slope full of chaparral and, beyond that, five eucalyptus trees that rose well beyond a hundred feet -- four to my right and one to the left. Just to get through to the rough of your fine course, I had to thread the ball through that 30-yard gap. Once I perfected my aim, I could choose between your par-5 1st hole and the par-4 12th. Those were the two holes that started not far beyond the fence that divided us.

I'd place my bucket at our yard's edge, just before the earth precipitously dropped, then sight between the trees and swing. More often than not the first ball would flop into the bush. Then the next few might ricochet against the aforementioned eucalyptus goalposts. But usually after a while I'd find my driving groove. Most days I would be hitting directly into the sea breeze, as that was the prevailing wind. On other days warm Santa Ana winds caressed my back, and that's when I could swear I had struck the balls so hard that they soared over Riviera and landed somewhere near the beach. Of course, they probably dropped onto your course, bounced a few times and then nestled to a stop on the kikuyu grass of your fairways. Or at least that's how I imagined it.

When my friends came over, we launched golf balls in salvo. My buddies played much better than I. It would have been cruel not to let them use my yard as a driving range. I'm sure you understand. And you have to admit we were considerate. After all, we held our fire during the L.A. Open and the PGA Championship tournaments that you hosted during our salad days. We waited for you to play through before taking our shots. We never hopped the fence to attempt a game at sunrise. (All right, that's because I'm not a morning person.) And you got to keep all my golf balls.

After thirty-five years, I must confess: you got your revenge. Spending all those days with my driver left precious little time to practice anything else. Now I can't chip, can't pitch, and I'm so clumsy with irons that I'm embarrassed to play. I content myself with driving ranges and miniature golf courses -- my comeuppance for years of whacking golf balls from the commanding heights.

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