Golf painting of Phil Mickelson is 4 feet by 8 feet, acrylic
and ink on unstretched canvas.
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 fun part of the job was watching a golf
, who hung out at the driving range, hustling customers with his
trick shots. He was about 5 feet 4
inches tall, and had to be over two hundred pounds. He wore crazy colored golf shorts and was as
hairy as a fat, brown bear. I found a
I saw him outdrive people with a shovel and a rake. I saw him make a bet with a guy that he could
stand on one picnic bench, tee up a golf ball on another picnic bench (he put
the tee between the crack between the two strip of wood on the bench) and with
his favorite garden rake, drive the ball off the bench over 175 yards and hit
the target out on the range. I saw him
stand on one side of the golf shack and with a garden hoe, pitch the ball
blindly over the shack and come within ten feet of the 75 yard target. I saw
him pocket a lot of money. The owner
said when he came around, chase him off.
But the owner was seldom there and I was mentored and entertained. Also, as the saying goes, "don't poke
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
. And there went my interest and success in a