Dean and Me_ A Love Story - Jerry Lewis [38]
After doing all the body English I know (and more), I finally strike the ball.
It soars back over my head and lands about forty yards behind the tee box. The laughter is deafening. Then they all head down the fairway to make their second shots. Dean can’t wait to get to his ball: He hit such a great drive that he’s thinking maybe this could be one of those days.
I go pick up my ball. “What do I do now?” I implore. Dean waves me over to him, and we watch as the others hit their shots. Charlie, farthest from the green, goes first. He sets up, swings at the ball, and hits it hard. The ball sails... and sails . . . and lands in the trees, out of bounds.
“Let’s get another drink at the clubhouse!” Charlie yells.
Charlie and Jake’s cart turns and starts back up the path; the two carts full of bodyguards follow. Dean and I stand dumbfounded. We later learn that if Charlie doesn’t like the way he’s playing, he has a drink, then goes home. In fact, Charlie Fischetti has played only about thirty holes in the twenty years he’s been a member at Bryn Mawr.
As all the carts go up the path to the clubhouse, Dean says, “Look at this shot. I could’ve hit an easy eight-iron and putted for a bird.” Fuming, he takes out his eight-iron and hits the ball stiff to the pin, maybe two feet from the cup. Then he turns and gets in the cart. “Let’s go, Jer— it looks like this ain’t gonna be our day,” he says. We go back to the clubhouse and make nice with the guys, just like nothing ever happened.
After a bit, Dean and I are getting hammered again. We catch each other glancing at our watches. Then Charlie notices. Thank God, he looks sympathetic. With an eight-o’clock showtime and an hour-and-a-half ride back to Chicago, we are officially excused. We stand and make our apologies, but as we head to the door, Charlie calls, “You better hurry—I got my regular table for the eight-o’clock show!”
I felt bad for Dean: Though I wasn’t a golfer, I understood his disappointment. For someone who knows and loves the game, a great golf course is like a beautiful, slightly unattainable woman—full of challenges, surprises, difficulties, and delights. Dean was like a man who’d been stood up. It was a long, quiet ride back to the hotel, not a time for humor. A good time to get unhammered.
In the dressing room at the Chez, I was drying my hair while Dean shaved and muttered to himself. “Lloyd Mangrum played that course and won the Tam O’Shanter there. Jeez, I probably would’ve done terrific if I had half a chance.”
I had a brainstorm.
That night I phoned Johnny Ambrosia and asked him the name of the pro at the Bryn Mawr Country Club. The next morning, I pried my eyes open at eight sharp and phoned that pro, who was a hell of a nice guy and very excited to hear from me. I explained what had happened with Dean the day before, how frustrated he was that he couldn’t finish his game.
“Where can I reach Dean now?” the pro asked.
“At eight A.M.?” I said. “In his room, I hope.”
The pro called Dean and told him he was a big fan (true), told him he’d heard he was in town (also true) and was a big golfer, and asked if Dean would accept his personal invitation to play eighteen holes with him on the coming weekend.
When Dean rushed into my room, he looked like a kid who’d found out Santa was coming. He jumped up and down on my bed, yelling, “I’m gonna play with the pro at Bryn Mawr! I’m gonna play with the pro at Bryn Mawr!” For the next two days, he whistled, hummed, and sang around the suite and our dressing room at the club. I’d never seen him like this before.
Saturday morning came, and out he rolled at 6:30 A.M., fresh as a daisy on one hour’s sleep. I stayed at the hotel all morning, taking pictures (my big new hobby, which I could finally afford) and silently praying that Dean would play well. That was stupid of me—he always played well.
Around two in the afternoon, there’s a bang on the door like only Dean banged on the door. I open it