While pursuing a journalism degree from the University of Arkansas in the early 1990s, I was bitten hard by the golf bug. Thankfully, Paradise Valley Athletic Club offered a student membership for the low, low price of $35/month for all the golf you could play. A very fair rate, and one a ramen-noodle-eating student, living off of Pell grants, student loans and side hustles could afford.
Before long, I was spending more time on the links than in the classroom (imagine that), learning the ins and outs of one of the greatest games ever played from one of the motliest crews ever assembled – affectionately known as The Big Group. They teed off every day at around 10 a.m. and would vary in numbers from eight to 24, depending on the weather. Tuesdaze and Fridaze always drew the most players; and throughout every week, there were more $2 side bets made and paid than you could shake a stick at.
As the youngest participant, usually by a long shot, I did my best to stay outta everyone’s way, wiggle in a few putts here and there and sponge up as much wisdom as I could. Several of the guys were in their 60s and retired, and many of them drank beer steadily from the first tee to the 18th green; yet somehow, all those cans of Budweisers never really had much of an adverse effect on their golf game. Or so it seemed.
The Big Group consisted of equal amounts characters, oddballs and hustlers – definitely my kinda crowd. For example – there was Manny “Dirty” Sanchez, an old-school, pint-sized cattle farmer, full of Hispanic grit and guts, and his perpetual cart mate, Tex Gage, a brutally funny octogenarian with the sweetest swing in the group (and consequently, the shakiest putting stroke this side of the Mississippi River).
Gage, the former club pro at Springdale Country Club and longtime owner of Gage Liquors, could curse like an angry Australian and usually did. John Leonard, the fiery, Marlboro Red smoking proprietor of Cable Car Pizza, home of the finest pies ever made in Fayettenam, was also a regular, along with Wayne “Can’t” Counts, who worked with my late cousin, Hamp Halsell, back in the day at the electric company. And the list goes on and on . . .
No doubt I learned more from this cast of characters, than the U of A ever taught me and am eternally grateful for those times and memories. And while some of my professors were understandably disappointed with my sporadic attendance (particularly Dr. Hoyt Purvis; but not so much Mr. Roy Reed, the illustrious newsman of Associated Press and New York Times fame, who said he would excuse my truancy, if I could only help iron out his slice), I did manage to graduate (with honors), and my name is permanently stamped in concrete under the class of 1994 on a sidewalk leading up to iconic Old Main from Dickson St.
I guess what it boils down to is this – life lessons come in all forms, fashions, shapes and sizes, and we should never discount anyone’s advice when offered – whether at an institute of higher learning, on the 11th hole of a golf course or down at the corner of Mountain and Center Streets – wisdom abounds. Some folks teach you how to act while others how not to. We were designed with two ears and one mouth for a good reason.
So pipe down once in a while and listen up, cuz you just might learn something.
Until then, try to live by the mantra that hangs in the Razorbacks dugout and reads simply – breathe, commit, let it rip.