Dear President Clinton,
I know you’re going to spend some time in Chicago this week, and I want to welcome you by offering something very dear to me. My golf clubs.
The White House, of course, has been home to avid players through the years. President Dwight Eisenhower helped popularize the sport during his term, and Gerald Ford hit several spectators in regulation too.
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Richard Nixon once was caught throwing a ball out of the woods, and John Kennedy was a tough competitor. During many an opponent’s backswing, he was known to mention that water on the right.
Going way back, William Howard Taft scratched a scheduled meeting with the chief executive of Chile, explaining, “I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss 18 holes for that.” Then there was Woodrow Wilson, who played a round in 1917, went home and declared war on Germany.
I happened to be at the Bob Hope Chrysler Classic a couple of years ago when you played with Ford, George Bush and Bob Hope. I was impressed by your love of the game. A few Republicans in the audience said you exercised the executive foot wedge on occasion, but I never saw a thing, sir.
Also, I read a story in Sports Illustrated about your round with a pal of mine, Rick Reilly. I figure the least I should do is offer you my clubs during the Democratic convention.
Now then, if you want to take me up on this, there are some things you should know. Even though the most powerful person in the world surely won’t Carry his own bag, it is heavy.
I keep about 40 golf balls. Naturally, they’re all new. I never had an old one. I also pack for disasters. In the right pocket, just below the compass, there’s a flashlight, two flares and a can of Spam.
Over on the left side, there’s the bug repellent, the weed-eater and a rubber snake that comes in handy if you run into a real one. Inside the high-water boots is a contraption with two plaster casts that fit around your arms connected to a belt that goes around your chest.
The neck brace is supposed to keep your head still but doesn’t always function. That too is an illegal swing aid, but you are the president. It’s yours, as is the grass seed.
The clubs are a couple of years old, but the sweet spots are new. There’s some history to them. I’m probably the only American who had clubs stolen and returned. In fact, the thief offered me a reward to take them back.
Don’t worry about the grip on my 9-iron. It’s been built up by pine tar. If you want to hit a low, screaming approach shot from about 50 yards, go with the 60-degree wedge. If you’re anywhere closer and need a high, soft trajectory, go with the 2-iron. That’s the one wrapped in ice.
I think you like a Big Bertha off the tee, but what I’ve got is a Little Lucy. Disregard all scuff marks on the sole and check the 3-wood for cactus. I recently played in Arizona and a jumping cholla took a liking to the hozzle.
The 5-iron is slightly bent. I would strongly recommend lining up with your back to the target for best results.
Don’t be afraid to swear at my clubs, Mr. President. They know all the words, and because you’re a cigar smoker, I’ve left a few White Owls in the small upper pocket for tees.
You’ll notice all my tees are red. People I play with always tell me I should use the red tees, so I finally listened. I don’t own a ball-mark repair tool. I usually just bring my own sod.
Have a nice convention, I’m here to help and you know where to find me. I wish I could say the same for my caddie.