The Franchise Babe: A Novel Read online

  Protests dominated our conversation over cocktails and dinner.

  I was relieved to hear her say she’d never protested against anything, although she said she might protest against standing in lines—if it didn’t require standing in lines.

  She said, “I was born in 1968 but I was in college before I found out it was the ‘Summer of Love.’”

  I said, “I was eight years old then. It was the year of the Chicago Seven and the hippie protests at the Democratic Convention. But since none of the Chicago Seven played football for the University of Texas at the time, their names weren’t worth knowing. Now I can name them…in a bar, for money. Bobby Seale, Abbie Hoff—”

  Thurlene said, “I’ll take your word for it. My parents were as far removed from hippies as you could be. Hippies didn’t sell insurance, like my dad. My Aunt Sylvia married well and still lives in Highland Park, and I know for a fact that in the Sixties she would have floored her Cadillac Coupe de Ville and run over any hippie who sat down in the street and tried to keep her from going to Neiman Marcus.”

  “I suppose we have to credit the American Revolution for giving us protests,” I said.

  “I suppose we do,” she said, “unless something happened in Rome or Greece that SMU kept from me.”

  I said, “If I recall my high school teachers accurately, we were evenly split on declaring our independence. On one side were the shit disturbers, the revolutionaries, who would become patriots. They marched and held up signs saying, ‘The King Sits Down to Pee.’ On the other side were the stoned pacifists. They marched and held up signs saying, ‘Make Turkey Dressing, Not War.’”

  “I remember studying that,” she said.

  I said, “I often think about Paul Revere on his horse, galloping through the streets of Boston, hollering, ‘The British are coming, the British are coming—don’t let them have my table at Locke-Ober!’”

  “I’ve been to Locke-Ober,” she said. “I was in Boston for a banking seminar. A group of us went there for dinner one night. It was great.”

  I said, “You can’t discuss the Revolutionary War without talking about Ticonderoga. That was the battle where Ethan Allen realized he had two first names.”

  “It’s all coming back to me.”

  “Ticonderoga is often confused today with the language spoken by basketball players in the Southeastern Conference.”

  “I’ve been aware of that for some time.”

  We got around to dinner.

  Thurlene was pleased with her half of a Caesar salad appetizer and the six-ounce filet of beef with asparagus for the main course. I went with the pasta fagioli as a starter, and the soup was followed by the veal piccata with a side of spaghetti and butter sauce.

  A bottle of Tignanello for the lady, and two more martinis for the gentleman.

  As we dined, I told her about the silliest protest I’d ever seen. It occurred five years ago. A whole pack of Writers Guild members in our SDC building organized a protest against management.

  “They wanted a four-day week,” I said, “but as far as I could tell, they were already off seven days a week. None of them did anything at work but send jokes back and forth on their computers and go to lunch. Naturally, they chose two mild spring days to carry their signs up and down Forty-eighth Street in front of the main entrance of our building.”

  “And you, of course,” she said, “were the first person to break the picket line.”

  “Maybe not the first, but certainly the first to congratulate them on looking so downtrodden in their cashmere and Guccis.”

  Caught her grinning.

  I said, “One time when I crossed the picket line a guy said, ‘You should be with us, Jack.’ I said, ‘I would, but I’m late for lunch at 21.’ Another time when I was sliding through the picket line I asked if anybody had seen my limo. It was supposed to meet me there and take me out to the Hamptons for the weekend to play National, Maidstone, and Shinnecock.”

  “Ginger would love to play those courses someday.”

  “I can get her on. I have friends in high places. But if she keeps on winning she may not need anybody’s help…Aren’t we sorry we missed the Sixties, you and me?”

  “Why would we be sorry?”

  “You could have dressed like Hiawatha. I could have dressed like Gandhi. We wouldn’t have had to do anything but roll joints and talk about ice cream flavors and watch horror movies.”

  She said, “One of my bosses at the bank was an older guy who moved to Texas from Chicago. He said the best time of his life was when he was in school at Northwestern and was part of the mob that shut down the campus for two days.”

  I said, “There’s a reformed hippie lady at SM—she’s in charge of the library. She says the greatest thing about the Sixties was you didn’t have to go to Woodstock to get laid.”

  Thurlene smiled, took a sip of wine, snuggled up to me in the booth, and said, “What’s your position on getting laid in Palm Springs?”

  It was hard to swallow. The look on her face told me this was no joke—this was a direct hit. I held it together and managed to say absolutely nothing. No attempt at humor that would spoil the moment.

  Headline: Man Urgently Motions for Dinner Check.

  34

  Thurlene didn’t leave my room until three in the morning, but she was back in my room by nine in the morning. Which was shortly after Ginger left for the golf course. We didn’t have breakfast, we didn’t have lunch, and it was sometime in the middle of the afternoon before we noticed from my crumpled bed that the TV had accidentally been on the Spanish channel for what must have been hours.

  If that wasn’t love, what was it, I ask you?

  Wednesday night we donned our nonchalant poses and went to dinner with Ginger in the hotel dining room.

  We believed we looked like the same people. The magazine writer and the golf mom.

  Thurlene hoped she didn’t have that telltale glow that says “I’m getting laid and the world is a wonderful place.” I hoped I didn’t have that look that says “This man is in bad need of rest or may have to be taken to the hospital soon.”

  Ginger wasn’t fooled.

  It was moments after the drinks came before dinner that Ginger grinned at Thurlene and said, “So, Mom…you got lucky last night, huh?”

  “Christ,” Thurlene said, her head dropping.

  I almost choked on the celery stalk I’d taken a bite out of from the Bloody Mary I didn’t even want.

  Ginger smiled at both of us. “It’s okay, guys. It’s cool.”

  “Cool,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to be cool.”

  “We’re not cool,” Thurlene said harshly.

  “We’re not?”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “What are we?”

  “We’re all grown-ups here, including this kid, and I’m changing the subject.”

  The kid said, “You don’t have to get mad.”

  “I’m not mad,” Thurlene said. “I’m embarrassed.”

  “Jesus, Mom,” said Ginger. “Chill. Take your meds.”

  Thurlene said, “We’ll discuss it later. I want to talk about the major championship that’s starting tomorrow—if nobody minds.”

  “Are we still at Defcon four?” Ginger said.

  Mom glared and said, “What about the golf course, Gin? Any low scores out there in practice? What are the other players saying?”

  “We’re talking golf now, is that it?” the kid said.

  “We most certainly are!”

  What Ginger allowed:

  Most of the players were trying not to laugh too hard about the differences between the Kraft Nabisco when it was played at Mission Hills and this year’s deal at Hollywood Dunes.

  “The Horse Dog,” they were calling it.

  Everybody was happy the pro-ams were dumped. The players and press always thought the tournament’s reputation suffered by having a pro-am. A major with a pro-am? The Dinah had started with one pro-am and wound up with two
. A two pro-am major. Wow.

  Ginger had played in one of the pro-ams last year—her first time in a major—and she remembered her amateur partners being four fat men who never spoke to her the whole eighteen.

  Everybody was talking about the things that were missing at Hollywood Dunes.

  One was the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. It had become a fixture behind the first tee at Mission Hills.

  The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile was being replaced with something tomorrow that was a surprise. Something Marsha Wilson was excited about, and the rumor in the locker room was that the surprise was the commissioner’s idea and it was expressly designed to impress the generous French guy, Francois D’Aubigne Lagoutte.

  Another thing missing was the statue of Dinah Shore. It was still on the golf course at Mission Hills. The members at Mission Hills wouldn’t let the LPGA move it, even temporarily.

  Worst of all, the eighteenth hole at Hollywood Dunes didn’t have water around the green, so another tradition would be lost. The winner on Sunday wouldn’t be able to celebrate by jumping into the pond as the winners did at Mission Hills. The winner would have to jump into a bunker or something.

  Oh, there was one other thing. Tang Chen was in the field. Ginger had seen her playing a practice round with Debbie Wendell on Wednesday.

  That news made Thurlene want to drop-kick an inanimate object. She said only a “foreigner” could receive a special invitation at the last minute to a major championship in the United States. It was ridiculous.

  The field for the Dinah Shore, Thurlene pointed out, was always limited to one hundred players: ninety-four pros taken from the money list—tour winners, former champions, and world rankings—plus six amateurs. A qualification system similar to the Masters. Well, copied from the Masters.

  She said, “You can be sure a high-minded busybody in our State Department used his influence on the LPGA to see that Tang was invited.”

  Ginger said, “She’s not worth thinking about, Mom. She’ll shoot straight up and boogie on out with a WD.”

  Skillfully changing the subject, I said to Ginger, “You finished tied for thirty-third in this championship last year. I looked it up. Not bad for your first time in a major.”

  “My game sucked last year,” the kid said.

  Thurlene said, “She was better in the LPGA and the Open. She was top fifteen in both.”

  “I still sucked,” she said.

  I said, “You didn’t go to the Women’s British Open last year, the other major. How come?”

  Thurlene said, “It was held at this course way up north in Scotland that wasn’t even Dornoch. We decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. But we’re going this summer. It’s at Royal Woodhills Foxheath. It’s close to London so we can stay in the city, which will be fun.”

  I said, “I know Royal Woodhills Foxheath. It’s near Swinley Forest, the most exclusive club in England. You can’t join Swinley Forest if you’ve ever had a job.”

  Later on. Coffee for Thurlene and me. No dessert for anyone.

  I asked Ginger, “What’s it going to take to win this thing?”

  She said, “There are only two par-fives, the fifth and the thirteenth, and you can’t reach either one. Tyler is saying even par-two-eighty is the number. I’m thinking lower if I can keep the bomb squad in the fairway and get the harpoon going.”

  “It’s all up to you, huh?” I said. “Nobody else has anything to say about it?”

  “Yep, just me,” she said with a grin. “Why not?”

  I said, “I like your attitude. The game is ninety percent mental.”

  “Z time,” Ginger said, rising. “You guys have fun. See you at breakfast, Mom.”

  Thurlene reacted to her daughter’s remark by doing the old reliable frustration thing. She propped her elbow on the table, put her thumb and forefinger on the bridge of her nose, rested her head, and closed her eyes.

  35

  Was it possible I spotted the LPGA commissioner mingling with the demonstrators outside the gates of Hollywood Dunes? It was, and I did. Which was why I asked the driver of the press shuttle to drop me off there at midmorning on Thursday, the day of the first round of the Horse Dog.

  Thurlene and Ginger had gone to the course earlier in a courtesy car so Ginger could warm up for her noon tee time in a pairing with Suzy Scott and Mandy Park.

  Thurlene didn’t say how she felt that morning on two hours’ sleep, but I was wide awake. It’s a medical fact that when all you want to do every moment of the day or night is put your mouth, your hands, and your body on someone you’re insanely in love with, you don’t require much rest.

  The crowd of protestors numbered in the dozens, and the commissioner was chatting with a girl in granny glasses and a prairie-woman dress who held a sign that said: HONK IF YOU HATE FRANCE.

  “Marsha Wilson,” I said. “What a coincidence…finding you here…in Africa…fighting Zulus.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said. “I heard that in a dumb movie one time. I’ve always wanted to say it to somebody.”

  “What in the world are you talking about, Jack Brannon?”

  “What are you doing with these people, Commissioner?”

  “I’m trying to talk sense to them. Women’s golf does not need this distraction. And poor Francois. What must he think?”

  The demonstrators were circled around us, staring. I counted two caftans, a Pancho Villa, a Pocahontas, two Che Guevaras, and two—no, make that three—Buffy Sainte-Maries.

  “You are going to see hundreds of us on the weekend,” the girl in the granny glasses and prairie-woman dress said.

  “Why do you want to disrupt the golf tournament?” I said to her. “It’s a big deal for the city.”

  She said, “Golf is a pagan sport. It occupies land in this country that should be used for affordable housing.”

  Marsha Wilson said, “You would demolish all of the golf courses that beautify America’s landscape?”

  “I would torch them first,” said Granny Glasses.

  “You are an unintelligent and unreasonable person,” Marsha said, “and I suspect the only reason you are out here is to be on TV.”

  Pocahontas stepped in to say, “Yes. That is the best way to reach the most people. ‘The French Are Irrelevant.’ That’s a song I’ve been working on. I may perform it later.”

  “Not a bad thought,” I said, “except it’s hard to go up against their omelets.”

  Pocahontas said, “I’ll ask you a question…whoever you are. Do you eat horse meat?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” I said.

  “Do you think dogs should eat horse meat?”

  “I can only speak for the Lab I had for twelve years. Maggie preferred veal marsala and chicken Kiev.”

  Marsha Wilson said, “You people are trying to keep a wonderful group of American ladies from making a living in their chosen profession. You might consider that.”

  Pocahontas said, “Games are for children. Pain is for adults. Pain and suffering. We protest against France and golf in the name of peace, love, and understanding.”

  “I don’t see Cindy Sheehan anywhere,” I said, looking around.

  A Buffy Sainte-Marie gave me the finger.

  Marsha Wilson said, “What do you think the new sponsor should do? Our generous Frenchman? Is there anything he can do to win you over?”

  Pocahontas said, “He could crash and burn to death in his private jet. That would be accommodating.”

  There were other surprises Thursday.

  One was the statue that mysteriously had risen behind the first tee—Commissioner Marsha Wilson’s surprise replacement for the popular but now missing Oscar Mayer Wienermobile.

  It was the towering statue of Francois D’Aubigne Lagoutte.

  He would rise over Ludwig Beethoven in Central Park, or any of the Yankee and Confederate generals scattered around Gettysburg. He was in a business suit, one hand in his pocket, the other hand reaching out
at something. Perhaps at “Darryl Zanuck,” the sixth hole.

  The statue was made of wood and plaster—there hadn’t been time for granite, marble, or bronze—and it was painted. The statue of the Frenchman was painted in a blue pinstriped suit, orange shirt, and green necktie, and his sunglasses were a mirrored purple.

  He stood on a pedestal in the center of a flower bed.

  Thurlene and I were staring at it when we were joined by Marsha Wilson and a white-haired, deeply tanned gentleman in a cream blazer.

  “What do you think, Jack Brannon?” the commissioner asked.

  I said, “I’m not sure. I’d like to have seen the Wienermobile in person. What does the French guy think about it?”

  “He approves of it, although he says the artist has parted his hair on the wrong side.”

  “Darn,” I said. “You work hard, you make plans, but something always falls through the cracks.”

  “Joke if you must, Jack Brannon, but Francois is touched, and the artist—the sculptor—says it will be no trouble to fix the part in the hair before next year’s tournament. Francois was quite moved at the unveiling ceremony this morning before the first group went off.”

  I stuck out my hand to the guy with the tan in the blazer. “We haven’t met. I’m Jack Brannon.”

  “Indeed you are,” the guy said, shaking my hand.

  “I am so sorry,” Marsha Wilson said. “Jack…Thurlene Clayton…this is Norris Mason. Norris is president of Hollywood Dunes Country Club and the tournament chairman for our wonderful event.”

  “It’s Mason Norris,” the man said.

  “Well, of course it is!” Marsha said. “This week has me coming and going. I do apologize, Mason. What must I have been thinking?”