Material Girl and The Candidate: Fiction based on True Bill Clinton Episode w/ Single Women

Material Girl and The Candidate: Fiction based on True Bill Clinton Episode w/ Single Women

Prologue:

[Twenty-two years ago, on January 20, 1993; William Jefferson Clinton took the oath as 42nd President of the United States--first of his vaunted “baby-boomer” generation. This fictional account of a true story revolves around a charismatic candidate, unknown to a sexy single girl returning to Dallas on the final leg of her journey; occurring in November 1991, fifteen months before the inaugural]

More than any other airline, or business for that matter, Southwest Airlines® lives the bromide: “it’s all about relationships,” by ensuring both passengers and employees have fun during a flight. With no assigned seating, cheap drinks and plane tickets; they value the atmosphere created by happy employees, and the goodwill created in customers by always being on-time and treating them with respect. Focusing on people creates a competitive advantage in a difficult industry. So, this flight provided the perfect place for Tina and Bill to meet; both of them experts at building relationships: selling, communicating, networking, and having fun ran in their blood!

Tina Dobbs was a tall Longview girl; a little country, not from Tyler—in her 30s but casually beautiful. Wearing comfortable Madonna-leggings and an oversized sweater on the flight, Clinton loved the view from the aisle as she stretched upward to shove a carry-on bag into the overhead bin.

“I think I can see through those tights, Carville,” he whispered to his bald friend. “Doesn’t she just want you to reach through the opening of that sweater,” Carville replied, “two scoops of sweet cream, Billy.” Carville’s cackle caused people think he was drunk; but he was just from Louisiana.

Tina was a cross between a young Diane Keaton of the Annie Hall era and an athletic Cameron Diaz from There’s something about Mary. A stunning beauty with long, sinewy legs, but ample bosom; the two young politicos admired her tantalizingly sheer black bra. Her retro, horn-rimmed glasses and stylishly cut, feathery blonde-hair gave a studious air to a fiery sex appeal. Carville thought she could pass for a LSU co-ed, but his saavy client knew better; hoping she was as experienced in bed as he was.

The 46-year old Clinton maneuvered gracefully so he sat across from Tina near the bulkhead in the open area on a Southwest® jet considered neither cattle-car nor pick-up bar. So adept at conversing; the forced “facetime” of a flight, buckled into opposite chairs gave him the tactical advantage. It didn’t take long before the sizzle between them passed across the small space like electric current, their animated dialogue covering multiple topics.

After partnering with his political wife Hilary Rodham 11 years in a backwater state; during the previous month, the obscure if colorful outsider announced as a presidential candidate on the capitol steps. Nonetheless, here was Bill the cad, always playing the fulcrum between risk and reward; flirting with an eligible woman not his wife. Hurtling toward Texas like fledgling lovers, their personalities ran a mile wide and an inch deep: some priorities intersected, but not in a serious way.

,

“I love that song,” said Clinton, referring to Madonna’s pop hit Material Girl coming from nearby Walkman® earphones, “I’m not going to get that out of my mind,” she demurred. It didn't take long for her to warm up to Clinton’s charm, but in a peculiar way she was playing with him like the material girl in the song. He pursued her subtly; serious about politics but relating to Tina intimately in a small space, intensely looking into her pale eyes as he meandered through his story.

“I’m not liberal or conservative: I’m both--it's different,” feebly explaining his politics, his upbringing, his passion; she was captivated by his eyes, close cropped hair, slightly graying, and the southern twang that made her comfortable: he sounded like he was from East Texas. Their opposite seating seemed like both a bridge and a wall; Tina felt both connected and protected.

Offering no real political insight to the conversation, she agreed amicably with the young candidate that the economy was tanking, and President Bush’s popularity was sliding, even in Texas. Entrepreneurial art dealers in Dallas rarely feel economic effects either way; because their clients come from wealth and sophistication--the exact demographic Clinton was coming to Dallas to tap. Since that dark November in '63, Dallas filled the chasm in its soul with the flickering light borne of a beacon; reflected off shiny buildings, cars, and people. That beacon guided this flight home.

Her politics mattered much less than her ability to sell rich people expensive pieces of art. Clinton relentlessly talked about himself like anyone running for office, but Tina pictured him more likely the president of his fraternity a few years ago; away now in Texas, trying to close a big real estate deal.

Even though he launched the campaign earlier in 1991, she previously knew nothing about his background whatsoever--except that he was cute. Hardly effusive, this divorced mother of two talked little about her personal life on planes; mostly they discussed popular culture and how the country needed to change course:

“My hero was John Kennedy. I want to finish what he started when he asked every American to take personal responsibility for the future of our country.” 

God, she thought; this inexperienced politician seemed a little mischievous to want to save America from the Republicans. He desired immense power, that she could tell; and yet he wanted to help—by force of his charm and the twinkle in his eye he slowly convinced her of his candidacy. She was unconsciously falling under the Clinton spell.

He confided in his wispy/raspy voice, “we’re hosting some liberal Jewish attorneys over at Fred Baron’s house, and then it’ll probably end up over at the Stoneleigh P.” This neighborhood contained art galleries and bars; she knew it well. "Say, do you know Truman Arnold? He's from East Texas;" Clinton pried, always networking or fundraising. The material girl scratched and clawed but never cracked the upper echelon of rich Democrats like the Barons or the Bransons; and in the age before smartphones or Google® how could she know that these two men ironically, also were married to overbearing, bitchy, attorneys?

“My gallery is up the street on Cedar Springs,” Tina confided, “I’ll be working late tonight for sure.”

Not uncoupling from the invisible line of electricity connecting them, and hoping they might run into each other again; she eagerly pondered the alpha-Male in her mind, fascinated, curious, and attracted to him even in the short time they had been together. President Clinton the micro-manager, obsessed over details of economic policy or healthcare; was able to discuss eloquently yet technically almost any subject in politics. As a regular observant guy on this flight, however; he noticed Tina’s Razorback-red toenails, the little dimples in her back that peeked out just above the hips, and her bleach blonde hair; a bit more natural than Gennifer Flowers.

Southwest Airlines® flights provided a casual workplace for the young powerbrokers of Texas; a small boardroom where they could loosen their ties and socialize while airborne. Its nutty, comedic advertising promoted the image of “love,” engendered the stock ticker symbol of LUV, and its home base was Love Field. “I’ve got so many of these tickets, let me get you a drink?” Clinton ordered a beer and Tina a very expensive brand of Vodka, again the contrast of Bubba and the fancy girl from Big D. The optimist politician was sure she’d meet them later if he pitched this right.

As they drank more, Clinton got sanguine and Carville got loud; men focused like assassins on the issues of the upcoming election in 1992. Tina’s initial assessment fell far short of the election results just one year later; in fact, as impressed as she was that afternoon, she didn’t think of him again until after the Democratic nomination. He appeared on the Arsenio Hall late-night TV show, playing that damned saxophone on her TV screen! By then, the Clinton contagion was going viral, and Tina couldn't believe her eyes. She had brushed so close to a high-voltage power line, smoldering and exciting; even without regret, the memory burned deeply into her psyche as much as any historical fact of her life.

The dating Gods protected her from the maelstrom and sexual mayhem of the Clinton presidency. Like a ghost of a gathering storm; in reality the relationship never had a chance. When they met, his candidacy and future wealth wasn’t apparent; and frankly the material girl was mainly impressed by free-flowing cash men of Dallas. Maybe she was ahead of her time, because looking back on Bill's exploits today, he seems creepy. Despite the physical spark, he just didn’t show enough immediate financial attractiveness at the time, even with the allure of a wildly charming nature. But Tina’s dalliance sure made a good story for the rest of the Nineties.##

Music video:  http://youtu.be/DNSUOFgj97M

 "Some boys try, and some boys lie but

That's alright with me;

If they can't raise my int-rest, then-I

Have to let them be-ee.” (Madonna) ©Warner Bros. 1985

Fiction©Mark H. Pillsbury (2015)

(Fair use of copyrighted work shown herein is not an infringement of copyright law, see 17 USC §107) 

Let The Wave Say

"If the surface of the ocean is this time that we’re alive;

Then this rising wave in motion, is this moment that we ride.

If you don’t move when it’s moving, then your life leaves you behind.

If you can’t see what it’s doing; trust the wave more than your mind.

When the wave is all around me, I got no other plans;

I just balance through the changes, and let the wave say who I am.

From a thousand miles of water, from the wind beyond belief

Every wave roars out its power, as it rises on the reef

And the high blue wall can break you; you can never fight the sea…

You just learn to let it take you, to the place you want to be

Now the wave is all around me, I got no other plans;

Keep my balance through the changes, let the wave say who I am."
--David Wilcox

Watching Dave again Saturday night brought back sweet memories of 18 years ago in Dallas, when I first got the nerve to talk, one-on-one with a beautiful brunette with blue eyes who a couple years later would become my wife! He once again gave wonderful comments, poetic lyrics, and amazing guitar riffs to a small audience of faithful followers who needed the advice as much as ever. Going to a David Wilcox concert is cheaper than therapy.

One of America's premiere songwriter/singer/songwriters, the poetry in the song above (featured on his album: Reverie ©2010), “Let the Wave Say,” led-off the concert. As usual, this winsome show included a few oldies I remember from the past shows we’ve been lucky enough to see; nevertheless, Saturday the same quality instrumentation and wisdom shined through to all in the audience, even if it was their first show.

His voice and pace were vibrant, clear, and robust and this new gaggle of tunes just as appealing as others from the 1990s we know and love. Sharing the journey with his fans, never too proud to admit he doesn’t have it all figured out, Dave muses on things changing in his life, helping sort out the confusing parts from the ridiculous. The self-parody, “Capt.Wanker” was a delightful admission that Super Dave is just a human like we are. No one likes to give money to a “perfect” person or cause; even a young Adele resonates with all ditched lovers, and David Wilcox has grown up with these groupies; indeed 80% of the enthusiasts at the concert this weekend were the over-40 crowd. David Wilcox is a sober, simpler, erudite version of the post-James Taylor singer-songwriter era.

In this song, “Let the Wave Say,” the words spoke to me in a special way as I try to grapple with the rising tide of change. Our 5 world oceans cover 139.5 million square miles of the world's surface area of 197 million square miles; and excluding insects, 4 fifths (80%) of all species live in the oceans. Even though I am a land-lubber, the metaphor of the ocean is powerful; and if you have ever been crushed under a salty wave it is humbling. One cannot fight the sea. It is one of the reasons I love the novel: Life of Pi, by Yann Martel (Random House/Canada 2001).

As I tweeted last week (Twitter@markpills), art is the free-flow of creativity from deep within; expressing truth often without out words; it can be a song, a painting, sculpture, clay pottery, or photography, just to name some of my favorite. Music says things that other communication does not. Dave's guitar plucks the heart-strings.

Poetry like this resonates over days, crowding-out other thoughts. My mind goes back to the wave today; I don’t see what is going on right now, in fact, I don’t really have a very good plan. The song inspires me to jump on the wave because the worst thing I can do now is let this moment pass me by, missing the opportunity for adventure. The art shows that the song is talking to me directly, in the very first song of the show; so you can imagine that Dave got my attention. Good art is a teacher.

As I focus on the next few months, out into the black unknown; I concentrate on quiet reflection, mindfulness, and waiting on God. Trying hard not to control the wave (I would be foolish to think that), I am learning to let the force of time, future, uncertainty, anxiety, all swirling about me, take me with it, to the place I want to be.

Previously I blogged (Mar. 12, 2012) about underwater panic being deadly to a Scuba diver; however it is also detrimental to a human being caught in a vortex of doubt. All I can do is be obedient, show up, work hard, and keep my balance: in golf the swing is like a metronome; in fishing, you can’t stand-up in the canoe and fall in the water. It's all about balance.

Instead of worrying about what people think about me this time, I am going to let the wave say who I am. Thanks Dave.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Ultimate Texans » Photos: Texans fever

Ultimate Texans » Photos: Texans fever:

'via Blog this'

After ten years in this city, the Texan franchise has finally reached the high plateau of the NFL meritocracy, The Playoffs.

Like a contagious disease, Houston's citizens caught fan fever this week, and across the 4th largest city in the US, today they suffer from Texanitis.

As the sun broke over clear blue skies this morning and Houstonians got out to youth games, the grocery store, or the local coffee shop, all the talk was about the game this afternoon at Reliant Stadium, in the shadow of the old AstroDome. Fittingly, the new breed of professional football players see the shrine to the Oilers right next door, the 8th wonder of the world: the AstroDome. The creepy, dark, out-dated, concrete monolith to the past; where the last Houston playoff victory took place over 20 years ago.

There is nothing like the football euphoria of the playoffs. In a town that prides itself in entrepreneurial grit, civic pride, teamwork, courage, and success--which has largely eluded the city on the gridiron since the Texans started ten years ago; this football team overcame years of under-achieving and the hardship of a roller-coaster season to land its first NFL party since Super Bowl XXXVIII was played in Reliant Stadium in February of 2004.

Predictions are bold. Chips and salsa are flying off the shelves. Only the lucky and the patient are actually going to the game. Traffic around my neighborhood will be terrible this afternoon. But the city is buoyant with excitement. Being a life-long Dallas Cowboy fan spoiled me, but not anymore! The Cowboys are no shoe-in, having one playoff win in the last 15 years. Since I arrived in Houston the fall the Texans started, I have followed them closely every year and could not be any happier to see them succeed. Like any of the millions of Houston transplants who want our team to do well, I'm riding high today, waiting for kickoff.

used with permission: ©K. Woolet 

It should be a low-scoring affair, and with our 3rd QB starting the game, the Texans will have to rely on the Defense (led by the last Cowboy coach Wade Phillips). Turnovers usually change momentum, so look for that to be the pivot-point.

The buzz in the city today is red-hot (Battle Red), the fever is true-blue (Liberty Blue), and for one bright shiny day in Houston, we are all Texans!

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Captain Comeback--Major Applewhite and the Holiday Bowl, ten years ago tonight!

(San Diego CA) Dec. 28, 2001: Holiday Bowl-Texas 47, Washington 43

Master magician QB, Major Lee Applewhite, then a 23 year old senior at UT, engineers a thrilling comeback, showing once again his gritty heroics in the fourth quarter, leading the Longhorns to victory with 27 points in the final period.

The game was played before 60,548 at Qualcomm Stadium in San Diego, but one very serious and very tired fan was listening on a small alarm/clock radio in Houston TX. My family and a large moving van spent the day on Branard Street, unloading lots of “stuff;” packing it all into a tiny rental house. Moving all day from Dallas, the driver gave me his business card confidently as he jumped up into the truck saying, “For when you decide to move back.” (I think he was a solid Dallas-boy?!) Well, we stayed! We've loved it...

Even though underdog Univ. of Washington held tightly to a 36-20 lead at the start of the 4th quarter, QB Applewhite, who now coaches for the Longhorns, led his offense to 4 last-frame touchdowns, the final thrust occurring with just 0:38 left on the fancy scoreboard, forever cementing his place in NCAA bowl history. It was his last game in burnt orange & white, assuring another top-ten finish for Texas in the BCS voting.

Exhausted by the time we put our 6-month old daughter down in her crib, we collapsed on our queen-mattress amidst the piled brown boxes. But I awakened later in the night, remembering the big game! Frantically searching for a radio, because the TV was not anywhere near an electrical outlet; I found a small alarm/clock radio and sitting with it in my lap, I listened to the miracle comeback. It turned into a Longhorn keepsake.

Simms versus Applewhite dominated the discussion that fall in Austin, the future coach as disparate from the future bust as could be. Always rooting for a redhead when I can, Major Applewhite burned a place in my memory unlike any other Longhorn legend.

A lot has happened during the decade that has slipped by without realizing it. During the ten-years elapsed, the family was given a boy to raise also, the Longhorns won a national championship led by another unique QB, the most popular Houston corporation is gone, and I am beginning a new career, in another business from that which caused me to move in the first place.

Hard to believe that on the tenth anniversary of that day, the Texas team with an historic RB coach, Major Applewhite, returns to the same field he dominated a decade earlier.

Starting another life in one of the most dynamic southern cities in the US, ten years ago tonight, Major Applewhite finished his fabulous career as a Texas player with one of the best comeback victories in the annals of UT sports. It was one of the most stirring radio broadcasts I have ever heard; I went to sleep happy that dark night in Houston! #hookem Major.

[Texas plays California tonight on ESPN in the Holiday Bowl. Longhorns are favored by 3 points.]

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Texas/Oklahoma football game in Dallas

TX/OU Red River Rivalry:
writing ©Mark H. Pillsbury

image credit: djbfootball blog

Introduction:
One of the biggest games of the year is coming up in college football this Saturday, between the University of Texas and the University of Oklahoma. In this storied series, the Longhorns have a record of 59-41-5 against the Sooners; however since 1945 the series is very close. The game is played in a sunken bowl in the middle of one of the largest fairgrounds in the country, on the second Saturday of the Texas State Fair. The Cotton Bowl is an icon of Dallas and the historic Fair Park complex.

image credit: Wm. Lile

Every year in Dallas Texas, as summer wanes and the State Fair gains momentum; there is a happy confluence of sound, smell, weather, excitement, and football. Over a hundred thousand revelers converge on the Cotton Bowl, which is surrounded by food vendors, Midway games, and the bright sunshine of a north Texas morning. The smell of diesel fumes, horse manure, and fried food wafts through the air, mingling with the sulfur residue from OU Ruf-Nek shotguns and UT Smokey's pre-game cannon shots. Attendees stand in massive lines for overpriced staples such as corny-dogs and cold domestic draft beer, often the best medicine for the preceding night’s alumni party. The Cotton Bowl seems like the Dallas version of a Roman Coliseum on this day; some faithfully make the pilgrimage every year.

Fair Park, circa 1960

Construction began on a stadium in Fair Park in 1930 on a site once occupied by a rickety wooden football stadium. Two Dallas-area high schools fought the first game in the new stadium in October 1930. Initially it held enough seats for 45,507 spectators, and in 1936, the name officially changed to the Cotton Bowl. This Mecca has grown and been renovated numerous times since its construction, setting a new record for attendance of 96,009 fans at the 2009 Oklahoma vs. Texas football game, known as the “Red River Shootout” or the “Red River Rivalry” if you agree to use the politically correct name. This rivalry sits at the top of the list of college football “mega-matchups,” always televised, sold-out, prognosticated, and reported by the media. The Cotton Bowl is almost equidistant from home fields in Austin TX or Norman OK, and before conference realignment, it amounted to a “bowl game” placed right in the middle of the regular season.

[In addition to the Red River Shootout, the Grambling State University Tigers and the Prairie View A&M University Panthers play each other at the Cotton Bowl in the “State Fair Classic,” the weekend before the Texas-OU rivalry game. Also a neutral site for both teams, the game is played at night and the atmosphere is completely different at Fair Park.]

The Ramp:
Walking down the Cotton Bowl ramp/tunnel as a player evokes strong memories; emotions and excitement which can’t adequately be described in words. This stage is for the best young football talent in the country squaring off in a stadium equally divided between the teams, right down the 50-yd. line. Before trash talk and thuggery between players in the tunnel occurred like a prearranged gang fight, the seats on the side surrounding the tunnel were always crimson and crème, a sea of Sooner fanatics. The Texas players got as much abuse from the Sooner faithful above them in the stands as they did from the opposing team.

image credit: NewsOK

The Texas fan base on the other side of the stadium always arrived at their seats a little later than the Sooner nation, their party style a bit more sophisticated, and showing up “fashionably late.” You can count on a few things from those Okies: they’d be there early, drunk, loud, and wearing crimson. Some players endure slashing tirades, hateful haranguing, and pitiful taunts from slightly above their journey down the tunnel. Wearing your head gear seemed reasonable because you never knew what would fly down out of the sky.

Locker room jitters are part of being a football player. An old warrior who played in the game said that Head Coach Darrell Royal told the men it was their time; to focus on what they worked on that week in Austin. He doesn’t remember the words exactly but when they were given the final OK by the TV Guy to leave the locker room and head down the short flight of steps to the top of the tunnel, he recalls vividly stepping out into a frenzied, surreal, confusing world of childish taunts and inverted "Hook ‘em" signs (among other finger signs) being hurled from the walkway above. The following eyewitness account comes from an old veteran’s war story, told in my own way:

“Stadium security personnel in cheap yellow windbreakers and dark-blue cops from the Dallas P.D. loiter along the tarp-covered gate behind us. I recognized two of the motorcycle cops who led the police escort through the streets of Dallas a couple of hours ago; an officer with a large helmet and aviator glasses smiles as he gives you a quick salute and a loyal "Hook ‘em Horns!" You return the salute and mouth a quick, "Thank you" to the cycle-jock standing by his police Harley.”

The players hold at the top of the ramp, one more interminable TV break before they swell down the opening and burst out on the field of green. There's no breeze ... it's hot.

Looking around the crazy world of the State Fair of Texas, strangely, above the chaos drifts the dull din of bus engines, motorcycles, and the screaming siren from a ride on the Midway accompanied by Billy Squire’s rockn’roll. Beyond the gate clicks candy wrapping machines in the Salt-Water Taffy booth. Across the walkway, someone steps out of a black limousine just outside the gate, quickly escorted by Texas DPS troopers through the gathering and hurried down the ramp. Must be the governor or a senator; or Willie Nelson.

The warriors can hardly see over the glare of the glistening white helmets shining in the harsh October sun. Almost obscured is the long orange “horns” in the middle and stretched numbers on the rear of the white hats. The weather hardly feels like fall on this weekend. In fact, it more likely resembles August, baking the players on the small concrete landing at the top of the tunnel.

image: Earl Campbell

The ticketless, orange-clad well-wishers behind the chain-link gate, trying to get a quick look or a fingershake from a player or coach are the only friendly voices you hear at this small enclave of the Cotton Bowl. This end of the stadium holds the Big Red one, Boomer Sooner; a clan boisterous and loud like sailors on shore-leave.

image credit: J H Jackson

"Get after 'em, Darrell!"

"Go Horns!"

"Anybody got a ticket?!"

"Can I have your chinstrap?"

“Players are taught to focus, look toward the light at the bottom of the tunnel. As we moved slowly downhill, wedged so tightly together our feet barely touch the ribbed, dirty concrete, we slowly floated down the ramp suspended among fellow teammates, moving like a herd of cattle. In the shade of the tunnel, beneath the stomping, screaming Sooner fans in the south end of the stadium, the cauldron subsides slightly, but I had trouble catching my breath. I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the opponents as they also assemble to move down the ramp on the opposite side. Even during pre-game warm-ups, looks are exchanged with all the misguided former high school teammates who wandered across the Red River.”

“Suddenly, and this instant sears into my mind, I clearly recall the crimson helmets with the white interlocked "OU" really piss me off at this point, emotion surges in the back of my throat. I feel like I might lose the steak and scrambled eggs I ate four hours ago in the quiet banquet room at the Hilton Inn on Mockingbird. I might puke on my teammate's back!”

“Instead I begin to yell out an unintelligible guttural sound. I feel better and other Longhorns join in, the sound reverberates in my helmet – ringing in my ears. My dry mouth sticky, chest pounding; all of a sudden, the uniform squeezes too tight, I feel enormous, I would love some Gatorade® right now; a huge ground swell of noise begins to engulf us we move closer to the light. Louder and louder. So glad I have this helmet on, not because you think one of those sloppy, jeering Okie rednecks will lob a corn dog, but the head piece makes me feel secure and impervious. I manage to reach my hand up and snap the chin strap tightly as we move into the sunlight at the bottom of the ramp. The swirling breeze on the floor of the stadium finally gets to the back of my neck and cools me slightly.”

Selmon dives for Akins

The roar echoes and reverberates around the base of the tunnel coming to a crescendo as the TV engineer holds the screaming, snarling warriors. This is the ultimate college contest, War Between the States; one of the oldest, fiercest rivalries in the game. Almost one hundred thousand people are here to enjoy the gladiators in battle, but millions are watching on television, often focusing closely through a lens on the fearful eyes of the boys engaged in this contest. It makes for great television! Only a few college football players will ever make this journey into the arena for such a matchless game. This day is now part of the history of the Texas/OU civil war, reenacted every October.

image credit: NewsOK

“The tears welled up in my eyes, and my throat choked up as my heart pounded out the rhythm of fear. Did the young soldiers landing on the beaches in Normandy feel the same physical symptoms that I do?”

“The players started cursing at the TV Guy to let them go, but he mumbled something about a baseball playoff game running long, and just hold up a little bit longer! You should’ve heard the stuff the players hurled back at him about what he could do with the baseball, they were instructing him about physically impossible tasks.”

The combatants surge forward, frenzied and frothing. "Coach Royal appears just to my left. He looks alone in his thoughts, jaw set against the task ahead of him this afternoon.

I wonder if he hears the taunts, “Traitor!” A fat, red-clad woman waves a crimson pom-pom in his face. If I could grab her straw-blonde hair and pull the skank down into this fracas, she would not last long. Her boyfriend yells, “Darrell, you ain’t sh#*!” Perturbed as we are at the delay, Coach Royal merely nods."

image credit: djbfootball blog

“Finally, the human dam breaks; TV Guy fends for himself. He might have been trampled; we don't really care by now. Smokey blows a huge cannon blast; its perfect smoke circle rises above the sweltering grass field. I imagine a football sailing right through the center of the white smoke circle emblazoned against the clear, blue Texas sky. The band blares "Texas Fight" at what seems like an impossibly fast tempo. Running out together for the last time here, my teammates are jumping all over each other at the other end of the field encircled by a sea of screaming orange-clad fans. My eyes swell with emotion, I am not alone feeling this way. The noise carries us into battle; the day culminates as we enter the Cotton Bowl, the game awaiting is an unknown. I will never feel such a release again; this is the best moment of the season, the highlight of my career at Texas. Hook ‘em Horns!”

©Mark H. Pillsbury

image credit: SI (1959)

[Game note: since 1945, considered the post-war era, one or both of the two teams have been ranked among the top 25 teams in the nation coming into 61 out of 66 games; the series is very close with Texas holding a three-win lead, 33-30-3 since 1945. This year the game will be played Oct. 6th in Dallas at 11:00am CDT and the Sooners are favored.]

Thoughts on the PGA and golf (Aug. 10, 2011):

I don’t believe golf is like life. It’s more complicated than that and golf has facets to it that are inscrutable.

However, as we approach the final of the four “Majors” which tees off Thursday morning, I want to talk about golf and tell what it means to me:

Golf is a jealous mistress, requiring time, money, attention, long-suffering patience, and secret obsession. Egalitarian and often blind, watching others play golf sometimes confounds: I have seen people who “look-like” golfers play poorly, and those street urchins on a public sandlot play like Seve Ballesteros, always known to attack the course and any opponent on his way to par. Real pressure in a golf game with Seve would be playing for $10 when you only have a $5 in your pocket!

Because golf has gone global (as FedEx® says it has) its future is probably as bright as any major sport. Like basketball, with numerous multi-national stars, and competition played worldwide, the post-Tiger era seems promising. A strong wave of young guns arrived on the golf scene a year ago, comers who surely began the game as 8-9 year olds when Tiger started his legendary run.

It is a unique game, historic and humbling; anyone can play, the great players with the hackers, boys and girls, old and young. It affords players a social opportunity as well as one grounded in nature.

Truly hitting the ball without “thinking about it,” when it leaps off the clubface with the crack of a good shot, gives me a childishly fun and pure reaction. Like life, the hazards along the course infuse fear into the average player, taking away the trusting mindset required to swing freely. The combination of physical, mental, and natural processes make it a challenging, lifetime sport, requiring concentration, dedication, and ethics. I’ve learned a lot about respect, about values in life, to be honest with yourself whether you hit it well or in the hazard because you're the only person who can give yourself a penalty, if you do something your playing partner hasn't seen.

The year’s last major is the PGA played in Atlanta (AAC). The PGA suffers from a bit of an infereriorty complex, the tournament invented a tagline with a branding twist: “Glory’s Last Shot!” Mathematically it is one-quarter of all majors just like the other ones, except in almost all the metrics of modern golf it comes in fourth place in importance.

Maybe it is just so damn hot in August, football is heating up, baseball going into a pennant race; nevertheless, hoisting the huge Wannamaker Trophy pays in multiple exemptions for the winner (means he gets invited to lots of tournaments without qualifying), as well as a $1 mil check. It was once the only match-play major until television convinced the PGA to change the format in 1958. With this year’s field almost 156 players (98 out of top-100 ranked) including Mr. Woods, any golf fan can find a horse on which to bet. Speaking of football and heat, the PGA was twice played in Dallas!

It does help that almost a third of this tournament’s champions are big names, such as: Gary Player, Lee Trevino, Gene Sarazen, Ben Hogan, Lord Byron Nelson, Tiger Woods, Jack Nicklaus, Walter Hagen, and Sam Snead (28 PGA titles among those names).


“You know, I started thinking back there on that last hole. All I’ve done my whole life is play golf, work at golf, study golf, listen to golf, read about golf. I’ve worked to build a game I can rely on, make a living with. Find a ‘repeating swing,’ as Hogan called it. I’ve experimented with all the equipment—graphite, metal, titanium. I’ve found what works best for me, for my body, my swing. This year I come up with some solid chances to win a big one. After all the years and all the hard work out here, my game’s ready to win a major. But what happens? I get a lousy ruling in Augusta… I get a lousy ruling at Pinehurst… and I get another one here. Each time I let it beat me. I really let it beat me. So I’m thinking my hard-headed ass has finally learned something. Golf’s not about equipment… technique… distance… practice… saving shots… the putting stroke… any of that. Once you know how to hold the damn golf club, golf is only about one thing. How you handle bad breaks.” –Bobby Joe Grooves in Slim and None, by Dan Jenkins (Doubleday 2005)

If you wish to hide your character, do not play golf. It strips you naked and forces you to strategize in an area as small as 5-inches across: your brain!

Every hole contains chapters like a book: the big opening salvo off the tee, winding through the hazards finding the way home to the green—the climax. Then the soft finish as the putting closes the story. I find the chance at renewal after each hole refreshing; as you walk to the next teeing area, leave what happened yesterday at the previous green. The new day dawns as you push the tee into the ground and look forward down the fairway, new opportunities and dangers await you.

Dealing with the reality of my game, I have come to the conclusion that it is more satisfying to be a bad player at golf: the worse you play, the better you remember the occasional good shot! That shot is the one that brings you back next time, the one fantastic glass of Cabernet in a week full of $9 Chardonnays.

Sex and golf are the two things you can enjoy even if you're not good at them, so the best thing you can try to do, is go out there and have fun!

©Mark H. Pillsbury