The month of June has become a little more wistful for me because of Father’s Day. My dad passed away in 2001 and my lovely stepfathers, Clarence and then Joe, died in 1994 and 2013, respectively. Now I buy cards for my brother and my husband, The Brit.
But Father’s Day also holds memories for me of my friend Robin. She was quite close to her dad, Bill. He and Clarence loved getting together in Phoenix, Ariz., where we lived, for breakfasts at Denny’s and dinners at Mom’s. Bill loved Mom’s coffee!
Our dads are gone, and on April 29 I lost Robin. Her health had been failing for some time as she awaited a hoped-for kidney transplant while undergoing dialysis. She fell while moving from her wheelchair to her bed and broke her leg. The infection and trauma was more than her weary body could withstand. What I have now are the memories, which I love to share.
One year she and I made a dream come true for our two old geezers. Both our dads were big fans of golf, not as players, but as kibitzers. Every February, the Phoenix Thunderbirds hosted the annual Phoenix Open Golf Tournament.
The first day was always the celebrity pro-am, when various film and television actors, sports greats, and local well-knowns golfed for charity. For several years the tournament was held at the Phoenix Country Club.
Each year Robin and I would ditch high school at noon to stargaze at the 14th hole, which bordered the property line of the country club on Osborne Road. She and I would leap over the irrigation ditch along Osborne and stand at the chain-link fence on the 14th hole and watch celebrities putt and putter about.
On seeing two teen girls in plaid Catholic school uniforms, most would come over to chat and sign our autograph books. We were thrilled to meet famed golfers Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus, and luminaries like George C. Scott, Glen Campbell, Michael Landon, and Bob Hope.
Robin was a big sports fanatic and loved golf as much as her dad. She constantly shushed me when I excitedly pointed out a celebrity.
“They’re golfing,” she’d whisper with annoyance. “You have to keep quiet or they’ll kick us out of here!”
But she lost all composure when golfer Tom Weiskopf gave her a couple of his signature golf balls, one for her and one for her dad. She screamed with delight, until I finally got her under control, “Oh, my God! I’ve got Tom Weiskopf’s balls!”
When Bob Hope stepped up to the 14th hole one year he made light of our presence, asking, “Do the nuns know you’re here, girls?”
Robin joked back, suggesting he put a “bing” on the ball (give it a bump into the hole). He laughed and yelled, “Security!” When he completed his shot he sauntered over to us, swinging his club, and chatted us up for several minutes. The singular thing I remember about him was that he had beautiful, warm brown eyes.
In February 1977, Robin and I headed to our seventh and last stand at the 14th hole.
“Guess who’s here? Clint Eastwood!” she asked and answered excitedly.
“Dirty Harry?” I mocked her tone.
“Yeah! He’s making a movie here called The Gauntlet,” she said. “We’ll get to see him!”
“That macho jerk?” I snorted derisively. “Big deal!” I was unimpressed by his cheroot-chomping cowboys and tough-talking cops who shoot up the scenery along with myriad extras from Central Casting.
“Have you ever watched one of his films?” Robin was amazed by my reaction. I had not, but I had seen enough previews of his films to pass judgment. I was also young and stupid.
Just then a young girl joined us, all aflutter. “Has Clint been here?” she gasped. We told her no, she had not missed Clint. She was an ardent fan, age 12, and had ditched school for a chance to meet her hero. She clutched a photo of him that had been in the morning paper.
“I want to get his autograph,” she giggled with shy delight.
She had dolled herself up to meet Mr. Eastwood. She wore a purple and black striped mini-dress, black lace-up granny boots, had on lavender eye shadow, and her nails and lipstick were a matching shade of magenta. She looked like a 12-year-old Foxy Brown.
She craned her neck looking for her idol as groups of golfers and celebrities played through. Finally, the man himself arrived with his group of golfers. “Clint!” she squealed loudly. “Cliiiint!” This elicited warning stares from some golfers.
“Ssshhhh!” we both hissed at her. “Let them golf and then we’ll try to get him to come over and talk with us.”
Sure enough, Clint Eastwood walked over after his shot and greeted us. “Hello, ladies! How are you today?” God, he was so polite and so handsome! We directed his attention to his young fan, who was about to chew a hole in the fence.
That’s when I saw the real Clint Eastwood. I watched his eyes crinkle in amusement at her outlandish attempt to look grown-up and glamorous. I thought, “If this guy mocks her I’ll pull him through one of the holes of this chain-link fence and chew his head off!” Then I watched him transform.
He swaggered over to her, took a bold stance, and uttered in that distinctive voice, “Well, look at you! What’s your name, beautiful? Did you get all dressed up just for me? I am so honored! Check out those boots, too! You are one foxy lady, Sweetheart!”
Mr. Eastwood continued to fuss over that child, making her the sole focus of his attention. He held her hands through the chain link and autographed her photo. She ran off, screaming in delight. I thanked him, saying, “That is the loveliest thing I have seen someone do for another person. You are a scholar and a gentleman, sir.”
He blushed and thanked me and rejoined his group. I turned to Robin and said, “If I ever say another rude thing about that man, please kick my ass!”
“Gladly!” she replied. Suddenly, a man ran up to us and handed us an envelope through the fence. “These are compliments of Mr. Eastwood, ladies,” he said, and left.
We opened the envelope and, like finding Willy Wonka’s golden ticket, our eyes widened. There were two VIP passes for the entire week of the tournament. We had always wanted to send our dads, but even a one-day ticket was very expensive. Now they could attend the event in style. They did, and they never stopped talking about it. Thank you, Mr. Eastwood! You made their day!
I have since seen every film Clint Eastwood has made. I just love watching that man play cheroot-chomping cowboys and tough-talking cops who shoot up the scenery along with myriad extras from Central Casting.
Ariel Waterman is feeling lucky. Send her some cheroots via Arts Editor Joe Payne at jpayne@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jun 23-30, 2016.