Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
Tag Archives: Southwords

The Cup Runneth Over

By Jim Moriarty

Fall is always football, but every other September, it’s the Ryder Cup, too.

My first Ryder Cup was 1983 at PGA National in Palm Beach Gardens. With a nod to the South Florida heat index, that one was played in mid-October, though since then, every Ryder Cup on this side of the pond has — at the very least — begun in September. The Ryder Cup wasn’t always the spectacle it is today and surely will be at Bethpage Black on New York’s Long Island, where the Americans will try to reclaim the trophy they lost two years ago in Italy.

When it was in Pinehurst in ’51, they paused the matches (in those days between the U.S. and Great Britain & Ireland) to go to the UNC-Tennessee football game in Chapel Hill. Sam Snead, a man often governed by pocketbook issues, took advantage of the day off to do a paid exhibition. At PGA National in ’83 there were probably more people scurrying off in their golf carts to play the other courses than there were watching the matches. Rory McIlroy once described the Ryder Cup as an “exhibition” until he played in one. “Hell of an exhibition, isn’t it?” his teammate Graeme McDowell asked McIlroy as the victorious Europeans sprayed each other with Champagne in 2010, as if Wales wasn’t already soggy enough.

Jack Nicklaus and Tony Jacklin were the captains in ’83. The U.S. had won 11 of the previous 12 Ryder Cups, the lone exception coming in 1969, when the teams tied with the U.S. retaining the cup. That was the year Nicklaus set the sportsmanship bar, conceding Jacklin’s putt on the 18th. The putt was long enough to engage the nerves but short enough that neither thought Jacklin would miss it. Nicklaus believed the tie was a fitting end. Why even take the chance? He picked up Jacklin’s coin.

At PGA National, the two sides went into the Sunday singles tied 8-8. The first match out that day was Seve Ballesteros, the Masters champion, against Fuzzy Zoeller, who had a green jacket of his own and a back brace to ease his pain. When the hobbled Zoeller won four straight holes from the 12th to the 15th, the match came to 18 all square. Both players drove into thick Florida rough. Zoeller’s second found the fairway. Ballesteros could barely advance his ball, hacking it forward 20 yards into a deep fairway bunker 250 yards from the green. Advantage America. Zoeller might squeeze a whole point from Europe’s most dominant figure. I was a few yards away when Seve pulled out his 3-wood. My first thought was that he was certifiably insane. No way was he clearing the lip with a 3-wood. Then he hit one of the greatest single golf shots ever struck in these biennial matches, a high cut to the front edge of the green. Zoeller hit a 2-iron to 10-feet. Fuzzy missed and Seve got up and down to give each team a half point. Nicklaus called Ballesteros’ 3-wood “the finest shot I’ve ever seen.”

The Americans defeated the Europeans 14 1/2 – 13 1/2 as lightning flashed on the horizon. One of Seve’s teammates on the ’83 side was Nick Faldo, who just happens to do one of the finest Seve impressions in the civilized world. The European locker room was a somber place after the narrow loss. They’d given it all and come up short. In bursts Seve. “We must celebrate!” Faldo says in his best Ballesteros lilt. “This is a victory for us!” Seve was right, of course.

The next year Europe broke the string of losses by winning at The Belfry. At the team celebration afterward, the wives began singing their own version of “America,” from West Side Story. “We’re going to win in America! We’re going to win in America!” And all the boys joined in. “That was a great moment,” says Sir Nick. And win they did, at Jack’s place in Ohio.

Since losing in Palm Beach, Europe has won 12, lost 6 and tied one, good enough that year to retain the cup. The U.S. will be favored at brutish Bethpage. The New York fans will be obnoxious; the traffic on the Long Island Expressway will be horrendous; but don’t underestimate the defenders. They still know how to sing.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
Tag Archives: Southwords

Sleeping It Off

When in doubt, hit snooze

By Emilee Phillips

“What did I miss?” I ask through a yawn and a stretch. This is a common refrain from me. I can sleep on any and every mode of transportation. From the outside it may look like sleeping just about anywhere, just about any time, is my superpower. In some ways, that isn’t untrue.

The reality is slightly more complicated. I’m prone to motion sickness. Not a little bit prone. More like projectile . . . you know what . . . prone. If I’m not in the driver’s seat or, at the very least, in the passenger’s seat — with a cautious driver — you can forget about it. Even being still and looking at something at the wrong angle can make my head spin. State fairs and Tilt-a-Whirls are sworn enemies. The very thought brings on waves of nausea. 

The trouble is that I love to travel. So what’s a girl to do? 

Dramamine has been a normal part of my life since long before I was able to spell it. Road trips, plane rides, boat rides, they’re brutal without it. Those tiny little pills worked wonders keeping me from losing my breakfast, lunch and dinner. The only downside is that they make me groggy.

I say downside because, to be honest, in my altered state I’m not the best traveling companion. My sister dubbed my car-induced sleeping “carcalepsy.”

The last big trip I went on was to Guatemala with my boyfriend, Nate. The country was beautiful to look at . . . absolute chaos to drive through.

So, naturally, we ditched the idea of renting a car and opted for “efficient and cost-effective” public transportation: a bus. That’s how we ended up on what I can only describe as a rollercoaster on wheels, careening through the jungles on a journey from Panajachel to Guatemala City. We were advised the trip could take anywhere from three to six hours depending on potholes, washouts, traffic and whether or not a rogue cow decided to stand in the middle of the road like a crossing guard.

I knew the only way for me to get through this was to sleep. I took an extra bit of my medicine, found a neck angle that wouldn’t paralyze me, and willed myself into a bus-induced slumber.

The roads were winding, bumpy and full of holes big enough to swallow a Volkswagen whole. Slamming on the brakes was a frequent occurrence. Passing slower vehicles, I’ve been told, was like an Indiana Jones sequel, causing even Nate to hold his breath.

During a rest stop, I barely opened one eye when I saw Nate hop off for a snack. For a moment I considered following him but realized that food might give me energy, and energy meant awareness, and awareness meant I’d have to experience the ride. No thank you.

After six hours we pulled into Guatemala City, and I woke up dazed, victorious and the opposite of nauseous, whatever that is. As we de-bussed, Nate gave a little wave to a couple that had been sitting a few rows up from us. Apparently, the three of them had bonded over our mutual survival.

After we were out of earshot from our fellow travelers and walking toward our hotel, Nate started chuckling.

“What?” I asked, rubbing my eyelids and trying to remember what continent I was on.

He scratched his head and said, “So, uh, that couple I waved to? They’re from Germany. Super cool. Thought the ride was nuts.” I nodded. Of course they did. Who wouldn’t?

“Yeah, well,” Nate continued, barely containing his laughter, “they also asked me if I drugged you.”

I blinked. “WHAT?” I had apparently slept through my own kidnapping.

“At first I thought it was a joke but they seemed serious. They couldn’t believe you slept through all of that,” he said motioning behind us. “ I had to tell them I didn’t drug my girlfriend. She drugged herself . . . with Dramamine.” 

Poor Nate having to plead his innocence to complete strangers. Worst case of carcalepsy ever.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
Tag Archives: Southwords

The Hot Dog Rule

Cutting food down to size

By Jim Moriarty

Some years ago I tried to convince the editor of Coastal Living to do a story on the search for the ultimate beach hot dog. He looked at me as if I’d suggested he commit hari-kari with a shucking knife. If Coastal Living was going to talk about food, he said, that food was going to come out of the ocean one way or the other. I felt like a one-eyed king in the land of the blind.

This is not uncommon for those of us who consider the hot dog to be the most highly evolved of all God’s consumables. I came by this understanding as a mere child when dinner on humid summer nights often consisted of a hot dog and a refreshing pint of cold root beer at the B&K drive-in. Slather on the mustard. Dish on the relish. Sprinkle on the onion. No ketchup, please. We weren’t heathens, after all.

Later, as I matured, hot dogs purchased on sweltering afternoons at Wrigley Field from ballpark vendors singing “red hots, get yer red hots” as if it was Verdi’s Rigoletto only served to enhance my belief in the lofty place occupied by the hot dog in the hierarchy of all food. Passing hot dogs, slathered in mustard and chased by an Old Style, down a row of Cubs fans like a bucket brigade putting out a four alarm fire was its own rite of passage. No ketchup, of course. We weren’t savages, you know.

I have a friend at my pub, the Bitter and Twisted, who is as committed to the noble hot dog as anyone I’ve ever known. He is widely traveled, worldly beyond my comprehension, and he claims, with apologies to his West Texas roots, that the very best hot dog he’s ever had was in Reykjavik, Iceland, at Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur, which translates to “The Town’s Best Hot Dogs.” People line up down the block and around the corner to get them, he says. They sell 1,000 a day. If it’s not the town’s best dog I can’t imagine what is.

Hot dogs are beyond utilitarian. They are civilized — yet another reason why they reign supreme — which brings me to The Hot Dog Rule. I don’t mean to cast aspersions at Michelin and all its fancy-schmancy stars, but The Hot Dog Rule is as basic to the laws governing human behavior as not wearing a white shirt when you eat spaghetti. In sum, no sandwich should be more difficult to eat than a hot dog.

When it becomes necessary to deconstruct a sandwich as tall and as vertical on the plate as the leaning tower of Pisa, layered with slabs of tomato, piles of pickles, heads of lettuce, pounds of processed deli meats, mountains of kale, all held together with plastic picks the size of the Excalibur, such a sandwich must be found to be in violation of The Hot Dog Rule. If you have to break your sandwich down into all its component parts as though you’re rebuilding an automobile transmission before you can think about managing a bite, such a sandwich must be found to be in violation of The Hot Dog Rule.

I admit, there are gray areas. For one thing, there is the matter of spillage. But to be perfectly honest, a snippet or two of diced onion or a soupçon of relish falling overboard is hardly the same thing as needing a forceps to pry your jaw open wide enough to take a bite of a sandwich the size of a MINI Cooper.

As for chili dogs, I’m going to have to plead the fifth.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
Tag Archives: Southwords

Magazine Magic

A glossy ticket to other worlds

By Ruth Moose

I LOVE magazines. Always have, always will.

A new magazine is like a gift box to open and unwrap its surprises, goodies, dreams. Even the feel of them: not too heavy, not too bulky. Just right to tuck in your carry-on, under your arm as you go out the door, hold upright in the good light as you read. Perfect for the beach. Who wants to add the weight of War and Peace to the towels, snacks, blankets, chairs, umbrella . . . all to heft and carry? It’s a vacation, not powerlifting.

Magazines are color, inspiration, ideas. They may not weigh much, but they open doors to other worlds.

I grew up in a house with few books: a big Bible (my grandfather was a Baptist preacher); a child’s storybook Bible; a dictionary; some cookbooks (including the red and white gingham covered Original Better Homes & Gardens); and books my wonderful aunt (who was a librarian) sent me for birthdays and Christmas. Mary Poppins, Little Women, Black Beauty and, of course, Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses. I cherished them all.

What was new and different and fresh every month, though, were our magazines. Good Housekeeping, McCall’s, Ladies’ Home Journal, Redbook and more. Reader’s Digest always. When a new issue came, my father would pick it up after supper and read out loud to my mother while she stood at the ironing board. “Life in These United States.” They would laugh together at the silly, harmless foibles of our common humanity. I did the vocabulary quiz after I browsed the articles. Sometimes, we’d get a Guidepost or Progressive Farmer. Though we lived in the city of Albemarle, both my parents had grown up on large farms. Our house was in the middle of some vacant lots where we raised vegetables for our table all summer, canning and freezing some for the winter.

Summers were long and hot and boring with little to occupy our days after Bible school’s two weeks ended. My mother had a daily rule: After lunch, which we called dinner, we had to observe “quiet time.” My brothers and I went to our rooms, closed the doors and were absolutely silent. No TV. No phones (of course). No talking. We didn’t have to nap, though sometimes we did.

What we had were our magazines. My brothers got copies of Boy’s Life and Wee Wisdom, maybe Ranger Rick. I got Seventeen for a few important years and felt very sophisticated. One of our neighbor girls, Jodie, was 5 years older than me and oh, so worldly. She loaned us True Story but my mother would never let me read it. That didn’t keep me from thinking up excuses to visit across the street and snatch some browsing time in Jodie’s under-the-mattress stash.

Meanwhile, Mother took her fresh copies of Better Homes & Gardens, McCall’s and Redbook to the front porch, where it was cooler, and she could browse at a leisurely pace all the new recipes, window treatments, and biographies of the rich and famous we all thought we knew. After devouring our magazines cover to cover, we’d pass them along to friends, family, neighbors.

They were what kept us current with the world, our vocabularies refreshed, our reading skills practiced. They made us feel richer in dreams, our universe widened with words and colors even when that universe didn’t extend much farther than the block we lived on.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
Tag Archives: Southwords

Ah, the PGA

A good time was had by all

By Jim Moriarty

I’ve had a fondness in my heart for the PGA Championship since 1979 when I wrote what we used to call the “gamer” for Golf World magazine, the little engine that could, founded by Bob Harlow in Pinehurst in 1947. Often regarded as the least of golf’s four majors, it was my first time writing about any of them, and I remain deeply and profoundly in like with it. What I produced doesn’t belong in the journalism hall of fame but there is enough persiflage in it to suggest the troublesome wiseass I would become. Besides, anything that can be won five times each by Walter Hagen and Jack Nicklaus is good by me. The 107th running of the club pros (the PGA of America is, after all, their organization) will be conducted this month on the magnificent Quail Hollow Club in Charlotte, which makes me wish it was 1979 all over again.

That championship was played at Oakland Hills Country Club in suburban Detroit, not far from the Red Fox, an upscale restaurant on Telegraph Road where, four years earlier, Jimmy Hoffa was supposed to meet with a couple of Tonys and was never seen again. If memory serves — and these days it rarely does — the media was lodged in a Holiday Inn also not far from the Red Fox. The hotel was in the midst of renovations, which meant the rooms were cheap. The lone non-negotiable requirement of any media hotel was (and I’m guessing still is) that the bar be functional and the hours generous. In this regard it was tiptop. In others, not so much.

One day when I returned from the course, tired and sweaty, I pushed the button to get on the elevator and was greeted by half a dozen enthusiastic policemen with sidearms, bulletproof vests and a battering ram. They were headed for the same floor my room was on to make a drug bust. One of them politely offered to squeeze me in but I told them, “Naw, you all go on, I’ll catch the next one” — a minor subterfuge that, of course, required a timely visit to the hotel bar.

That year a journeyman pro named Rex Caldwell, nicknamed Sexy Rexy, held the 54-hole lead by two shots over Ben Crenshaw, four clear of David Graham, Jerry Pate and Tom Watson. Tall and thin, Caldwell was flashy in his flared trousers and made good copy. A bit too good. He was quoted guaranteeing a victory. “You can make book on it,” he supposedly said. What Rex actually said was, “Hell, I’ll be nervous. You can make book on that.”

After dinner on Saturday night, when I got back to the hotel I ducked into the bar. There was Rex in a corner booth with a woman under each arm. For all I knew they were his cousins but I, for one, wasn’t going to make book on Caldwell winning the PGA.

David Graham, the Australian, wound up beating Ben Crenshaw, the crowd darling, in sudden death but only after David choked away a two-shot lead with a double bogey on the 18th. Graham has never claimed it was anything other than the pressure of the moment. What was remarkable is that he was able to walk off that last green — “I felt like I was 6 inches tall,” he said — and gather himself enough to win a playoff. He had to make a 25-foot putt on the first extra hole and a 10-footer on the second, just to stay alive.

Graham came up hard. He quit school at 13 and left home at 16. He has described his father as “a nasty guy” and, as far as I know, from the day he left they never spoke to each other again. David had an edge to him but if you were his friend, he was the kindest, most loyal man you could ever know.

Dick Taylor, the editor of Golf World who sent me to cover the ’79 PGA, considered David a dear friend. Two years after Oakland Hills, Graham won the U.S. Open at Merion Golf Club producing what I still consider the finest exhibition of ball-striking ever in the last round of our Open. He hit 17 greens. The one he missed was on the collar of No. 17. An inveterate club tinkerer and designer — Graham fashioned the irons Crenshaw used at Oakland Hills — on the Monday after Merion, Taylor called Graham’s home to congratulate his friend privately, not in the public of a media mash up. David’s wife, Maureen, answered the phone. Dick said, “For God’s sake, tell him to leave those clubs alone.”

Maureen relayed the message. From his shop, Graham yelled back, “Tell him I’m regripping them right now!”

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
Tag Archives: Southwords

Live in the Meow

Curiosity didn’t kill this cat

By Emilee Phillips

Cats having nine lives is a cliché. Orange cats being a menace is another. But my childhood cat, Simba, fits the bill for both.

He was trouble from Day One. We found him abandoned under an azalea bush and roaring his little kitten head off. I had never heard such a small animal make so much noise. After capturing the terrified little guy, I discovered he also had six toes, like the Hemingway cats. Trouble.

Simba has always preferred the jungle — er, pine trees — to the cushy indoors. He roamed and picked fights, holding his own in the wild kingdom (our neighborhood). The cat was a scrapper through and through but always came when his name was called. He had a soft spot for family. Or so we thought.

When we moved to horse country Simba went along for the ride. It’s not uncommon for animals to run off after a move. They may get confused and try to find their way back to their former abode. 

Shortly after we relocated, Simba disappeared. I imagined him weaving in and out of briars, riling up goats, scurrying around towering horses like a night bandit. I hollered for him daily, nightly. Not a meow was heard in response. The family searched for him but the new house was out where coyotes regularly lurked. We feared the worst.

After a couple of months, we accepted that our family cat was gone. We honored him with a framed picture that read “Forever in Our Hearts,” with the years of his life inscribed on the back.

But we were wrong. He hadn’t used up all those lives just yet.

My mother and I were shopping in Raleigh one day the next summer when she got a call. “Hi there. I’m a security guard at Penick Village. I, um, think I have your cat.”

We exchanged looks of confusion. “Is it black?” asked my mother, thinking perhaps our second cat, Zelda, had decided to visit some distant, unknown aging relative. 

“No, ma’am, it’s orange.”

“Orange!” we exclaimed in unison.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ve seen him out here every night for the last few months. I figured it was a stray. He finally let me get close enough to grab him and he had a collar. Thought I would try calling.” 

We zoomed back. It was dark by the time we got there, and the cat was nowhere to be seen. I stalked the retirement community for the next three days. 

I asked anyone I saw outside on the street, “Have you seen an orange cat?” To my amazement, nearly all of them said, “Yes.” Great, I thought, my cat has been family shopping. No doubt capitalizing on extra rations from multiple residents. I handed out my phone number like I was passing out Junior Mints. 

On the third day, I got a call. A sighting!

I rushed to Penick Village and jumped out of the car. “Simbaaaa!” I yelled. Next thing I knew I hear a “bwrrr” and out popped my cat from the bushes. I half expected it to be some lookalike, some faux Simba, but it was my very own six-toed little feline. He rolled on his back and purred, seemingly indifferent to the fact that he had been missing for 10 months.

I coaxed him with treats and, after a moment of deliberation, he sauntered over with an accusatory look as if to say, “Yo, where you been?” Once in the car, he jumped into my lap as though this was just another chapter in his great escape.

A wave of emotions rushed over me: happiness, bewilderment . . . and annoyance that my cat decided he wanted to experience an easier pace of living. Well, I was taking him out of early retirement.

The reasons for Simba’s disappearance remain a mystery, having chosen assisted living even over our previous residence. Once I got him home, he didn’t bother with the cat bed we’d set up for the return of the prodigal tabby. Instead, he flopped down on the windowsill, resuming his rightful place with a lazy stretch.

We knew at that moment he wasn’t just returning from his brief sabbatical. He was back, all the way back, ready to once again rule over his empire of pillows and food bowls, with no intention of going missing again, except perhaps to a particularly sunny patch of grass somewhere nearby.

As for us, we crossed out the dates on the back of Simba’s frame and updated the picture — mug shots, front and side.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
Tag Archives: Southwords

Wanna Bet?

The bad luck of the draw

By Jim Moriarty

Games of chance have never been profitable for me. I’m convinced there is a genetic component to the deficiency. My father, who I did not know well, was a non-professional gambler. By this I mean he bet on the horses lavishly but was very bad at it. From what I gather, a lot of bettors study the racing sheet like they’re preparing to take the law boards. My father, on the other hand, was one of those gamblers who bet on a horse because he thought its name was cute or the jockey had just the right shade of blue in his silks. It wasn’t a method that held great promise, and he derived exactly the amount of success from it that you would anticipate.

This carried over to my lone experience betting at the Stoneybrook Steeplechase, that springtime Moore County tradition that was like no other. Since Stoneybrook frequently happened the same week as the Masters, work most often called me to Augusta, Georgia, instead of to the Walsh family farm off Youngs Road. One year, however, the two events diverged, and I was able to attend the races with what seemed like half the state of North Carolina. It was a springtime extravaganza in ways I cannot begin to explain.

Naturally, our tailgating group organized a pool to bet on the races, a practice as common as big hats and cold beer. Given my background, I harbored no illusions of either win, place or show. My expectations were low but were, somehow, exceeded. We drew our numbers from a hat. This alleviated any chance of my putting my father’s methodology to use, which, to be candid, I viewed as something of a plus. I don’t remember what number I drew but, like everyone else, I bellied up to the rail to watch the start of the race.

Just like that, they were off. A thundering herd. I searched among them for my horse. He must be hidden in the pack, I thought. The earth shook as they pounded past. I double-checked the number on the slip of paper in my hand. My horse had gone missing.

Confused, I looked back toward the starting line. My horse wasn’t there, either. In fact, he had never gotten beyond it. When the flag went up and the rope dropped, my trusty steed had wheeled in the opposite direction and put a surprising amount of distance between himself and the rest of the horses, until he found a likely spot to jump the fence into the infield, where, presumably, he was meeting friends for a mint julep. My father would have been so proud.

As poor as this wager might have been, it wasn’t my worst gambling faux pas. That came in a Ladbrokes bet shop in the town of St. Andrews, Scotland. The Open Championship was there in 1990. By then Tom Watson was in his 40s and, to be bluntly honest, his championship game had gone to seed. Still, he had very nearly beaten Seve Ballesteros on the old links six years before.

The odds on Watson were 50-1. I thought, how could this not be worth a few quid?

And so I stepped to the window and put down £20 pounds on my sentimental favorite, the eight-time major championship winner. I walked out of the shop in one of St. Andrews’ back alleys into the bright July sunshine, dreaming of what I would buy when my aging ship came in. As luck would have it, at that very moment a sea gull the size of a nuclear submarine flew directly overhead and dropped a load of sewage on me that could have put out a forest fire. Without hesitation, I tore my ticket in half and tossed it into the nearest trash bin.

Watson and I both missed the cut. 

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
Tag Archives: Southwords

Culture Shock

Experience This

By Ron Green Jr.

It was July 11, 1967, and I was walking into the Charlotte Coliseum — the original one with the silver dome that still hosts events on Independence Boulevard — with my mother, my brother and all of the pre-teen excitement that came with the promise of seeing The Monkees, live, in person, and in concert.

I knew The Monkees like they were my best friends. Mickey Dolenz. Michael Nesmith. Peter Tork. Davy Jones. (Full disclosure, my buddies and I didn’t like Davy that much because the girls thought he was heartbreakingly cute.)

The Monkees were a made-for-television quartet, patterned very loosely after The Beatles in as much as there were four of them and music was involved. They burned white-hot for a time, starred in a top-rated television show that gets credit, or blame, for spawning music videos years later, and they left us with “Daydream Believer” and “I’m A Believer” to put smiles on our faces even now.

What I didn’t know that July evening — the temperature had topped out at 87 degrees that day in the pre-global warming era — was that Jimi Hendrix was performing before our generation’s Fad Four.

The Jimi Hendrix Experience, all loud guitars and evolutionary rock music, was on stage after Lynne Randell, followed by The Sundowners and, as the late great guitarist would lament, immediately before the four guys everyone had come to see and hear. It was a curious cultural moment, a concert pairing as unlikely as anchovies and ice cream at the dinner table, and it only lasted for eight shows.

But we were walking into one of them.

This was the summer of love, and the distance between Charlotte and the Haight-Ashbury district in San Francisco in 1967 was greater than the 2,700 miles stretching between the two. The world was changing, more dramatically than any of us probably realized, but Charlotte was still a small Southern city, connected to the rest of the country by what we saw on television and heard on the radio.

That summer, at least in my comfortable world, it meant The Monkees.

As the son of a sportswriter, I was introduced early to what were then called press gates. That’s where sportswriters, television cameramen and other muckety-mucks with connections to the building’s manager could enter without mixing with the masses.

That meant walking halfway around the outside of the big round building, which also meant walking past the elephant doors, the giant entryway built to accommodate the annual visit from the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus as well as the occasional load-in for concerts, usually country music shows featuring Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash or a new artist named Dolly Parton.

And Elvis. Always Elvis.

As we were heading to the press gate, our mother was telling us what to expect at our first real-life concert. Among her nuggets of wisdom was this: The Monkees are going to look different in person than they do on television.

Admittedly, this was long before anyone imagined HD television, but how different could they look? We were young, impressionable, and we figured anyone who could fry chicken as well as our mother did must know what she was talking about.

A moment after she told us about what television can do to a person’s appearance, a black limousine pulled up to the elephant doors as we were walking past. There they were, about to get out of the car, just a few feet away.

Out stepped Jimi Hendrix.

My 10-year-old mind tried to make sense of what and who I was seeing.

Mickey Dolenz really does look different, I thought. He has an Afro.

It wasn’t until an hour or so later that I realized why Mickey didn’t look like himself. While it may have caused me to doubt some things my mother said as I grew older, it’s a moment that still brings a little smile when I hear “Hey Joe” or “I’m Not Your Steppin’ Stone.”

And when Mickey and his mates took the stage that night — after Hendrix had stomped off with the echo of the guitar he tossed to the floor reverberating through the arena — they looked just like they did on television.

Had we been able to hear them over the screaming, they probably sounded the same, too.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
Tag Archives: Southwords

Snowblind

Go South, young man

By Jim Moriarty

When Golf World magazine, the publication birthed in Pinehurst in 1947 by Bob Harlow, had a vacancy in 1979, I was asked to leave my job as a sportswriter at the South Bend Tribune in northern Indiana to join the staff. In those days GW and its printing presses were housed in what is now one of Southern Pines’ municipal buildings along U.S. 1. Dick Taylor, the editor in chief, offered me the exalted position of the No. 3 person on a staff of, well, three. My official title was associate editor only because I don’t believe Dick thought it kind to use the term peon.

It was, however, a job that any self-respecting golf-obsessed journalist would have fallen all over themselves to get. And I took a cut in pay — which, by the way, was none too generous to begin with — to accept it. I did not, however, make this brilliant career move out of an unbridled love of golf. My wife, the War Department, our 3-year-old little girl, Jennifer, our cat, Tang, and I were driven out of South Bend by far more powerful forces — the Blizzard of ’78.

It began snowing on a Thursday. The Tribune was an afternoon paper, and I was doing the layout of the sports section that morning. I went in at 6 a.m., though to be honest this schedule often featured a phone call from the sports editor, Joe Doyle, who wanted to know where the hell I was. On that particular day, after discharging my office duties, I was set to travel with the Notre Dame hockey team to cover their Friday and Saturday night games against the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks. This would never happen. You try explaining to some people in North Dakota that you couldn’t make it because it snowed.

Anyway, at roughly 10 a.m. I left the office and attempted to go home. It had already snowed 20 inches or so. In fact, it wouldn’t stop snowing until Sunday, piling up something in the neighborhood of 35 inches altogether with drifts much, much higher. Trust me, that’s a rough neighborhood.

It was clear that getting home was going to be a challenge. Our modest house on Fox Street was more or less in the middle of the city, and while I managed to slalom, slip and swerve to within roughly four blocks of home, that was as close as I was going to get.

Up North, there are unwritten rules covering these things. One is that you don’t, under any circumstances, abandon your car in the middle of the road. One sunny day, the snowplow will come, and snowplows don’t give a damn about your car. So, when I’d gone about as far as I could go, I backed up, turned the wheel hard left, stomped on the accelerator and lurched into someone’s front yard. I came back to dig it out five days later.

That evening on the local news — please explain to me how we could get three feet of snow and not lose electricity in South Bend, but if a squirrel walks across a power line on Indiana Avenue seven blocks of Southern Pines goes dark for two days — the local sheriff gave a Knute Rockne-esque pep talk. It went something like this: “Now listen everyone, we’re going to get the emergency routes cleared as fast as we can, but the side streets are going to take some time. My advice to you is, if you really need to go somewhere, start digging.”

And we did. The whole neighborhood. We dug an elaborate network of paths to each other’s houses. The snow was two Jennifers high on both sides. The shoveling brigade dug out the alley behind our row of houses — no plow was ever going back there — so people could get their cars out of their garages. The War Department’s sister had left her copper-colored Hornet parked next to our garage in the backyard while she was off to college. We didn’t see it again until April.

True to the sheriff’s word, the emergency routes were cleared with reasonable dispatch. People attached little orange flags on sticks (the kind you see on some bicycles) to their cars so they could see one another at intersections.

Nothing came down our street for seven days, and then it was a front-end loader. So, when Dick Taylor called, North Carolina seemed like a very good idea indeed. I could figure out all that pesky golf stuff later.

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Home
Tag Archives: Southwords

Holiday Hotline

The Christmas letter that wasn’t

Dear Friends,

In the words of Michael Scott at Dunder Mifflin, over the lips and through the gums, look out stomach, here it comes! Well, it was quite a year. Hottest on record! Yay us! It got off to a great start when the War Department dropped her reckless endangerment charges. As I tried to explain to her at the time, it was only a suggestion. Live and learn.

As you may know, the Carolina Panthers did not win the Super Bowl. Aaaaagain. Turns out they’re worse than their record would indicate. Maybe they should take a page from the convention and visitors bureau in Kentucky that used an infrared laser to send an invitation into deep space attempting to attract extraterrestrials from planets in the TRAPPIST-1 solar system. They can’t do any worse than they do in the NFL draft or making trades. Am I right?

It was a leap year, of course, and that meant the War Department and I had the opportunity to enjoy an additional 24 hours in each other’s company. As it turned out, she was booked on Feb, 29, explaining that it’s not unusual for her to plan years ahead. That’s my girl!

Instead, I read that Finland is the happiest country in the whole wide world, a distinction it has held for seven straight years, which has got to be one of those records that can never be broken — like DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak or the Portuguese dog that lived to be 31 — and it wasn’t even in assisted living! So, you tell me, are the Finns sending out deep space laser messages, too? At least they don’t have a football team!

And it goes without saying that we all got fabulous news when McDonald’s announced its intention to sell Krispy Kreme doughnuts fresh daily. This revelation happened around the time cicada broods XIX and XII stuck their little heads out of the ground to rub wings together and party like it was 2024. The last time they did that fandango in the back yard was 221 years ago. Coincidence?

Of course, in June we had the U.S. Open right up the street. Bryson DeChambeau expressed no interest whatsoever in renting our doublewide for the week. Worse luck for him! On the plus side, Scottie Scheffler managed to get through the week without being hauled off in handcuffs. WWGD. What would Gomer do? Citizen’s arrest! Citizen’s arrest!

That’s about when we discovered that, in its latest update, the Oxford English Dictionary added (among other words and expressions) “Chekhov’s gun” to its lexicon. Chekhov, of course, was the Russian playwright who described the literary principle that says unnecessary elements should never be introduced into a story. If you have a gun in the play, someone needs to use it. Which brings me to Rory McIlroy. Ha-ha.

Right after the Open came the Olympics in France. Incroyable! Turns out Simone Biles is tiny. I’m talking Keebler cookie tiny. But that’s OK. As the great Dan Jenkins once said of a famous gymnast, “She can do everything my cat can do.”

I don’t know about you, but the Paris Olympics were a smash hit in our house, and I think it’s safe to say there are some things we can keep in mind for when we host the Open again in 2029. How about those opening ceremonies floating down the Seine? Think Drowning Creek. Am I wrong?

When it comes to mano a mano competition, however, the U.S. Open had nothing on Joey Chestnut, who had to forgo competing for Nathan’s Mustard Belt after he sold his soul to a rival food company. You know what Hunter S. Thompson said, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” In a counter programing one-on-one match Chestnut downed 83 dogs — not the Portuguese kind, ha-ha — to beat his sworn rival, someone named Kobayashi, who I don’t think has had steady work since The Usual Suspects. Who is Keyser Soze?

It was an election year, and I decided not to run again. Those background checks! Who needs them?

The whole family was here for Thanksgiving, and the War Department made her traditional beef aspic. Lily, the almost 4-year-old, looked at me with those big, wide eyes and said, “Craps.” That’s what she calls me. “Meat Jell-O?” From the mouths of babes!

On to 2025!

Toodles,

The Maury Arties