Author: Bruce VanWyngarden

Categories
Best of Memphis Special Sections

Best of Times

Can another year really have flown by so fast? Seems like only yesterday we were counting hundreds of ballots and trying to squeeze a bajillion dollars worth of ads into a single week’s issue. Oh wait, that was yesterday. Still, you get the idea. This is one
lollapalooza of an issue and it’s the result of a lot of work on the part of a lot of people — from ad sales to design and production to editorial.

This year, we’ve come up with a political theme. Where on earth did we get that idea, you
ask. Hard to say, though it could be a result of the approximately 100 letters and phone calls we
get every day sounding off about the candidates and the
Flyer’s (brilliant or demented, pick one) political views.

When it comes to putting this fat monster together, managing editor Susan Ellis deserves
most of the editorial kudos, along with intrepid copy editors Leonard Gill and Pamela Denney. If
you go to our Best of Memphis party, you’ll recognize them by their glazed eyeballs and the
empty cocktail glasses scattered on the floor nearby.

Come to think of it, that would describe any number
of folks. But onward …

Thanks also go to art director Carrie Beasley and
her staff, Amy Mathews and Tara McKenzie, whose
computers are still sizzling from all those ads and stories that had to
be laid out.

Kudos as well to the ad sales staff for their fine
and renumerative efforts and in particular to advertising
traffic manager Carrie O’Guin, who had to track all the
material and get it into the paper. No easy task.

And a special nod goes to staff writer Chris Davis,
who wrote, oh, maybe 14,000 words of copy for this issue.
It wasn’t assigned. He apparently couldn’t stop himself.

— Bruce VanWyngarden

The Best of Memphis Readers’ Poll

Buttoned Up: A look at state senator Steve Cohen’s political-button collection. By Bruce VanWyngarden.

Being Blogged Is the Sincerest Form of Flattery: Taking a look at HalfBakered. By Jackson Baker.

A Man of God’s Country: Getting to know the mayor of Frayser. By Bianca Phillips.

Thanks, Nixon: The day I learned to love politics. By Bruce VanWyngarden.

Readers’ Picks

“And the Rest”

He’s Got Drive: A Q&A with the mayor of Covington Pike. By Susan Ellis.

Rock the Vote: How to be the Best of Memphis. By Mary Cashiola.

Cheats: Or, how to stuff a wild ballot box. By Susan Ellis.

Your Permit, Please: One of the weirdest laws on the Memphis record books. By Janel Davis.

Believe It or Not: The best of local government. By John Branston.

Mid-South Fair & Balanced: A Fly’s-eye view of contemporary American political discourse. By Chris Davis.

See Hear: When politics and art collide. By Chris Herrington.

Best Reason To Vote Republican: Does Kelly Jacobs give Democrats a bad name? By Chris Davis.

Staff Picks

Elephants in the Room: A gay old dinner party with the area’s leading Log Cabin Republican. By Chris Davis.

Best of the Best of Memphis

What’d I Say?: Can you match the mangled quote by the Republican who did the mangling? A quiz by Chris Davis.

Categories
Best of Memphis Special Sections

Smoking Gun

President Nixon had been twisting slowly in the breeze for months, denying any direct connection to the Watergate break-in. But on August 5, 1974, the hammer fell. The “smoking gun” was a transcript of a secret Oval Office tape that showed that six days after the burglary, Nixon had tried to use the CIA to block the FBI from investigating the incident. The tape directly linked the president to obstruction of justice, and Nixon knew the jig was up.

Three days later, word of Nixon’s forthcoming resignation hit the street and spread like a barrel of spilt mercury. Horns honked, people shouted the news, and below my apartment window, hippies did the happy dance in the streets of Haight-Ashbury.

The bastard, the evil one, the man who walked the beach in a suit and wingtips, the very face of the Vietnam insanity, was finally leaving. He was too a crook. We’d won … something. Something big.

We were suddenly riding a wave, surfing gleefully into a golden age where all would be made new. Politics would be about principles. Human decency would prevail. Racism and sexism and corporate greed would fade away, replaced by an Aquarian idealism that seemed at that moment ready to take over the world. Talkin’ ’bout my generation.

Cool, man.

And so my girlfriend Autumn and I joined Americans everywhere and settled in front of our television to watch Nixon’s final chapter. I remember we smoked a fat joint out on the fire escape just before the president came on, which might seem stupid in hindsight, but it makes more sense if you know that many of us in my generation smoked a fat joint before doing anything in those days. And afterward too.

I turned the on/off knob (remember those?) and the television made that low sizzling whump televisions used to make and flickered on. There he was. Nixon. He stared out at me, and I remember feeling a bizarre combination of queasiness and exhilaration.

“This is the 37th time I have spoken to you from this office where so many decisions have been made that shaped the history of this nation,” he began.

“That means at least 37 lies you’ve told us, you asshole,” I riposted.

“Each time,” the president continued, “I have done so to discuss with you some matter that I believe affected the national interest.”

“Get to the point, man!” I hissed.

“Calm down, man,” my girlfriend said, stroking my shoulder soothingly.

“In all the decisions I have made in my public life,” the president droned, “I have always tried to do what was best for the nation.”

“Like hell you have, you lying sack of …”

“Baby,” my girlfriend said, rubbing my neck, “you need to mellow out.”

“In the past few days, however, it has become evident to me that I no longer have a strong enough political base in the Congress to justify continuing that effort …”

“Political base?” I screamed. “You got caught by your own tape recorder!“”You know, Bruce, this is really bad-vibing me,” said Autumn, removing her halter-top.

“But the interests of the nation must always come before any personal considerations …”

“The interests of the nation had nothing to do with it, you creep!”

“Honey, turn that thing off,” Autumn said softly but firmly.

“But this is historic and …”

“Turn that off, and I’ll take something off,” she said, fingering her Indian-print skirt.

“I have never been a quitter. To leave office before my term is completed is abhorrent to every instinct in my body …”

“I said Turn. It. Off.”

So I did.

Ten minutes later, I turned it back on. (Hey, I was young.)

” … whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again because there is not effort without error and shortcoming, but who does actually strive to do the deed, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumphs of high achievements and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.

“I pledge to you that as long as I have a breath of life in my body, I shall continue …”

“Bruce.”

And then I turned it off again. (Hey, I was young.) Thus began my lifelong love affair with American politics. •

Categories
Cover Feature News

Bubbles and Balls

“My rule is if it feels like a ball, I put it in the bag. If it squirms, I let it go.”

Steve Loibner is talking about his livelihood, which is diving for golf balls. There’s nothing too sophisticated about it, to hear him tell it. “It’s the Helen Keller method,” he says. “All feel.”

As we talk, Loibner’s standing waist-deep in a pond on number 11 at the Marion [Arkansas] Golf and Athletic Club. It’s a course where the rough is deep — and has waves. In fact, it seems to this observer that the course is more water than land.

“Oh yeah,” says Loibner. “Marion is my favorite. You can put a ball in the water on every shot. I’m here every month, sometimes twice a month.” They don’t call this place the “Marion Monster” for nothing.

Loibner calls his business Bubbles & Balls, and he’s been at it for 22 years. He began with four courses near his home in Benton, Arkansas. He was a teacher then, and ball-diving was a perfect summer job. “Yep,” he says, “I taught biology and anatomy — and I coached girls’ basketball and softball. I’ve got five state championship rings.” Which is good, since he’s managed to lose four wedding rings plying his watery trade. In 1998, he “hung up his chalk” and went into the ball-recovery business full-time. Now he has 115 courses as clients, spread out between Oklahoma City and Memphis.

His biology background sometimes still comes in handy. “I spend most of my days flipping turtles and goosing frogs,” he says. Surprisingly, he says snakes are not really a problem. “They normally just try to get away from you,” he says, adding that there are a couple of places he won’t work “during the mating season.” The biggest problem, though, is leeches.

Leeches? “Oh, yeah,” he says. “Leeches love a golf ball. They rest on them and wait for a host to come by.” Like, say, a diver. Which is why Loibner covers every inch of his body, except for his face.

He finds lots of other things too. Like shopping carts, bicycles, skateboards, guns, and at least five clubs a week. “Some I donate to a charity like First Tee,” he says. “But most of ’em aren’t in real good shape. Normally, when a club hits the water, the shaft is bent or broken, if you know what I mean.”

Sadly, I do.

“Hold your balls higher,” says the photographer. Loibner grins and lifts the mesh bag obligingly. He’s heard all the jokes. It helps to have a sense of humor when balls are your business.

Usually, Loibner splits the balls he finds with the golf course. Then he puts the ones he keeps through a four-step, 24-hour cleaning process before selling them to various retailers, golf courses, and driving ranges.

He’ll sell you a bag too: $25 for a bag of 100 “pond run” balls. Whether that bag has more cheap Top-Flites or top-of-the-line Titleists is anybody’s guess. Balls recovered from exclusive country clubs are more likely to be a better quality than balls he finds at a place like Marion. And that’s no reflection on Marion, which is a nice course. It’s just wet and anyone who plays here knows they’re going to lose their balls. They even give you three balls before you start to play.

Loibner cautions that his job isn’t for just anyone who can strap on a scuba tank. “It’s black water down there,” he says. “People think it’s an Easter egg hunt, but you can’t see anything. He also likes to tell about the human-sized catfish he accidentally mounted. “I came straight up out of that water,” he says. “Fast.”

And sometimes the hazards are human. “Once, when I came up out of the water, a ball hit me on the back of the head,” Loibner says. “I went back down and laid low until I figured they were gone. A little later, I went into the clubhouse and there’s a couple sitting at a table. The woman looks at me and says, ‘I’m mad at you.’

“I said, ‘Why?’

“She said, ‘Because my husband’s ball hit you in the head on the 9th hole.’

“‘And you’re mad?’ I said.

“‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It bounced off your head, onto the green, and my husband birdied the hole. I had him beat until that happened.'”

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

The Year That Was

In his January State of the Union address, President Bush says that America can’t take the chance that Saddam Hussein is hiding weapons of mass destruction. Saddam, he says, has missed “his final chance” and has recently sought significant quantities of uranium from Africa. War, the president says, is the only way to keep America safe.

In North Korea, dictator Kim Jong Il kicks U.N. weapons inspectors out of his country and announces plans to begin manufacturing weapons-grade plutonium. Diplomacy, the president says, is all that’s necessary to keep America safe.

Meanwhile, in Florida, the Raelian cult announces that they have created a human clone. Though evidence of such was not forthcoming, the Raelians soon prove their ability to clone massive amounts of spam e-mail.

In February, Secretary of State Colin Powell tells the U.N. that there is “irrefutable and undeniable” evidence that Iraq has weapons of mass destruction. In 600 cities around the world, six million people protest the now-inevitable war.

Later that month, 27 million people watch a television film about Michael Jackson.

In March, the U.S. launches its “shock and awe” bombing campaign against Iraq. France, Germany, and Russia refuse to support the U.S. war effort. Congress invents “freedom fries” in retaliation.

Utah teenager Elizabeth Smart is found, thereby launching 1,000 hours of cable programming.

In April, U.S. and British troops invade Baghdad and help topple a 40-foot statue of Saddam. Looting is rampant. “Freedom’s untidy,” says Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld.

Private Jessica Lynch is rescued in a “daring raid,” thereby launching an untidy race to win movie rights to her story.

On May 1st, the president lands on an aircraft carrier in San Diego and declares “major combat operations” have ended in Iraq.

SARS, the disease that sparked a worldwide panic, subsides, having killed 400 people — worldwide. Professional moralist William Bennett confesses that he has lost $8 million in slot machines.

In June, the president signs a $350 billion tax cut and says Americans will have “more of their money to spend.”

Hillary Clinton’s autobiography makes back its $8 million advance in one week. William Bennett could not be reached for comment. Strom Thurmond dies at age 100.

Uday and Qusay Hussein are killed by U.S. troops in July. Saddam releases an audiotape calling for a jihad. The president responds diplomatically by saying, “Bring ’em on.” More than 100 Americans have been killed in combat.

Kobe Bryant is charged with rape, thereby launching 1,000 hours of cable programming. Strom Thurmond’s staff notices he is dead.

In August, Arnold Schwarzenegger anounces his candidacy for governor of California on The Tonight Show, thereby launching the political careers of 200 other nutballs, including Larry Flynt, Gallagher, Gary Coleman, and a porn star with giant breasts. Schwarzenegger is accused of being a “serial groper.” His porn-star opponent says she is a “serial gropee.”

In September, the president requests and receives $87 billion from Congress to pay for the continued occupation of Iraq. Suicide bombs plague the country. The American death toll rises to 200.

In the U.S., Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez release a career-suicide bomb called Gigli. After seeing the film, magician David Blaine locks himself in a plastic box in London for 44 days.

In October, Schwarzenegger “handily” wins the California governorship. Rush Limbaugh checks into a rehab center to shake an addiction to pain-killers. Magician Roy Horn checks into a hospital to shake his addiction to white tigers.

November is the deadliest month of the Iraq war. More than 300 American soldiers have died so far. A memo from Rumsfeld saying the country faces a “long, hard slog” is leaked to the press.

Britain’s Prince Charles denies rumors that he has had his own long, hard slog with a male servant.

The president delivers a fake turkey to selected troops in Iraq in a clandestine, two-hour Thanksgiving visit.

In December, Bush signs a $400 billion drug-benefit law. Stocks rise precipitously, especially pharmaceuticals. Limbaugh applauds a “recovering” economy.

Strom Thurmond’s black daughter announces her existence. Staff turns Thurmond over in his grave.

Saddam Hussein is captured hiding in a hole in the ground. The good news is that he’s able to make his dental appointment.

Top that, 2004.

Categories
Editorial Opinion

Petersons, Plagiarism, and Pandas

Whew! Glad that’s over. The war in Iraq, I mean. Now we can get back to what’s really important: Who killed Laci Peterson?

To be sure, as Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld has stated, there is still some “untidiness” to deal with in Iraq, but that’s yesterday’s news. It’s not like we can expect the networks to embed reporters with troops that are trying to restore electricity or stop looters or guard museums. How boring. Rebuilding a country from scratch just doesn’t make for very good television. And after all, the POWs are home. It’s time to move on.

Besides, didn’t you hear? They found Laci Peterson’s body!

It pains me to say this, but American television journalism has never been in worse shape. Our cable news networks have been permanently “O.J.-ed” into a relentless pattern: devoting weeks of coverage, analysis, and second-guessing to spectacular crime cases. The war in Iraq was only an interruption, a brief respite separating the Elizabeth Smart case (formerly the most important story in America) from the Peterson case. The war was good for the networks only as long as they could show combat scenes. Without footage of explosions or firefights, it appears at this point that there will be little coverage of the world’s most important ongoing story.

How did we get to this point? The obvious answer is money. The media are no different from any other large corporations these days, answerable to their boards and stockholders for a profitable bottom line. The higher the ratings, the higher the rates that can be charged to advertisers. It’s simplistic, certainly, but the evidence is hard to deny.

The most distressing aspect of all this is how it now colors the coverage of the news. Despite the Fox network’s absurd claim of being “fair and balanced,” its flag-waving jingoism made for stellar ratings numbers. This was not surprising, since most polls showed 70 percent of Americans supported the war. In short order, we saw MSNBC and CNN make adjustments. MSNBC quickly came up with an imitation Bill O’Reilly, the equally smug Joe Scarborough (“Scarborough Country”). The truth had become obvious: Run too many stories about dead and wounded Iraqis, misguided cluster bombs, or friendly-fire investigations and ratings go down. Offer liberal-bashing hosts with stories about inspirational POW rescues, happy Iraqi children greeting coalition soldiers, and surgically exploding buildings, and everybody’s happy. Or at least 70 percent of us are.

Of course, all of the stories cited above were part of the fabric of the war and all warranted coverage. But the American people did not get the full story — and still aren’t. The media were criticized and demonized from the top down. Rumsfeld’s bizarre facial contortions made his disdain for tough queries from reporters quite obvious. But asking the tough questions is the media’s most important function in our democracy. If reporters don’t ask them, who will? Certainly not Joe Scarborough. The more important issue: If asking tough questions– and reporting the truth, no matter how “un-American” it may be perceived — results in lower ratings for television networks, will the networks stop asking them?

John Branston’s City Beat column in the Flyer last week documented rampant and ongoing plagiarism at the Tri-State Defender. It was a hard-hitting story, but the facts were undeniable: Under the byline of Larry Reeves, the Defender ran dozens of plagiarized stories taken from newsweeklies around the country over the past few years. When confronted by the evidence, owner Thomas Picou and publisher/editor Marzie Thomas claimed they had never met Larry Reeves, never paid him, and didn’t know where he was, even though his byline has appeared in the paper 142 times since 1995. Picou speculated that Reeves might be an 80-year-old white guy.

In an editorial “reponse” (yes, response was misspelled in the headline), the newspaper labeled the Flyer story an “attack on the African-American community” and claimed that they were “not the culprit, but rather the victim.”

Horsefeathers.

Sorry, folks, but you are the culprits and your readers are the victims. Branston’s follow-up column this week (page 9) makes it clear something is very rotten at the Tri-State Defender.

It’s all very distressing. None of us in the media are perfect, but the evidence grows that the Fourth Estate is in an increasingly bad state, pandering to popular tastes, wasting valuable air-time and column inches on cheerleading and fluff at the expense of real reporting. It may help the bottom line, but journalism is supposed to be about more than that.

Oh well, I guess I should look on the bright side. It’s Panda Week, after all.

Bruce VanWyngarden is editor of the Flyer.

Categories
Editorial Opinion

The Pizza Guy

“When we came outside, the pizza guy’s car was running, and all the car doors were locked,” said resident Christina Ames. “His back window was shattered, and we called police.” — from The Commercial Appeal, September 9, 2002

It’s a nondescript apartment parking lot, a block from the hip restaurants of Cooper-Young, only a few yards from the Java Cabana coffeehouse. Not the kind of place you’d expect to die.

But John Stambaugh, 20, a student at the University of Memphis, died here on Sunday, September 8th, killed by a shotgun blast through the rear window of his car after delivering a pizza.

Three days after the shooting, a candle in a glass cylinder burns near the wire fence edging the lot, the centerpiece of a makeshift memorial. There are notes from Stambaugh’s friends, a vase of fading yellow roses, a bunch of fresh daisies. One card is inscribed with a verse from a Pixies song:

In this land of strangers,

there are dangers,

there are sorrows …

I am leaving tomorrow.

The day after the shooting, I received a call from my son in college in Connecticut. “Did you hear about John Stambaugh?” he said.

“No,” I said, then thinking, Maybe yes.

“He was killed yesterday.”

I’d seen the story about the pizza-delivery murder in the CA and had recognized John Stambaugh’s name as the same as a high school friend of my son’s. But I’d dismissed the connection, since the article said the driver was 24 years old. The John Stambaugh I knew couldn’t have been more than 20.

“Are you sure it was him?” I asked. “The paper said the guy was 24.”

“It was him, Dad.”

Ten minutes later, my daughter called from college in Florida. “Dad, did you hear … ?”

“Yeah, it’s horrible.”

“I just remember him being such a happy, smart guy,” she said. “I remember him at a Mighty Mighty Bosstones concert at the Daisy. He loved that band so much then, and they invited him up onstage. He was so happy … . Remember when we used to give him rides home from school?”

“Yeah, I remember. I remember.”

At the railroad overpass on Central near Cooper, I pull over to take a picture of a graffiti memorial to Stambaugh. It reads, “We love and miss you friend.” As I shoot, a jogger stops to watch. He’s not happy.

“You know that’s gang graffiti, don’t you?” he says. “They’re doing that everywhere around here.”

“Actually,” I say, “it’s a tribute to the pizza guy who was killed last weekend.”

“I bet the gang that killed him put that up there.”

“I don’t think so, my friend.”

At Cafe Olé, I ask some of the employees if they knew John. Many of them did, and they give me phone numbers of others who knew him. I talk to John’s friend Luke Hall.

“I knew John for a couple of years,” he says. “We just hung out together, you know. Drank beer, went to school, went to concerts. The usual stuff. We were going to start riding our bikes to school to try to get in shape. He was really into psychology.”

I ask Hall if John ever expressed fear about doing his job. “No,” he said. “And it’s funny. He got a friend a job delivering pizza, and the guy quit after two days. John teased him about being a chicken. John just didn’t worry about stuff like that.”

It’s Friday night at the David Mah Gallery in Cooper-Young, two blocks from the murder scene. It’s an eclectic show — nudes, landscapes, three portraits of Barbie dolls. The opening-night crowd circles upon itself, going inside, then out onto the sidewalk, drinking wine, smoking, discussing art and artists, gossiping.

I run into a friend who has a son who also went to White Station High with John Stambaugh. “How are you?” I ask.

“This is the first day I haven’t cried,” she says, looking as though she’s about to cry.

“It’s so sad. He used to come to my house for dinner all the time,” she says. “He was a vegetarian, so I’d have to come up with something different so he could eat with us. I remember saying one time, ‘John, I give up. Just go in there and fix yourself something.’ He was such a great kid.”

Services for John Stambaugh III were held on the beach in St. Petersburg, Florida, last Saturday. He was 20 years old, a music lover, a psychology buff, a vegetarian, a friend, a son, a great kid.

A pizza guy.

Categories
Opinion Viewpoint

Summer Golf

The invitation came a few weeks ago from the communications coordinator for the Make-A-Wish Foundation, who asked if I would be interested in playing in John Daly’s celebrity golf tournament at the Grand Casino and writing about it for the Flyer. I thought about it for, oh, three seconds before saying, “Sign me up.” After all, what golfer wouldn’t want to watch Daly hit some of those mega-drives and hang out with some Hollywood types for a day? Sounded like a dandy idea to me.

Being the shallow type, the next question I asked was: “So who are some of the celebrities who show up for this thing?”

“Well, Joe Pesci has committed,” she replied. “And Nolan Richardson and Dickie Betts, maybe Meatloaf, lots of Nashville musicians, and … “

“JOE PESCI is coming?”

“Yes, and Hootie and the … “

“Joe Pesci?”

The communications coordinator (also a friend) sighed. “Yes, Joe Pesci is coming.”

“Man,” I said, “Joe Pesci would be perfect for the story. Can I play with him? Please? I just want to be there to hear him go off when he screws up: ‘Look at dat freakin’ bawl. It’s in da freakin’ watah! How da freak does dat freakin’ bawl go in da freakin’ watah?'”

“Nice,” she said, “very nice. But, look, it’s kind of a luck-of-the-draw thing. There’s a pairings party you have to go to. And besides, this is about the kids, not about who can get the coolest celebrity to play with.”

“Can’t you put the fix in for me?” I asked, remaining firmly in the shallows. “Joe seems like the kind of guy who’d appreciate a good fix.”

“I don’t think so,” she said wearily. “But I’ll see what I can do. Are you in or not?”

“Freak yes, I’m in.”

The pairings party was held AT the Rendezvous the night before the tournament. I showed up early so Joe and I could talk strategy for the next day’s match. I figured he’d want some tips on the course, or maybe he could give some advice on the best way to get a good lie when nobody’s looking.

It didn’t take long before I started seeing some of my fellow celebs. There was former Dallas Cowboys coach Barry Switzer standing in the alley smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, Coach,” I said. (Coaches love it when you call ’em “Coach.”)

“Hey fella,” he said. “How’s it goin’?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Nice to see ya.”

Yeah, baby, I was in the bigs now. Chatting up the beautiful people. I glided inside and almost stumbled over Hootie. Of course, only the truly ignorant would call Darius Rucker of Hootie & the Blowfish Hootie. There is no actual Hootie. Rucker’s just another Blowfish. (As we all are in the vast ocean of life, when you think about it.) I thought of sharing these deep thoughts with my man Darius, but for some reason, he seemed to want to continue talking to the gorgeous brunette with the deep tan and turquoise jewelry. Go figure.

Inside, there were other Blowfish, including the tall guy with straight hair and the tall guy with curly hair. A veritable school of Blowfish, right there in the Rendezvous. Eating barbecue.

Our host, John Daly, was in the midst of it all, smiling easily, charming everyone he met. I was struck by how small he really is, which makes the fact of his incredibly long drives even more impressive. His dedication to this tournament is also impressive. Since 1992, he’s raised almost $1.5 million for Make-A-Wish.

After much noshing and chatting, the whole shindig was moved to B.B. King’s, where the pairings were to be announced. No sign of my buddy Joe yet. Playin’ it freakin’ cool, as usual.

After a steaming set from Little Jimmy King, Daly took the stage to announce the pairings. But before he could get started, there was a voice from the wings.

“Hey, you crazy sonofagun.”

It was Joe Pesci, at long last. He and Daly embraced and exchanged a little celebrity banter.

“Stand up, Joe,” Daly said. “Oh, wait, you’re already standing up.” Like that.

As the pairings were read off, people around the room were high-fiving. “Yes! Nolan Richardson. Cool.”

Finally, I heard my name through the din. And my celebrity teammate was … John Cafferty.

John Cafferty? Huh? Obviously, the fix wasn’t in. Joe would have to carry on without me. And I’d have to figure out who John Cafferty was before our 8 a.m. tee time the next day.

Actually, I found out a little sooner. The party moved en masse to the Rum Boogie for an impromptu jam session as various musicians hit the stage to join the house band, the Gamble Brothers. Johnny Lee got up and sang “Poke Salad Annie.” Mark Bryan of Hootie et al. (the tall one with curly hair) jumped in on “Fire on the Bayou.” Then Steve Cropper started working a slinky guitar lick, and a sax player who looked vaguely familiar stepped up and began to wail the opening riff to the soul classic “Shotgun.” Next to him was a small man with tousled hair and a soulful face who grabbed the mic and started to sing in a strong, sandpaper voice.

“Who’s that?” I asked the guy standing next to me.

“John Cafferty. From the Beaver Brown Band. So’s the sax player. Remember them?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “‘On the Dark Side.’ Big ’80s hit.”

“From Eddie and the Cruisers … “

Then it all came rolling back: the summer of ’83, or was it ’82? I was a young father, starting a journalism career after quitting the last of a forgettable string of bands. Eddie and the Cruisers was on cable — constantly. It was an oddly compelling film, with Michael Pare, Tom Berenger, and Ellen Barkin all getting their first big parts. It was about youth and death and sex and drugs and rock-and-roll, and I watched it several times that summer. It spoke to me, baby. The Beaver Brown band, of course, played on the soundtrack.

Up on stage, “Shotgun” was building to a climax. Cropper and “Tunes,” the Beaver Brown sax player, were trading four-note licks, climbing higher with each exchange, sending the soul chestnut to places it had never visited before. Then it was back to the chorus and Cafferty’s raw shout brought it all back around. It was probably the best rendition of “Shotgun” ever played in the history of the world. At least. Even the audience was exhausted when it ended.

So, okay, I thought. I didn’t get Joe Pesci, but John Cafferty might be kind of interesting. Sonofagun can still sing, that’s for sure. What the freak.

The next morning came early. Very early.

At 7 a.m., the Cottonwoods Golf Course was awash with more than 80 yellow-shirted Make-A-Wish volunteers checking in golfers, setting up breakfast, directing golf-cart traffic. I was struck by the missionary zeal of this group. They believe in what they’re doing, no question.

As I was leaving the clubhouse, I got an idea why. A small girl on crutches and in leg braces — maybe 10 years old — was attempting to climb the three steps into the clubhouse. I waited on the landing above as she painstakingly, slowly lifted one leg up, maneuvered her crutches into position, set her leg down, pushed off on her crutches, lifted her other leg, and dragged it up. Those with the girl made no move to help but offered encouragement.

“You’re doing great, baby.”

“Just one more.”

Her courage was beyond measure, but it was hard to watch.

Finally, she was up on the landing and through the doors.

“We’re going to go out and play 18 holes, and she’s just tryin’ to climb three steps,” a voice behind me said. “Kinda puts it all in perspective, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said, a little moist-eyed.

I turned, and the guy behind me stuck out his hand. “John Cafferty,” he said.

I’m here to tell you now that y’all need to go out and buy John Cafferty’s records and rent Eddie and the Cruisers several times, because this guy is one of the nicest, most genuine people I’ve ever met. Plays a decent game of golf too.

That said, there’s nothing more boring than recounting a golf outing, but I will say our team finished a respectable eight under par and everybody contributed at least one miraculous shot or two. We even got a little help from John Daly, who played one hole with each team.

Daly pulled up in a cart on the 10th tee, just after we’d put four 220-yard drives in the fairway — or close, anyway. He jumped out and said, “Y’all want some help?” Yes, we did.

“How long is this hole?” Daly asked.

“Says 299 from this tee box, John.”

Daly let this information sink in, looked down the fairway, then took 10 paces back from the tee markers. He tossed aside his cigarette, stuck a ball on a tee, waggled his driver once or twice, and took a massive 340-degree swing. There was a thwack loud enough to stunt grass growth, loud enough to loosen the elastic in your shorts, loud enough … well, it was freakin’ loud. The white pellet disappeared into the ever-blue Delta sky, heading west toward the unseen green, hidden behind a row of moguls about 275 yards out.

“Uh, thanks, John,” we said. We piled into our carts, drove to pick up our meager offerings to the fairway gods, and headed toward the green — where we found Mr. Daly’s ball about 20 feet from the cup.

“Need any more help, fellas?” Daly shouted from his cart.

“I think we can handle it from here, John. Thanks,” we said.

After our round, we headed to the dining room for lunch, all of us, that is, except Cafferty, who went immediately to an adjoining area that had been set up for Make-A-Wish kids and their families. About 45 minutes later, as we were finishing our sandwiches, he rejoined us.

“Whew,” he said, shaking his head. “Those people are amazing — the stuff they’re going through is unbelievable. It makes you humble.”

It was clear that Cafferty, who has two small children of his own, has become personally involved in the Make-A-Wish cause. As various celebrities walked into the dining room, he urged each of them to go to the kids’ room before eating. “Go on in there,” he’d say. “They need you in there now.”

As he finished his lunch, one of my playing partners asked Cafferty how he got connected with Eddie and the Cruisers.

“It’s a strange story,” he said. “At the time, we were playing up and down the East Coast, just bars mainly. One weekend at a gig in New York, this guy came up and asked for my phone number. We didn’t hear from him again until three years later. He called and asked us if we were still together and if we wanted to be the band in this movie he was making.

“So we make Eddie and the Cruisers and it gets released and just dies immediately, and we think, Well, that’s that. A few months later — I think it was the summer of ’83 — it gets released on cable. This was when people first started getting cable in big numbers, and that movie played almost every day. There were a lot of kids home for the summer, and they saw the movie and liked it and started buying the soundtrack. We had no idea at first, but one day, we were playing a gig in Toronto and my manager called and said, ‘You better get back home. You sold 30,000 records this week.'”

“I said, ‘What record?'”

“That’s a hell of a story,” I said.

“What it says to me,” Cafferty said, “is that life is all about being in the right place at the right time.”

Just then a child in a wheelchair was pushed over to our table. He was impossibly small but with a teenage face peering out from under an Alabama baseball hat. I find out later he has an evil little ailment called brittle bone disease.

“Hey, John,” he said in a very high, small voice. “How’s it going?”

“Hey, how are you, man?” John replied, obviously renewing an aquaintance. He turned and started talking animatedly to the kid with the big dose of bad luck in the Alabama hat.

As I watched, I couldn’t help but think John Cafferty was still in the right place at the right time.

If you know of a child in need of a wish, or to volunteer, call Make-A-Wish at 680-WISH.

Categories
Sports Sports Feature

Return Of the Missing Links

Memphis golfers will welcome back an old friend April 29th, when Galloway Golf Course reopens. The city’s most popular track has been on the disabled list for 18 months while undergoing a $3.5 million renovation. So what does $3.5 million buy? On-course changes include several new lakes, Tiffeagle Bermuda greens, lots of moguls and bunkers, an additional 171 yards — and a new name: The Links at Galloway.

In addition to the obvious physical changes, the reinvention of Galloway signals a new direction in the city’s financial and philosophical approach to municipal golf. I spoke to Paul Evans, administrator of golf operations for the city of Memphis, about those changes.

Memphis Flyer: Why the new name?

Paul Evans: We’re trying to develop a group context. The courses used to be managed by individual golf pros and didn’t incorporate a single concept of marketing. That’s what we’re trying to do now. Each of the city’s seven courses will be called “The Links at … Audubon, Pine Hills, etc.”

So you plan to make these kinds of upgrades at all city courses?

We have plans to continue the process. As long as we can prove to the city council that we can pay for the projects [out of operating budgets] we’ll continue the projects.

What’s the time frame for that? When will you know you can start to develop the other courses?

I don’t really know what the time frame is at this point. I know we’ll have to substantiate with numbers to the city council that Galloway is paying for itself.

Did the Galloway renovation come in on budget?

Yes. We used what was appropriated, nothing more.

You managed to keep the fees [$30 for 18 holes with a cart during the week; $35 on weekends] pretty reasonable. Can you maintain the new course at a higher level than city courses have traditionally been maintained?

We have to operate from the fees the course generates. Private courses are trying to make money for their owners. All we have to do is have a balanced budget, to make enough to sustain ourselves and improve course conditions. In the past, the individual pros were taking the cart-fee revenue, which was more than the green fees in many cases. Now that we’re capturing that revenue, it’s going to help out significantly.

With all the new water and sand, I would think maintenance would be more expensive.

With the buying power of seven courses, we’re able to get much better deals. The former course managers were working with ancient equipment in many cases. We’ve leased new maintenence equipment for four years. Then it’s all replaced. We also have a new contract for carts with Club Cart. They’ll maintain and insure carts for all the courses. We’ve made similar [all-courses] deals with soft-drink providers, Titleist balls, and food services. We bid it all out.

Will people still be able to walk up and play, or will they have to book tee-times?

We’d like for people to book tee-times, but we’ll always welcome walk-ups. It probably won’t be as easy as it was in the past, though. We’re also offering a new program called the Memphis Player’s Card, which gives golfers access to seven-day advance tee-time reservations, discounts on merchandise, and other promotions. It’s $25 annually, and you can buy one — and use it — at any Memphis municipal course.

Galloway always had a special, collegial atmosphere. People sat around under the oaks and kibbutzed and had a beer. Are you trying to keep that alive?

Galloway has always been a special place. We definitely want to continue that. We’ve bought new patio furniture and landscaped the area. We want to give people a club atmosphere at municipal prices.

To celebrate the reopening of The Links at Galloway, Memphis Public Links is hosting a special first day of play on Monday, April 29th. Golfers wanting to play that day must register for a drawing at any municipal course. Seventy-five names will be selected to win two spots in the field for opening day. The course will be open to regular play beginning April 30th.

Categories
Opinion Viewpoint

The Root Cause

Even as we mourned last week’s indescribable horrors, we Americans waved
the flag and vowed to take the fight to the evil bastards responsible for such
heinous acts. We were told by the president that the battle would be long and
hard but eventually we would “smoke the terrorists from their holes” and “wipe
out terrorism.”

Such words are brave and no doubt necessary to rally the country toward a
task that will tax every fiber of our national will. Our leaders are trying to
build a coalition of nations to join us in the fight. Our military is
preparing for a long campaign, getting ready to take on a conflict with
uncertain boundaries, a fight where the first assault — a horrific sneak
attack — was waged on U.S. soil. We are, all of us, forced to face the
sobering reality that we will soon be at war.

But really, what will it take to “wipe out terrorism”? Is such a thing
even feasible? Or are we in danger of falling into a trap, allowing ourselves
to be drawn into one of the world’s great never-ending cycles of vengeance.
The Serbs and Croats have been killing each other for centuries; the I.R.A.
and Irish Protestants manage to keep hate alive year after year with
retaliatory acts of bloodshed; Israel and the Arab nations surrounding that
country haven’t come close to establishing a peace after 50 years of trying.
Every week there are more innocent victims, more bloodshed. And now we’re
going to fix it?

Maybe we can. Maybe the magnitude of the most recent atrocities will
allow us to forge a real alliance for change. Maybe this time the world has
finally had enough. But it seems to me it’s going to take more than bombs to
solve the problem of terrorism.

Let’s say we manage, with the help of a coalition of nations, to track
down and kill Osama bin Laden; that we bomb his camps and kill thousands of
his followers; that we destroy “terrorist cells” in all of the many countries
that now harbor them. Would the “war” then be won? Not likely.

Destroying terrorism is like trying to step on fleeing roaches when the
lights go on. A few will escape, no matter how hard you stomp or how pointy-
toed your boots are. With every terrorist we kill, we’ll create potential for
more, as surviving sons, brothers, and friends seek revenge. Unless we have a
plan that goes beyond smoking them from their holes, we shouldn’t be surprised
if five years from now another misguided evildoer plants a nuclear device next
to Disney World.

It’s easy to be united now; we’re all outraged, all sympathetic to the
suffering endured by those who’ve lost friends and family. But will we remain
united when American body bags begin to return from the mountains of
Afghanistan? Will we truly be willing to send our sons and daughters — not
just our high-tech weapons — if the fighting lasts years instead of months?
We will likely have the chance to find out.

One thing is certain: To remain united we must avoid finger-pointing and
small-mindedness. The recent attacks killed Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus,
Buddhists, Republicans, Democrats, gays, lesbians, pro-choicers, and pro-
lifers without discrimination. We need to recognize that statements such as
those made (and later recanted) by Jerry Falwell blaming gays, lesbians, those
who are pro-choice, and the ACLU for the World Trade Center attacks are part
of the very problem we’re trying to fix. Intolerance in the name of “God” is
misguided, no matter who’s pointing the finger.

There’s little doubt, given recent events, that we must respond
militarily with all the precision and power we can muster. But after the war
is over, we should have a “Marshall Plan” of sorts in place to help smoke out
the root causes of fanaticism: poverty, ignorance, and powerlessness. If we
don’t, the merry-go-round of vengeance will continue.

Bruce VanWyngarden is the editor of the Flyer.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

September Morning

As the sun climbed into a cloudless blue sky the city went about its business as usual. At the Starbucks on Union the line of commuters waited for their mocha lattes. On the radio George Lapides was offering sports trivia. Joggers were jogging. The birds were singing. Life was good. Memphis was getting ready for another day, and a beautiful one it was.

It was Tuesday, our deadline day, and we were preparing a cover story on Memphis nightlife.

And then we started hearing the news, the horrible, unbelievable news that transfixed the country and that will probably forever change the way we see ourselves and our place in the world.

It began as an unfolding kaleidoscope of images, each more horrific and unbelievable than the last. First, we learned that a plane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. Was it terrorism or just a terrible accident, we wondered. Then 18 minutes later, another plane struck the other tower and the intentional nature of the attacks became more apparent. Before we could begin to let the enormity of these events sink in, we learned of yet another suicide-plane attack on the Pentagon. Then the towers collapsed, one after another, taking countless more lives; then another plane crashed near Pittsburgh. Rumors flew over the airwaves and around the office as reports came tumbling in from various sources. There were four planes, no, five. More attacks would come. The airports were closing …

What the hell was happening?

The horror grew with each new revelation, with each numbing report of more death and destruction. Then came the queasy fear, the certain knowledge that America was no longer a safe haven, insulated from the messy but distant terrorism that plagues so much of the rest of the world. We seemed suddenly vulnerable, at the mercy of an evil too big to comprehend. Was there more to come?

We called friends and family, no matter where they were, seeking assurance that they were okay, seeking affirmation that they too had seen the news, had shared the nightmare. Our nightlife cover story seemed trivial now, pointless, a remnant of an easier, happier time, a time that suddenly seemed long ago and far away.

The terrorist suicide-plane attacks in New York, Washington, D.C., and Pennsylvania were a wake-up call for all of us. A “Pearl Harbor” moment for a new generation. Only this time there is no enemy country to invade, no clear way to fight back. The Japanese attack of 1941 was merciless and a surprise, but at least we knew where Tokyo was. This time it will do no good to mobilize our industries or stage a draft. The “enemy” is faceless, anonymous, and uses our own commercial airliners against us. Sophisticated missile defense systems and smart bombs are useless in the face of such actions.

Diplomacy seems equally futile. We are dealing with a foe whose soldiers find their greatest victories in suicide killings of civilians, whose hatred of America justifies any act, no matter how heinous. How we travel, how we live, how we view ourselves and our relations with the rest of the world are irrevocably altered.

As a weekly newspaper, the Flyer cannot offer breaking news in a situation such as this. That job is best left to television and the daily papers. We can, however, offer some perspective on the situation, some analysis of the events and their aftermath. And that’s what we’ve attempted to do this week. The paper is a day later than normal, but events have transpired to make it so.

As I left downtown at day’s end Tuesday, I couldn’t help noticing the utter normalcy everywhere. Carpenters pounded nails on a new house; the trolley clattered by; runners jogged along the the Bluff Walk; the river ran as it always does, reflecting the setting sun. It all seemed the same as ever. But it wasn’t. Not really.

— Bruce VanWyngarden

The Memphis Flyer encourages reader response. Send mail to: Letters to the Editor, POB 1738, Memphis, TN 38101. Or call Back Talk at 575-9405. Or send us e-mail at letters@memphisflyer.com. All responses must include name, address, and daytime phone number. Letters should be no longer than 250 words.