Brushes with heroes - how I ALMOST got to play golf with Larry Lujak TWICE

Brushes with heroes - how I ALMOST got to play golf with Larry Lujak TWICE

So, it's 1981, and I'm driving to work, listening to WLS and Larry, who announces that there is still an opening in his foursome for the NFL March of Dimes, Celebrity Golf Outing and Kemper Lakes (in late October). I make my phone call, and get a very nice lady, casually mentioning that Larry has said that there is still an opening in his group. "Oh, no," she replies, "THAT foursome filled up a long time ago."

"Well then Uncle Larry misrepresents the facts."

"So, you don't want to play in the outing then."

"No, of course I want to play; it's a worthy cause."

Some time passes, when I get a call. It's about the outing. I start to go into my by now standard bitch and moan about Larry's misrepresentation of the facts. "But, you're going to playing with him." I continue into my next sentence. Poor woman, hardly getting a word in edge-wise, when the full import of what she has just said begins to sink in.

"Who am I going to play golf with?"

"You will be playing with Larry Lujak."

"I'm going to be playing golf with Larry Lujak. I'm going to be playing golf with Larry Lujak! I'm going to be playing golf with Larry Lujak!!"

I start flitting around the damn office (4444 W Lawrence Avenue, Bankers Life & Casualty Company), like a leaf in the win, letting everyone know.

Chuck Ritzke, FSA (Fellow of the Society of Actuaries, OR, Fine Specimen of Alcoholism, depending) tells me to ask Larry if he counts all his strokes.

Gary Stanton asks me to ask Larry about Sparky the Bull, Gary's (and Uncle Larry's) favorite story. It came to pass that Sparky was mating with a cow when the intimate couple was struck by lightning. Cow died, Sparky lives. Gary is from Beatrice Nebraska, where such stories keep the locals from going suicidal. Not sure why Larry liked it so much. The nice lady also informs me that Larry will be leaving work later, and not arrive at the course until a few minutes before the shotgun, so, whereas we the proles were to arrive an hour before the shotgun start, in his case, it could be later.

And the day before "the big day" arrives. At this time, I was involved with evaluating the health insurance block of Bankers Life and Casualty, and its direct mail sales susidiary, Bankers Multiple Line. John MacArthur had died, and left the company into a Charitable Trust where it is by law stipulated that the company must divest itself of 80% of its assets within five years. John D. MacArthur, owner since 1932 of BL&C had one corporate strategy only; minimize federal income taxes.

So, I work late into the night, and around midnight, rather than drive home to Oak Park, I go to the Greek tavern at Kilborn and Lawrence, have about 10 drinks, some saganaki, and go curl up in the car in the parking lot (so I can get to work at 6 a.m., hopefully to generate the report for my idiot boss, the most over-rated Mike Abroe.)

This all works well, but Mike is slow-playing my ass, and FINALLY, around 9 a.m. (shotgun start is at 11), I get to meet with him and hand off the report. I drive the speed limit back to Oak Park in order to shave and shower and pick up my sticks. I drive the speed limit to Kemper, going out the Edens. I pull into the long driveway, and the carts are heading out. Not to worry. I park, go to the club house and proudly announce: " I'm Mark Ganzer, and I'm playing golf with Larry Lujak.

Um, because you weren't here, we filled his group with somebody else. DAY YAM! You'll be playing with Jeff Fisher.

So they run my enraged ass out to the #13 tee. It's windy, 35 mph, the course is hard, caked. A HONEY BEAR is driving Jeff's cart, and there are two other carts in the group. We have a 5-some.

FINE, I can hit on the HONEY BEAR. Well, almost, EXCEPT that hers is the only husband of a HONEY BEAR playing in the tourney. Crap.

I shank my tee shot on the par three straight right, O.B. (one out, two penalty, three on the tee). In all, I would lose 10 golf balls to water or out-of-bounds, and shoot 102.

Jeff Fisher, however, is a rookie and most impressive. 5'8", 175 pounds, he admits, "I'm not very fast, but I've never fair caught a punt, and never fumbled a punt return, and I can play the nickel back on third an long in the obvious passing situations. I think there is a place on the Bears for a player like me." And, of course, he was right. Almost 20 years later, I came within 5 seconds of winning $1,400 on the Super Bowl in a "loser's pool" (to advance, you had to pick the loser) and I am the only player to have picked the Titans. So close, and yet so far.

HONEY BEAR comes over to say to me (after I finished relieving myself in the woods), "Mah (she was southern) husband really likes you. He luvs to drink beer."

We finish up on the 12th hole. As we head back around the horse shoe turn, and start to ascend the hill, it becomes obvious that our cart is out of juice. We begin to push it up the hill. Then, in one of those moments of beer window clarity, we look at each other and say, "Is this your cart?" "No, this is not my cart." "Screw it, let's walk." (Real teammates would have sent a cart out to pick us up, but every body was digusted with us for peeing on just about every hole.

I put my sticks back in the car. Don't have much time, as Susan and I have dance lessons at Triton College. I'm in the golf shop, looking at the merchandise, when, in walks the man HIS OWN SELF. Larry Lujak.

I am not shy. I stride up to him (he is much taller in life than he sounds on the radio). "Larry Lujak," I begin.

"Nice shirt," he snarls laconically (Gary Stanton had presented me with an animal stories shirt, special order for this event).

"You misrepresent the facts."

"Yes, I do," he said, taking demonic delight with the direction our conversation is descending into.

"Well, sir," says I, "my friends had two questions for you. Number one, 'Do you count all your stokes?'"

He too carded a 101. I don't give him a chance to answer, "Aw, what the hell, you had to have counted most of them."

"Next question?" he asks.

"Can you tell me, whatever happened to Sparky the Bull?"

And now his lower lip curled with a quiver of delight, delight in the soul of one who has known a lot of sadness, the infinite sadness of being. "Sparky is alive and well," he advises.

"Good, says I," knowing our conversation is just about ended. "Is it true that lightning always strikes twice in the same place?" I leave him with that. And another ounce of sardonic delight emerged through those layers of sadness, and depression, the eyes, dark and deep set into the forehead and skull.

We parted. I had had my two minutes of fame. I was sated.

PART I: THE END.