This was early March. I was in a part of Southern California I didn't know existed, an exclusive new country club and real estate development that was advertised as an "enthralling resort destination." This was despite the fact that it was located in a vast desert somewhere between Indio and El Centro and populated by happy throngs of illegal aliens at work and play.
The tournament was the Firm Chick Classic. Firm Chick was a skin cream, I was excited to learn. And I was always impressed when a golf tournament declared itself a classic in the first year of its existence.
The first round was already under way on this Thursday, the kind of LPGA tournament where the winner makes page nine in the sports section but could be a nail-biter if you were a golf mom or a golf dad and had a precious princess in the hunt.
The 54-hole event, a ladies' thing, Saturday conclusion, was taking place at the Enchanted Villa, which was the name of the "resort destination."
According to the press guide, the Enchanted Villa was owned by Toppy and Connie Pemberton of La Jolla. They had realized their lifelong dream when they built Enchanted Villa and hired Burch Webb, the "world-famous architect," to design 36 holes of golf. Villa was the "championship course" where the tournament was being held, and Cottage was the shorter, easier course.
I didn't need to look at the two layouts to know they'd feature fake waterfalls, dirt-shoved hills, phony ponds, rows of palm trees flown in from Kauai, and here and there a copycat golf hole.
But now I was standing there peering at the jacked-up mini worn by LPGA phenom Ginger Clayton's mother and wondering if she would think "Rancho Trusto Fundo" was as funny as I did when I put a breath mint on my tongue and went over to make my move.
When she turned to look at me, I said, "Hi, I'm Jack Brannon with SM magazine. My investigative talents have uncovered the fact that you're Thurlene Clayton, Ginger Clayton's mother."
She offered me her hand. "I am Thurlene Clayton. I've read your books, as a matter of fact. I read Excuse My Free Drops. Isn't that the name of it?"
Ginger Clayton, the kid, was about 180 yards away. The player she was paired with was in the rough. Ginger took a smooth swing and the ball came right at us. It hit the front of the green and rolled three feet from the flag.
"All right!" the golf mom yelled, clapping. "Way to go, Gin!"
They were more like sisters. That's what I thought when Ginger Clayton walked up on the green. A showstopping young lady is what she was. Tall, built, attitude.
"Your kid," I said. "She looks like she can wreck homes if she gets tired of golf."
"I assume that's a compliment."
"Big one in my league."
Ginger was outfitted in short red shorts and a white collarless shirt that exposed her belly button on the follow-through. She was all business as she rapped in the three-foot putt for the birdie. She did a little fist gesture and marched off the green and headed for the tee without acknowledging her mother's presence. Game face.
The mom reached into her shoulder bag and took out a pack of slender king-size cigarettes. Capris.
"I only smoke when she makes a birdie," she said.
"How did you know who I was?" she asked, bracing herself with a hand on my shoulder as she changed her shoes.
"That lady over there told me." I pointed to Ann Wendell.
"You asked Ann Wendell about me?"
"I think that's her name," I said, detecting a note of displeasure. "Is there a problem?"
"She's Debbie Wendell's mother. Debbie and Ginger came out of the academy together. They've been rivals forever."
"How good is Debbie Wendell?"
"She has potential. But she's on the small side . . . and she only has one speed. She can't take anything off of it."
Golf lingo. Debbie couldn't hit three-quarter shots.
"Sounds like she's not in Ginger's class."
"Not even close. Ann Wendell knows this and hates it. Debbie's a year older, but she's never beaten Ginger . . . amateur or pro. And Debbie is envious as hell. That's why the little brat tried to poison my daughter last year!"
From The Franchise Babe by Dan Jenkins, to be published on June 3, 2008, by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. Reprinted with permission. Copyright © 2008 D&G Ventures, Inc.
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