Get Ready for a Long Fore Years

The worst sports news of 1992 came quite unexpectedly the other day, catching me not only by surprise but actually making me cringe, filling my room with gloom, leaving me with a sadder face than a tennis player from Sweden.

Bill Clinton plays golf.

Oh, no, no, no. Not that. Anything but that. Four more years of watching our President of the United States on television, waving from a golf cart, standing next to four guys in Ray-Ban sunglasses pretending to be caddies, shrugging off a question from some Sam Donaldson imitator from behind the ropes, usually with an answer along the lines of:

“Yes, I’ll look into that. Welp, gotta go putt now.”

And here I thought Bill Clinton was going to be our jogging President. Night after night during the election campaign and thereafter, haven’t we been exposed to the sight of the President-elect pounding the pavement, next to two guys in Ray-Ban sunglasses pretending to be runners? Just three little boys from Little Rock, out there in their cross-trainers?

I particularly liked the fact that Clinton’s clothing looked like something a real jogger would wear. Not some satin sit-arounds from Oscar de la Renta or Oscar De La Hoya or whatever his name is. No, not for Our Bill. The jogger-elect went out there wearing some of the most wrinkled, washed-out, sorry-butt lookin’ jogging togs I have seen outside of my own washer-dryer.

Sometimes his shirt would feature one of those funny Arkansas Razorback pig faces. I mean, no neatly pressed “University of Oxford Athletic Dept.” perspiration shirts for Our Bill. No, sir. His threads bore that genuine $9.95, right-off-the-rack, I Bought This At 7-Eleven Along With a Large-Slurpie look. You know what I mean. The sort of clothes you never iron.

Jimmy Carter was our last jogger President. It always gave me such pleasure that here was a guy who wasn’t into golf. Eisenhower played, and of course Nixon played, and then along came Gerald Ford to rank as the greatest threat to bodily harm on a golf course since lightning. “You all know Gerald Ford,” one of Bob Hope’s introductions once went. “The most dangerous driver since Ben Hur.”

After a dozen blissful years during which Jimmy Carter confined himself pretty much to jogging, softball, fishing and other low-maintenance athletics, and Ronald Reagan demonstrated a preference for horseback riding, Notre Dame flashbacks and napping, we got ourselves yet another golfing President in George Bush, who frequently could be seen--even during invasions--up there playing on one of Maine’s many fine golf courses. Maine is a tricky place to play golf. The water hazards have lobsters.

“Mr. President! Mr. President!” the Donaldsonettes would cry, eager to slip in that all-important should-we-blow-Saddam-to-kingdom-come question between those all-important ninth and 10th holes.

“Can’t. Nope. Wouldn’t be prudent. Not at this back-nine juncture. Gotta go do the Spalding thing,” the President would reply, or something that to me always sounded like that.

Bush actually was a pretty fair athlete in his day. Not a bad Yalie first baseman. And I still think that some night on TV, we will be seeing former President Bush on one of those “info-tainment” commercials--you know, like Bruce (Stair Master of the Universe) Jenner stomping on those step-billows or Suzanne (One Thighs Fits All) Somers doing the ol’ knees-squeeze--pitching Ron-Co or K-Tel’s or Kram-Mar’s latest invention, “Horseshoe Master,” to help lazy Americans work off those chubby arms and wrists.

Golf is such a time-consumer for a President of the United States. Some nut overseas launches missiles at us and what happens? Before our President can do anything about it, first he has to climb back into his electric cart, do 5 m.p.h. back to the clubhouse, knock the clumps of mud off his spikes, change to regular shoes before they allow him inside, peel off his checkered pants, grab a shower, slip into that same navy blue suit that is issued to every U.S. President, hop into the limo and drive from the country into the city so he can push the red button that launches our anti-missile missiles. Either that or let the Vice President handle it, ho ho, just kidding.

So, say it ain’t so, Bill. Say you don’t really play golf. Go out for a nice little jog along Pennsylvania Avenue around sunset. Be back at the White House in, oh, no more than 15 minutes, tops. Once around Congress and back. Why else do you think they call it a Constitutional?

Please, we don’t need Rather or Brokaw or Jennings showing us those shots of you waving from the green. Jog. Take Hillary with you. Take Al and Tipper. Take the kid. Take the cat. It’ll be good for your image as a guy of the people. Golf is for the rich. Even the poor can jog.

Or, dare to be different. You’re young. You’re hip. You’ve got access to a summer place in Southern California. Don’t golf. Surf.