Glen Campbell LA Open 1979

 The other day I was rooting around in an old box of mucky documents and other doodads looking for what to throw out, or keep, when I came across a plastic ID pin that designated me as an official working member of the Glen Campbell LA Open 1979. Staring at that pin, I was transported back to Los Angeles, a young paralegal with the world in front of her. I was an ardent LA Junior Chamber of Commerce member. In those days, the LAJCC was the networking organization for young professionals in Los Angeles. The heck of it was that I didn’t particularly like golf; still don’t, but I was a team player and a zealous volunteer. For the record, Lanny Wadkins won that year.

The LA Open took place at the beautiful and exclusive Riviera Country Club in the Pacific Palisades. The club and grounds have been used in numerous movies throughout the years and is ranked among the top 50 golf courses in the world; top 25 in the USA. Riviera Country Club was founded by a few senior members of the LA Athletic Club, who had positioned themselves to help members of the LA Jr. Chamber Of Commerce become future titans of industry and eventually be wealthy enough to become members of, and play at, their highly vaunted golf course. (Today the initiation fee is an eye watering $250K; more than the cost of my first home.)

For a young lady such as myself, this volunteer LAJCC assignment was the thrill of a lifetime. There I was, wandering around this elite club house as if I genuinely belonged there, trying not to continuously swivel my head like a bobble doll, while humming “if they could see me now”. I was assigned to work at the cash desk in the Treasury Room at the clubhouse. Even then, it was apparent that I had a way with money. So it was that I sat at the desk and cashed checks, made change while smiling prettily for players and took custody of monies collected from eager patrons paying at the various entrances. This cash and carry work all took place in the days before credit cards become ordinary. Even the regular players had to show PGA credentials and a driver's license ID in order to cash a check. In my mind, I was very powerful.

The first couple of days at the Open proved to be somewhat of a disorienting distraction. My usual working environment consisted of dark panelling, quiet corridors and lots of men in suits mumbling res ipso loquitur and res judicata. Out here, I was in a completely different world: open Moorish architecture, white washed walls, Spanish tiled floors, gentle eucalyptus scented breezes, fresh air and an abundance of birdsong. I also noticed that almost everything about golf is green; the grass, the trees, the overhangs, the scoreboards, all shades of green. The men wore outfits meant to contrast nicely with that verdant environment. Damn, I wondered, what is it about golf that makes grown men believe that it is acceptable to wear bright red pants adorned with little yellow embroidered whales, which mismatched nicely with orange and white box checkered shirts. Robin Williams once said that the game of golf was the only game where you can dress like a pimp and no one would care. All to differentiate the players from the little white ball. 

The real fun started on Pro-Am Day. Glen Campbell was instrumental in bringing and publicizing the Open to Los Angeles and making it the grand occasion that it has since come to be. He worked tirelessly to persuade celebrities to participate in Pro-Am day. And now there I was reaping the benefits, cashing checks for the likes of Jack Lemmon, James Garner, Fred Astaire, Dean Martin, Jack Nicholson, Bob Newhart. All those Chiclets smiles coming my way. I was in heaven. 

Bob Newhart’s reputation preceded him; he was so dear. While I counted his money he shyly told me in his somewhat halting manner, with that amusing twinkle face, that he was playing by himself recently and when he got to the first tee witnessed the strangest twosome he ever saw. He whispered: “I couldn’t imagine the conversation between Joe Pesci and Mikhail Baryshnikov”. I almost barked out loud with laughter. Strange bedfellows, indeed. 

I became enamored with James Garner the minute he asked to cash his check and asked if I needed to see his ID. “Thank you, sir, but that won’t be necessary.” By the time he left, I was a giggly puddle on the floor, living on the high of having his celebrity smile flashed at me when he said thank you.

There’s a sycamore tree at the 12th hole, still standing, that is known as “Bogart’s Tree.” Humphrey Bogart famously spent so much time sitting under that tree while watching golfers at that hole that it was named after him. Jack Nicholson had his own adventure at that same hole, hooking his drive and failing to advance his second shot. In frustration, he grabbed some vines in the nearby tree. “The vines pulled back; lifted me straight up in the air, so I was flying around for a few seconds before I came down. Now I can’t play that 12th at Riviera without somebody saying, ‘The Tarzan Hole.’” Try as I may, I can’t picture Jack Nicholson as Tarzan. 

Back then, the country club had not quite reached the achievement status that it enjoys today so a lot of little adjustments took place to make the event appear more professional. One of the tweaks, in search of elegance, included removing the turnstiles that had been put in place each year, including the year before. Added elegance, yes, but the unintended consequence of which ensured that we had no way to know how many people actually attended each day. At the entrances volunteers took one day tickets, then punched holes in the three day tickets, there were separate discount tickets to see the early players only, high end tickets for pro-am day only, and all-inclusive tickets to see the entire event that included the very elegant black tie ProAm dinner. The returned tickets were placed in large trash bags and brought to the Treasury Room, along with the collected cash, at regular intervals. 

One of the many duties of the Treasury Room included answering questions from various members, and questions from the press, so when the press called asking about attendance numbers I had no idea but had the wherewithal to politely ask the journalist to call back in a few minutes so that I could give him an accurate number. I mentally went into hysterics; I was the only person in the room at that moment. The other two members were out collecting monies. We had bags and bags of tickets that couldn’t possibly be counted in a week, much less in a few minutes. I was well on my way to jumping out the window. What to do, what to do. My brilliant little mind, possessed of a certain moral flexibility, reviewed the previous year’s records, the last year to include turnstiles, added 30%, gave that number to the press and let the press extrapolate how much higher attendance was each year, with this year possibly being the highest (media misinformation) on record. Well, it could have been true. 

Also included in my Treasury duties were the calls of gratitude to the sponsors who had purchased entire tables, at breath taking amounts, to attend the black tie Pro Am benefit dinner. The proceeds from the dinner benefitted the charity events that the LAJCC sponsored. I was happy to take on that responsibility. On occasion, after expressing thanks, I would ask if the sponsor would be in attendance and, if not, would the sponsor like to donate the seats back to the hardworking volunteers (such as myself). As luck would have it that year, table one was empty so I passed out tickets to other volunteers and kept two, one for me, one for hubby, and decked myself out in my most sparkly finery for the evening ahead.

At the time, Glen Campbell was still riding high from Southern Nights, Wichita Lineman, and a few other Jimmy Webb songs. Glen Campbell was set to be the introductory entertainer of the evening but when he and Roy Clark began to play, there was no stopping them. Those two guitar pickers were having so much fun singing and playing to a most appreciative audience, alternately standing facing each other while they played or sitting on the stage edge in such a relaxed manner, telling hilarious stories in between tunes. The audience did not want them to stop. In the midst of our very enthusiastic singing, clapping and laughing along, I took a moment to look around the room at all the elegantly tuxedoed men accompanied by their very glamorous ladies who shimmered and glittered next to them; all chandeliers were lowered to add to the ambience, their lights reflected flatteringly off the white tablecloths. There were some big names in that crowd. Finally, I glanced over at the next table and was astonished to recognize a couple of the most famous golfers in the world: Bob and Dolores Hope were sitting with Gerry and Betty Ford, right next to us. I couldn’t imagine how the evening could get any better.

Finally, it was edging towards midnight and the waiters (union members all) wanted to head home, which meant the rest of us would grudgingly have to do so too. As we were saying our goodbyes, while simultaneously collecting our bags and wraps, still unbelieving that we had witnessed such an extraordinary event, Bob Hope found his way to the front of the stage, momentarily captured our attention, and confessed that he was supposed to have been the main performer but he knew he would have been a woeful second act to Glen and Roy. Instead, he thanked everyone for letting him enjoy the spectacularly memorable evening too. I had to admire how gracious and self-serving his remarks proved to be. 

Occasionally, I still hear the guitar’s opening bars of Southern Nights in my head and remember that evening. I tossed most of the contents of that old box but will keep that pin to the end of my days.