Chapter 1 – The Lincoln Tunnel to the Hollywood Freeway

The Los Angeles fog was so thick that night it was like we were moving through a steamy bowl of Quaker Oats. I was driving and Mark was riding shotgun in his ‘58 Austin Healey 100-6 from the Cat and Fiddle, a restaurant/bar on Sunset that was having its grand opening. I wish he would have told me about the car’s quirkiness before I grabbed the keys off the counter and climbed into the driver's seat—but he wasn’t in any condition to explain how that devil of a car had a personality of its own and would sometimes get stuck in gear.

Mark had just won his tour card, which is when you play all these qualifying rounds to earn a chance to make it to the big show: the PGA tour. He was celebrating big-time, on a roll and hitting the booze a little too hard that night. Markie was almost unconscious, slumped over and leaning against the passenger seat door, and I knew any minute he was going to be puking his guts out. I was pissed as hell at him for getting so blasted, but then I remembered many a night I myself had been hugging the bedpost, trying to stop the room from spinning after a good or rotten performance at a golf tournament. What a stupid way to live!

That's when it happened up there on Mulholland Drive. I was reaching over to Mark, trying to comfort him and roll down the passenger window so he could get a little air and not mess up the interior of his little sports car. (It’s so hard to get that smell out once you leave an order of fish and chips to go smothered with tequila all over the carpets.) As I was moving his head over, that damned gear-stick got jammed in third gear, and the throttle was stuck too. I should have been paying attention. I should have called a taxi. I should have done anything that night but get into that death trap. All those “should haves” and a dime will get you . . . well, nothing but a metallic picture of Franklin Delano Roosevelt—you need a “should have” and at least a sawbuck now to get a frappuccino at Starbuck’s.

I guess I didn't see that Chevy Suburban veering over the line until it was too late. It was a head-on collision. We’ll both never forget the horrible sound of glass shattering and metal crunching. Car parts, golf clubs and stereo speakers flew away in slow motion and were scattered all over that two-lane blacktop. I was thrown from the car and Markie, who was at least smart enough to be wearing his seat belt, was saved, although his left foot was wedged between the firewall and the passenger seat of the Healey and was crushed beyond recognition— along with his dream of playing golf at the professional level.

* * *

My name was Johnny Mulligan. I guess it still is, although I died in that accident. It was the same year Tom Watson out-dueled Jack Nicklaus in the sun at Pebble Beach and Dean Martin was singing about a town called Houston. I have been hanging around the planet earth, because they tell me I have to do something to help my son, Mark. You will find all that out later, if you stick around. I hope you do, because this is his story. But first you might need a little back-story so it all makes sense. What do you say?

You may have heard of me. I was a one-hit wonder on the PGA tour; my one claim to fame was winning the Las Vegas Invitational with my weapon of choice: the one-iron. My wife's name had been Sylvia Grafton, until she married me and became a Mulligan. She used to be an actress and a pretty good photographer, but she had to put that on the back burner, since I wanted her to become my all-American housewife once we tied the knot. She had gotten rave reviews as Lola in an off-Broadway musical called “Damn Yankees”—she would frequently point out that I should have let her continue in her career, but back then I was all macho and I wouldn't let my wife work, as long as I could earn a decent living as a golfer.

Well, at least I tried to. We were living in Roslyn, Long Island when my son Mark was born—the same day the music died. That's when Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper and Richie Valens's plane went down in Clear Lake, Iowa. I guess Sylvia was a little busy at the time giving birth to him to remember that article in the New York Times—you know, the one Don McLean wrote about: “Bad news on the doorstep, I couldn't take one more step.” Mark had always loved music and still played a little guitar, but his main thing was golf, just like me.

Two days after The Beatles played Shea Stadium, our whole family had moved to Los Angeles so I could take advantage of the climate, especially those mild winters. That way I could work on my game all year round. It was like we drove right through the Lincoln Tunnel and came out on the Hollywood Freeway. We moved in with my mother—a small one bedroom apartment on Arnaz Street, just outside Beverly Hills. My best friend and caddy, Marty Stevens, insisted that we move to that town of movie stars and fancy cars, not for prestige or some kind of phony baloney or uppity crap— it was the schools. I know what you're thinking: Beverly Hills, I must come from a rich family, but actually it was quite the opposite. Marty said they were supposed to have one of the best school systems in the country, and there was a helluva good golf program at the high school.

Mark spent a lot more time with his mom, since I was always out on the road chasing some golf ball around. He could talk to her about anything, but not with me. He said I was a bit of a hard-ass, a “my-way-or-the-highway” kind of guy. I wanted to be just like Ben Hogan (whose nickname was “The Ice Man”), and had actually got to play a few rounds with him in the fifties although he probably would never have remembered. I'd wear the same white small-brimmed golf cap Hogan did. I even smoked the same kind of cigarettes: Lucky Strikes.

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James