| golf on a fullbright jack d'amico |
| It was 1963, I was in Perugia on a Fulbright scholarship for three weeks of orientation before heading for my year in Naples at the Universitario Orientale. We took our Italian classes at the Università per gli Stranieri, the University for Foreign Students, or literally Strangers. One day in the cafeteria someone introduced me to a young woman, an Italian who wanted to practice her English. She was not only quite young but very beautiful. And she was introduced to me as “La Principessa.” The Princess. She was a princess and her father was the mayor of Perugia. And she wanted to practice her English. I obliged and we practiced. After we had gotten somewhat chummy she invited me to her home for lunch, for the Italian “pranzo,” which is a more substantial meal than our lunch. We drove out with her father, a large and very outgoing man who had an equally large German automobile which he drove at mach one. We arrived at a villa and I met her young brother and various relatives. All I remember about the meal is that the pasta dish was served from large platters by servants in white coats and white gloves. Just like home. We ate and drank wine and had a merry time. At one point the conversation ebbed and the father took the opportunity to pointedly inform me that his daughter, La Principessa, was about to have a birthday. Her fifteenth. He slowed down his Italian so that I could count it out on my fingers and toes. I got the point. To make up for the let down he informed me that one of the relatives, “La Zia,” or aunt, who was stationed at one end of the table played golf. He assumed, rightly it turned out, that being an American, close to the English, I too played golf. With that la Zia chimed in and the next thing I knew we were piling into cars and heading for the local nine hole track. They found me some clubs, but no shoes, I took off my tie, handed the Principessa my jacket and made for the first tee. La Zia, a stocky woman of middle age, appeared in her golfing togs followed by a bored looking caddy. The rest of the family and friends formed a gallery. By this point between the wine and the expectant looks of the Principessa I was getting nervous. I gave the honors to the aunt who teed it up and cranked a low liner down the hard fairway. Now everyone awaited the American who was taking some wicked practice swipes with an ancient driver. I took a mighty swing and launched one of my patented power fades that soon developed into a major slice. Off it went into the rough and from that point on I saw little of la Zia. We met on the greens and I spent most of the day trying to learn some Italian golf lingo from the caddy. After two holes the gallery started to wander off, hitting balls in all directions, gathering on a green to putt, getting lost— the father engaged his son in a spirited discussion and the caddy looked completely disgusted with this circus. At one point he confided in me that Italians knew nothing about golf—he could see that when sober I had a decent swing. I felt my stock slipping with the daughter; she may have been fifteen years old but that made her older than Juliet and she was still a Principessa and we didn’t have many of those in East Lovejoy. La Zia just kept knocking these line drives down the center of the fairways, determined to show this American a thing or two about golf. Once I gave up on the golf it turned into a pleasant day. I looked around at the Umbrian countryside, made fleeting plans for a picnic of some kind with La Principessa and then resigned myself to the reality of a few more days of classes, a goodbye with promises of letters and a meeting that would never happen, and some memories to pack up for Naples. I wonder if she thinks of being preserved in someone’s memory as a beautiful fifteen years old with the life of a Principessa before her. I hope it has been a good one. My golf game never got much better. Well, it did get a little better after a few years in California and a period during which I was out of a job and had time to play golf. Some time later I was teaching in Rabat, Morocco at the University Mohammed V. Everything in Rabat was Mohammed V, the name of the then King’s father--including a golf course no one used. They held a tournament there in the fall and I went out and watched Seve Ballisteros and Lee Trevino play a kind of demonstration match. Life could get a little boring in Rabat. I played tennis on red clay courts and jogged and drank wine when the mulahs allowed it to be sold and read Machiavelli. And in the spring I went out to the golf course to play a few rounds. I had the place to myself. It featured some Roman pillars lining one of the fairways and beautiful plants in the rough which you were not allowed to disturb so you could legally toss your ball back into the fairway. My kind of local rules. And I played alone so who cared. One day as I collected my rented clubs and wandered off I was informed that Lee Trevino had returned to the course for a few practice rounds because the weather was very bad in the States. I could see him hitting shots out of a trap. About mid way in my round I met up with him and someone he introduced as Butch Harmon, I think the guy who is now a teacher. They had a caddy out in the middle of the fairway and were trying various shots off the tee. Trevino is a gregarious person. We talked, he was amazed that an American would find himself in Rabat teaching English literature to Moroccans and playing golf. He asked about the women. Lee obviously knew little about Morocco other than its good weather. Eventually the moment came when I had to tee off. The caddy was out about 200 yards—it seemed more like 300. It was a beautiful day, so I just teed it up and took a swing. Out it went over the caddy’s head, a nice power fade that landed far enough out to be respectable. That’s when Trevino started his lecture about the importance of hitting the fade. Most of this was directed at Harmon. He said what I have heard him quoted on—that you can talk to a fade but a hook doesn’t listen. He gave me a quick lesson, most of which meant absolutely nothing to me, but I took his advice, though my fades didn’t always listen that well, trudged off down the fairway and smacked my four iron off into the Roman pillars. Getting a quick lesson from Lee Trevino and launching a high fading four iron into some Roman pillars has to be the high point of my golfing career. I quit not long after but if I ever find myself back in Rabat I might just wander out to the Royal Mohammed V golf course and check out the pillars. |
