Don Cherry - Cherrys Jubilee: Singin and Swingin Through Life with Dino and Frank, Arnie and Jack

Foreword by Dan Jenkins

I first saw Don Cherry in 1947 on a golf course in Breckenridge, Texas, when he drove a 350-yard par-4 with a 3 wood. I asked somebody in a tool dressers hat who that was.

Thats Don Cherry, and you dont want to know him, the man said.

Why not? I asked.

Because hes always pissed off, the man said, lighting a Camel and picking up his canvas golf bag.

I said it was obvious Don Cherry was pissed off, seeing how he could drive a damn ball 350 yards with a f*cking 3 wood.

We became friends anyhow, and I followed his career as an amateur golfer who blew the U.S. Open and U.S. Amateur on numerous occasions, mostly by being pissed off, and tried to blow his singing career, mostly by being pissed off.

Someone asked me one time if Don had always been cynical, and I said, I dont know for sure, but the only time I ever saw him laugh out loud was when he heard that two school buses collided head-on.

Something I remember about him in his golfing prime was that every time I ever asked him about one of the great Texas amateursBilly Maxwell, Earl Stewart, Morris Williams Jr., Joe Conrad, Tony Holguinhis response was, He never beat me!

The only thing I know about him for sure is that hes the best golfer who could also sing and the best singer who could also play golf.

And I suppose if God hadnt invented him, Im sure I would havefor a novel.

6. Tommy Bolt

A nother good friend I had at the time was the great Tommy Bolt. Many of you might remember him as Terrible Tempered Tommy Bolt. He also went under the pseudonyms of Tommy Thunder-Bolt and Tempestuous Natured Tommy (T-N-T). No matter what nickname Tommy Bolt had, he was surely one of the most colorful and interesting men I had ever known.

My first introduction to Tom went way back to Wichita Falls again. It was a year after caddying for Jimmy Demaret when Tommy came into the clubhouse, and I was able to do the same. Tom told me that he started playing golf at about the same age that I was. I turned 14 at the time, and Bolt was about eight years older than I. He hadnt quite perfected throwing objects yet, and was just working on perfecting his swing without letting go of anything.

Bolt recounted the time when he sold newspapers on the street corner as a kid. Hed rip open the stack when they were delivered and head straight for the comic pages. Ben Webster: Bound to Win was his favorite, as the inspiration of that comic strip would impact him for life.

Tom told me that growing up poor and not having much of anything was the drive he needed to overcome obstacles in life, much like little Ben Webster in those comics. If others could do it, so could he. If he failed at his attempt, Tommy would get pissed and throw things. He first noticed his anger grow as he entered his teens.

Tired of competing in spelling bees, pitching pennies, and seeing who could kick the farthest, Tommy took a job as a carpenters assistant. He laughed once telling me, In that line of work, youre occasionally going to whack your thumb with the hammer. One day I slammed my thumb good, and my boss made the mistake of laughing at me. He stopped laughing when the hammer I was holding missed his head by two inches.

Upon entering the army, as just about every eligible male in the country did during World War II, Bolt was assigned to a tour of duty in Rome. There, close to where he was stationed, Tommy played professional golf and also ran the gambling operations at the local golf course. Primarily consisting of craps tables and golf wagers, while competing in golf games himself, Tommy learned that he could make tons of money. He lost his accumulative fortune one night when professional gamblers suckered him into a game of high stakes. Nevertheless, upon his release from the service, Tommy came back and took up golf seriously, wanting to reclaim some of his lost fortune.

Bolts reputation of breaking and throwing clubs was to become more popular than the games he played in. The higher the stakes, the farther the clubs would fly. People would often listen to the radio or stand in the gallery (sometimes ducking) just to see what he was going to do next.

During a minor tournament we were once playing in, Tommy was one stroke ahead as we were nearing the end. He had this new caddie and instructed him that morning to keep quiet and just answer by saying either, Yes, Mr. Bolt, or No, Mr. Bolt. Tommy then proceeded to hit the ball and watch it come down near the base of a big tree. Studying what shot he was going to have to make to clear the trees branches, Tom looked at his caddie and asked him, Should I hit a 5 iron? Of course, the caddie answered as he was instructed, No, Mr. Bolt.

Angered that the caddie did not agree with him, Tommy hit the ball with the 5 iron. Into the air it went and came to rest 3' from the pin. With a hint of anger, Tommy declared proudly to his caddie, Okay, there, how do you like that. You may talk.

The caddie took a beat, looked at where the golf ball had landed and then back to the place under the tree where Tommy hit the ball from, and flatly replied, Mr. Bolt, that wasnt your ball that you hit.

I moved away quickly as clubs were sailing over my head. That cost Tommy 2 strokes and the game. After calming down, Tommy came over to me and gave me a piece of good advice: If you helicopter those dudes by throwing them sideways instead of overhand, the shafts wouldnt break as easy. I took his advice, since I, too, was known as a club-throwing golfer. Tommy had a sense of humor that only a mother and Don Cherry could love.

Speaking of Mother, the royalty checks for my recordings were starting to come in a bit more often.

Singing would pay me as much as $1,000 to $1,500 for two or three nights work. After spending $30 or so on a room, and a few dollars for food, I continued to send more money back home. Although Mother never asked for anything, I knew she could use money for upkeep on the house and to pay the bills. My brother Paul and I were the only two that might help, but I knew he was in need of help himself.

By now, my brother had been out of the service for a few years. Paul originally enlisted under the armys buddy system, where, if two friends signed together, they would put you through basic training and assignments together for their whole enlistment. I guess it didnt work out that way for him. During his four-year hitch, he and his friend were separated, and Paul was assigned as a combat engineer to a post in Burma. There, he contracted malaria, depending on cigarettes and alcohol to see him through his agony.

Upon Pauls treatment and release, Millie Walker, his wife, insisted that he return home to Clovis, New Mexico, and start a family of their own. Paul was a very funny fellow, but he chose an opposite path in his life from mine. He began to gamble and do everything in his nature that was wrong for him. I, on the other hand, never took a drink or had the desire to gamble in my life. To some, the nature of my strict upbringing was much too overbearing to understand.

I often thought, at times, it seemed strange that I became close with friends like Jimmy Demaret and Tommy Bolt. Both could hold their liquor, and both had dispositions that were so opposite of each other, yet so similar. Jimmys sense of humor and Toms impatient anger were wearing off on me. As much as I loved their friendships, their vices were never of an interest to me.

Tommy once whispered to me, Its a wonder that I didnt become a full-fledged alcoholic. At one time I had a contract to endorse this famous brand of scotch. In return, they reimbursed me for all that I could drink. When my own dermatologist took one look at me, he suggested that I lay off for a while. My nose had grown red and swollen, and was a gauge that others could use to see how much I consumed.