On Wednesday evening John Montgomery ran down the list of all the glittering male types from sports and show biz who had been invited to participate. There were Joe Namath, Glen Campbell, Mickey Mantle, Joey Bishop, Don Adams, Joe DiMaggio, George Blanda, Jerry Lucas, Fred Williamson, Joe Williams, Tige Andrews, Fred Biletnikoff, Peter Marshall, Jim Lange, Dale Robertson, Joe Louis, Vic Damone.
"And you," he said.
I said uh-duh-who?
"You play at 8:42 a.m. with Donna Caponi and Glen Campbell," John said.
Later that evening my lovely wife, whom I shall call June, and I were trying to decide where to go in Vegas—I was torn between "Vive Les Girls" at the Dunes and "Geisha'rella" at the Thunderbird—when she asked what I was going to wear tomorrow morning because there would be a gallery.
The usual, I said. My basic-blue button-down with the sleeves cut off and bush jeans. Maybe the gray sweater.
"You'll smother to death and look stupid," she said. "How's your game?"
Terrific, if I don't shank, I said.
"Then don't shank," she said. "What'll Glen and Donna think?"
Relax, I said. What do show-biz guys know about golf? And forget Donna. This is hardly the Masters, you know.