Everything’s Miniature but the Hype
The 10th San Fernando Valley Miniature Golf tournament begins this week, and that immediately raises two questions:
Why?
OK, I know that’s only one question. But it is a miniature golf tournament, so let’s shorten this thing wherever possible.
A miniature golf tournament is, by most standards, silly. People who enjoy watching a rebroadcast on ESPN of a bowling tournament held two months ago in Alabama think miniature golf is silly. People who sit wide-eyed on the edge of their chairs watching a slow-motion replay of Bigfoot the monster truck crushing a row of Chevrolets think miniature golf is silly.
And when people start keeping reams of highly detailed statistics about a miniature golf tournament, as do the organizers of this one, then you tend to believe that the stories about the breakdown of the Earth’s ozone layer may indeed be true, and that far too many of the sun’s rays have been beating down upon some heads.
But if they are going to go ahead with this event for the 10th year in a row, they might as well do it right. Let’s bring in a television network, lots of cameras. Let’s, doggone it, bring in Tommy Heinsohn and Dick Stockton.
I know you’re thinking to yourself, ‘Tommy Heinsohn and Dick Stockton will provide no insight whatsoever into a miniature golf tournament.’ And you’re absolutely right. But they didn’t provide much insight into the NBA playoffs, either, and we all still watched, now didn’t we?
The TV broadcast begins with a panoramic shot of the rugged Santa Susana and San Gabriel mountains that surround the Valley. This is film footage that was shot in 1948, the last time anyone actually saw the Santa Susana and San Gabriel mountains, shortly before 16 billion people moved here and began driving 21 billion cars and trucks to work and the air took on the general consistency of New England clam chowder.
The camera draws back to the Castle Park miniature golf course in Sherman Oaks, one of several courses used in the tournament, and viewers get a glimpse of the Goodyear blimp hovering overhead, darting back and forth to avoid the 650,000 aircraft that blindly scream over the Valley each day.
And then, a voice booms into your living room:
“Welcome to the finals of the 1988 San Fernando Valley Miniature Golf tournament. I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m Dick Stockton. Joining me in the booth alongside the hole with the redwood plank nailed down in front of the cup is Tommy Heinsohn. Tom, we have quite an event here today, don’t we?”
“Oh, we sure do, Dick. And it’s nice to be here, the Valley.”
“Thanks, Tommy. Let’s take a look now at the course as we get ready for the 17 holes that will determine the champion. The winner. The guy with the best score when it’s all over. The champion.”
“That’s right, Dick.”
“The first nine holes are considered the toughest by people who should know, Tommy. The course begins with a long par-3, a 16-footer, all uphill, with water on the left and a Dr. Pepper machine that accepts only correct change on the right.”
“Oh, you got that right, Dick. And for some of the players it will be their first chance, the soft drink.”
“The second through eighth holes are some of the finest on the course, Tommy, but we won’t be describing those today. They’re out behind the video games arcade and we can’t see them.”
“They sure are, Dick. And just my luck, I won’t get to play the games because I didn’t bring any with me, the quarters.”
“Ohhh, boy, that made me laugh, Tommy. Now the ninth hole is, well, it’s a short, 9-footer with a drawbridge and a medieval castle, and it’s, well, it’s simply majestic, isn’t it, Tommy?”
“I don’t think magical is the right word to describe it, Dick. I’d say it was more like, like majestic. I tell you right now, I played this hole last night and my golf ball got away from me, hopped over the boards and popped the knight right square in the . . . “
“OK, Tommy, I see the golfers moving toward the first tee, so why don’t you just shut up . . . uh, I mean let’s start whispering a lot and describe some of this action.”
“All right, Dick. Up first we have the defending champion, and he’s pulling it out now, the putter. It’s officially under way, the championship.”
Coverage is briefly interrupted here by a 12-minute commercial break, followed by nine promotional messages for mindless and plotless situation comedies that will premiere this fall without the aid of any professional writers. A network executive vows, “You’ll never know the difference. I know I won’t,” and coverage of the miniature golf tournament resumes, with the defending champion and this year’s leader heading to the 17th and final hole to determine who will be the 1988 champion.
“This is it, Tommy. It all comes down to this hole. The pressure has to be great. There must be great pressure. The pressure, it has to be great. Great, that’s what the pressure must be now on these two men.”
“You’re absolutely right, Dick. I know I can feel it. Greatly. The pressure.”
The tournament ends with the defending champion taking a whopping 14 after his ball is struck by the blades of the windmill, bounces over the retaining boards, becomes lodged under the head of a sleeping teen-ager and requires nine hard blasts with the putter to dislodge it from the youth’s green hair.
“I’ve seen it all, now, Tommy.”
“You’re absolutely right, Dick. That was certainly a bad break. The hair. But as this tournament has shown me, it’s never over ‘til it’s over. The tournament.”