There’s Just Not Much Green When You Hit the Small Time

It could have been the beginning of a wonderful career: sneaker ads, cereal endorsements, groupies and good-natured banter with the press. Another tale of sporting success in the face of adversity.

Then again, maybe last Saturday was as good as it will ever be--both the zenith and nadir of Gary Heller’s reign as Southern California’s miniature golf champion.

No screaming fans. No glad-handing agents. No offers to peddle picante or Pennzoil.

No fat checks.

Just a fistful of movie coupons and a Pepsi beach ball from the manager of the miniature golf course that lies in the crotch of the Ventura and San Diego freeways in Sherman Oaks, and a quick snapshot for a national miniature golf magazine.

Let it be noted that the press was there, however, dutifully capturing the kind of athletic drama that makes the Olympics such a big deal, recording the fact that Heller putted in at 48 strokes--five under par--to snatch victory from his sole competitor.

Heller’s friend Gene Ebert came in second.

And last.

With two players on a city block-size course, this was truly a miniature golf tournament.

To make a foursome, Castle Park course manager Robb Pfeil and a Times reporter had to join the game. And although neither Pfeil nor the reporter played seriously, both held the lead at times as the foursome ambled through 54 holes of gingerbread houses, windmills and pagodas.

But, champ that he was to be, Heller snapped back in the final nine.

It was not supposed to be like this.

This was supposed to be a big deal--the playoffs to decide who will represent Southern California in the national miniature golf finals later this month in Jacksonville, Fla., an event of such glittering import that it will be broadcast (taped) on ESPN.

But this was the weekend after Southern California burned. So no one was much interested in competing to become the Jack Nicklaus of putt-putt golf.

Only Ebert and Heller had signed up. And they didn’t even intend to. They just happened to come by to play an early round, taking advantage of a special price of 18 holes for a buck.

“I saw the sign and thought it looked interesting,” said Heller, a 26-year-old Sherman Oaks band manager who is, as the saying goes, between jobs. Heller, originally from Minnesota, claimed to be an avid petite duffer.

During summers in Minnesota, he played every week. So with Minnesota winters being what they are, that would average out to about four or five times a year.

Ebert, a 48-year-old painting contractor from Sherman Oaks, had not played in seven or eight years, but he tossed his three bucks into the ring hoping to become a contender.

“I’m an optimist,” he said.

And so it began. Armed with their putters, the two competitors and their two sparring partners headed for Course 3. “It’s the toughest one,” Pfeil said.

But everyone sunk the first hole in two strokes--birdies all around.

Other holes proved more challenging. The course, owned by the Los Angeles Department of Recreation and Parks, is 20 years old. Greens are not always flat.

On that score, course manager Pfeil held a home-field advantage. He plays the courses about once a week and knows which way this or that green will break.

Also, he alone among the four plays real golf.

The rest were content to wallop balls willy-nilly into a model of the house from “Psycho.”

Needless to say, the event was not attended by the hushed solemnity of the PGA Tour.

Traffic from the San Diego Freeway whizzed by a few feet from the greens. Children squealed and screamed. Parties in little gazebos sprinkled throughout the course sang “Happy Birthday” to little kids in fun hats.

Despite the distractions, the players tried to re-create the tension, the excitement and the drama that is professional golf, with a running, mock-television commentary.

“Fifty-thousand dollars riding on that shot and you missed it,” Ebert said as the reporter flubbed a two-foot putt.

Oh, the shame. But halfway through the competition, as he briefly grasped the lead, visions of glory ran through the scribe’s brain. Forget the daily grind of journalism. Life held something better: A career on the links with the Jacks, the Lees and Chi Chis of the miniature golf set.

Alas, it was not to be.

Dreams of greatness were interrupted by Ebert’s ongoing commentary. Watching fountains of blue water cascade into a small pond, he said: “I figure it must have taken about 200 toilet bowl tablets to get the water that color. It’s always nice to have Mr. Tidy Bowl around the golf course.”

And so when Heller claimed victory by two strokes, commentator Ebert summed up the victory thusly: “Without a piece of sweat on his brow, he smiles with such calm, such arrogance.”

Back in the clubhouse--which doubles as a video arcade and snack bar--the conquering hero was hailed by no one. In his moment of glory, Heller also reckoned with a newfound problem: How is he going to get to Florida to compete in the nationals and thus collect his moment of miniature fame on ESPN?

Taking a page from the big boys’ book, the champ is looking for sponsors.

“Otherwise, we may have to rob a bank to find the money to fly to Florida,” Ebert said.

Let’s see, he’d be a natural for Chihuahua breeders, makers of midget race cars, those one-drink bottles of booze, dollhouses, Minox cameras, miniskirts. . . .