I'm Not Gonna Lie (4 page)

SPEAKING
of golf . . .

Late one afternoon, a week after I turned fifty, I walked the back nine on a golf course near my house. The course was empty, so I took my time, strolling leisurely until it started to get dark. This is one of my favorite times of day on a golf course. I love late afternoon, when the shadows get long and the light turns a soft shade of purple, and I love early morning, when the air is cool and crisp and smells of freshly cut grass.

That afternoon I walked alone down the fairway, stopping occasionally to hit a few shots. I didn't keep score. I rarely do. I'm not interested in the number. How I play is much more important to me than how I score.

As shadows spread over the fairway and darkened the rim of a peanut-shaped sand trap, for some reason I saw a vision of myself as a ten-year-old boy. Me and golf. We go way back together. More than forty years. And whenever I imagine myself as a kid, I'm not playing baseball or the guitar or riding a pony; I'm holding a golf club and smiling.

I taught myself how to play. I'd always loved watching golf on TV, especially the majors—the Masters, the U.S. Open, the PGA, and my favorite, the British Open, now called the Open. During commercials, I'd grab this old rusted golf club my grandmother kept around the house and I'd go into the backyard. I'm not sure how we ended up with a golf club. I think it was in case we heard a noise.

We didn't have any golf balls, but we had the next-best thing: a lemon tree. I figured lemons are sort of round—well, oval, but in the round family—and even though a lemon doesn't have dimples like a golf ball, it has a rough surface. I thought it was a pretty good substitute. Hey, I was ten. At least I knew that a grapefruit probably wouldn't work.

I pulled a bunch of lemons off the tree and placed them on the ground. I stepped up to each one and, copying the form I'd seen my favorite golfers use, in particular Lee Trevino, I got into my stance and swung at the lemons, cranking it up with all I had, trying to hit those lemons over the backyard fence.

I learned pretty quickly that lemons are not at all like golf balls.

If you hit a lemon on the button, it squirts. Guess you'd call that the sweet spot. Sometimes—rarely—I'd get some lift, and a lemon would fly over the fence and fall into our neighbor's yard. I knew I hit a good shot if I bounced a lemon off my neighbor's dog. The dog would howl and then charge up to the fence and bark at the top of his lungs like Cujo, angry as hell. It was great, because my grandmother would start yelling at the neighbor, “Tell your dog to shut up! I need my rest!”

Most of the time, though, I'd whack a lemon, slice it open, and lemon juice would just squirt out. I guess that's where the expression “turning lemons into lemonade” comes from—a ten-year-old Mexican-American kid hitting lemons with a rusty old golf club in the backyard. I'll tell you this: When I got older and started playing golf for real with actual golf balls, shooting at pins and greens instead of at my neighbor's yard, I discovered that a golf ball was a lot easier to hit than a squishy lemon.

That afternoon, as I walked up the eighteenth fairway, I started thinking about my life and turning fifty and about all the things I wanted to do before I died. I'd accomplished a lot in my fifty years. I'd spent an evening at the White House, dining with the president of the United States. I'd become friends with some of my idols from show business and sports. I'd succeeded in my chosen career, achieved a little fame and a fair amount of money, which I've happily shared with others and unhappily with my ex-wife. I'd survived a serious health scare and set up a foundation to help fight kidney disease. I felt blessed. I'd been granted almost all my wishes. I once read about a guy who asked a wise man, “What do you do when your dreams come true?” The wise man said, “Keep dreaming.”

I paused near the lip of the eighteenth green and a crazy thought came into my head, something I wanted to do more than anything else. A personal quest. I decided that I would play every one of the top hundred golf courses in the world.

You have to consider any list with a hundred items on it a huge challenge. Especially for me, because it involved literally traveling the world. I love to travel, but I was a late starter. When I was a kid, my grandparents never took me anywhere. We hardly left the house. Well, that's not fair. I did go to a few places. I went to:

The front yard.

The backyard.

School.

Kmart.

The liquor store.

I might've missed a couple places. Let me think. Well, Jack in the Box, but that doesn't count, because we didn't get out of the car.

No. We did not go places. We didn't go to the beach. We didn't go to the movies. We didn't go to restaurants.

So I dreamed. I dreamed I went to Disneyland and Dodger Stadium and the Forum. I imagined myself at magnificent white beaches in Hawaii and striding down the windswept fairways of historic golf courses in Scotland.

Now, here comes the weird part.

I didn't picture my face in those places.

I pictured my feet.

Yes, my feet.

Especially as I got older and I imagined myself stepping onto those famous golf courses, I saw my
feet
stepping down onto the first tee at Augusta National. I watched my
feet
walking down the fairways at Pebble Beach and Spyglass Hill, the waves of the Pacific crashing below. I said to myself, “One day, my feet are gonna be there.”

Feet. Feet matter. Feet are significant.

Think about it.

When you play golf, hitting a good shot depends on how you move your hips, how you shift your weight, and—very important—where you place your feet. Your stance. You have to adjust the position of your feet every time you hit a different club.

Your feet are your foundation. Your anchors. Your feet ground you. Literally. It's not just me; I'm not the only one who feels this way about feet. Feet are part of our culture.

What do you find in the cement in front of the famous Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood, or in the sidewalks throughout Hollywood?

Footprints of the rich and famous.

Yes. Their
feet
.

And what about law enforcement? What is one of the main elements of solving a crime? When cops want to track a killer at a crime scene, what do CSI guys look for?

Footprints.

They don't dust for elbows. Or shoulders. Or necks. They dust for fingerprints . . . and they look for
footprints.
A cop doesn't say, “We caught a break. The guy leaned on this door. We got a perfect impression of his ginglymus joint. Let's bring him in.”

No. It's all about feet.

I discovered something else that has to do with feet. A life changer, at least for me.

For a couple of years now, I've been doing reflexology. This stuff's amazing. Actually blows my mind. Here's how it works.

I take off my shoes, lie down, close my eyes, breathe, and this very talented woman, call her Lorraine . . .
rubs my feet.

You wouldn't believe it. It's a miracle. I'm a new man.

Let's just say that I've experienced some stress in my life. At times I have been slightly unpleasant, impatient, irritable, and, I'll admit, a borderline jerk. Okay, I'll be honest: I've been a raging asshole. Also, like a lot of people who grew up on fast food, Slim Jims, beef jerky, soda, and lard, when I stress out, the stress goes right to my stomach. Reflexology has changed all that. I'm a million percent calmer. I've cut way down on my stress. I get no more stabbing pain in the pit of my stomach. I have more energy, better digestion, and a lot more patience. And I hardly ever get sick, because Lorraine, using reflexology, has removed all of my toxins. She also kick-started my qi—my invisible life force, also called my energy field—and got that humming along like a well-oiled machine. I have no idea how she got all this to happen, but she did it. . . .

By rubbing my
feet.

I was skeptical, too. Mainly because I didn't learn about reflexology from a doctor or a shrink or a medical Web site. I heard about it from a total stranger at the Coffee Bean.

It's not as crazy as it sounds. Well, okay, it's a little bit crazy. I was hanging out at my local Coffee Bean one day sipping some Earl Grey tea, and I started talking to this woman sitting next to me. We started a casual conversation, but before I knew it, we got into one of those deep, intense discussions that I always seem to have with total strangers. I don't know what it is. I can sometimes be more intimate with a stranger at a coffee shop than with somebody I've known for years. For some reason, after I turned fifty, I've become more open and less judgmental. I just let it fly. Got nothing to lose, I guess. Or maybe I'm making up for all the times in my twenties and thirties when I clammed up and brooded, playing the part of the sullen, moody Mexican comic. The truth is, that's not me.

So back at the Coffee Bean, this woman and I started this great conversation over my tea and her Mocha Ice Blended, skipping all the small talk, going right into a heavy discussion about fate and spirituality and alternative medicine. I not only believe all of that; I'm really cool with it. When death stared me in the face in my mid-forties, I became open to almost anything. So when this woman asked me, “You ever try reflexology?” I didn't flinch.

I'd never heard of it, and maybe I did a joke about it or told her I was particular about who touched my feet, but the truth is, I was intrigued. She insisted I try it. She was so convincing and so sure it would work for me that she gifted me an introductory visit with Lorraine. Lorraine came over a few days later. I didn't know what to expect. I admit I was little nervous. I didn't have to worry. She put me right at ease. There was something about her. This quiet, soft energy popped off her. This might sound crazy, but she kind of . . . glowed. I not only liked her; I trusted her. I kicked off my shoes, lay down, and let her have at it.

Within a few seconds, as she was rubbing away, she frowned and said, “Wow. Your kidneys. I'm feeling something. Definitely. A weakness. You have digestive issues. Oh, and here. Base of your colon. Something is definitely blocked.”

The moment she said the word “kidneys,” I was hooked.

She's been rubbing my feet ever since.

I've now become supersensitive about my feet. And very protective. I don't wear shoes around the house—I go barefoot or wear socks, always have—and this can cause a problem. I have hardwood floors, which I keep clean and polished, but this makes the floor as slippery and treacherous as a hockey rink. What I really needed were socks with traction. I pictured something with tread on the bottom, a combination of a sock and a tire.

I remembered hearing about something called slipper socks. I looked them up online. I found some called Totes, which are basically socks with rubber soles. I scrolled through all the styles. I'm not putting them down, but they weren't my style. They were too . . . girly. I couldn't see myself wearing them. I guess I could walk around the house in them if I were alone. But I'd never wear them if there was anyone else with me. I'd look like a thirteen-year-old girl on a sleepover.

Then Lorraine told me about compression socks. She described these tight-fitting, sheer stockings that go up to your knee or thigh and are great for your circulation. Then, to close the deal, she said, “These are the most comfortable socks you will ever wear.”

I got excited. I did a quick search online and found an entire selection of these amazing socks. Well, first I found compression
stockings,
which looked like panty hose my grandmother used to wear beneath her capri pants. Or the kind of stockings a bank robber wears over his face. I stared at them in horror. I saw myself pulling these panty hose all the way up my leg, and my face morphed from my own and became an old Mexican aunt's face, and I started to scream.

Nooooo!

I clicked off that page and went to the one with the compression socks.

Better.

Sort of.

First of all, nobody under fifty wears compression socks. It's not a youthful look. Or a stylish look. The guys from
Jersey Shore
do not wear compression socks. Apparently, they don't wear condoms, either.

Compression socks increase the blood flow through your legs. They're for people with varicose veins and poor circulation. In other words, old people. But here's the thing . . . a confession about my compression socks.

I don't care how they look; compression socks are the single most comfortable item of clothing I've ever worn. Ever. It's as if these socks pull everything together in a heavenly way. The first time I slipped on my compression socks, I said, “Whoa. This is all right. This is better than all right. This is fantastic. I love my compression socks.”

My only problem with wearing compression socks is that I don't want anybody to know that I wear compression socks. Because even though you can get them online, until you figure out your proper fit, you really need to get them at a medical supply store.

And since I'm trying to maintain a somewhat youthful image, if somebody sees me walking into a medical supply store, I'm dead. Popping into one of those places, you realize that there is a huge old-people industry.

They have a whole section of clothes that are flame-retardant so that we don't set ourselves on fire. There's a wide selection of handrails. By the way, if you need some kind of marker to let you know when you've turned the corner from middle-aged to old, here it is:

When you have to put in a handrail to walk upstairs to bed.

And it's five steps.

You also find many choices of wheelchairs in the medical supply store, some with
ejector seats.

This is perfect for when you discover that you can't get out of your chair on your own, when you hit, say, fifty-two or fifty-three. All you do is press a button in the arm and the seat flies up and boots you out—ejects you—just like you're in one of James Bond's cars. Except you're not. You're in a damn
wheelchair.