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HOLLYWOOD GOLF 163
Taking my sand wedge, I descended into this man-made valley of death and started blasting. I kept hitting at the ball until Murphy was hysterical. The head greenkeeper was watching a short distance away. All he could see was that somebody was apparently shoveling sand out of that trap, so he came running over, very worried, thinking one of his men had gone berserk.
It finally took me thirty-four shots to get the ball in the hole. But I wouldn't quit. That is one thing about my game that can be depended on; I never pick up. I will stay there and keep knocking at the ball as long as it is daylight.
One time I was playing with George Murphy and Carol Tracy, Spencer's brother, at Lakeside. Tracy conceded Murphy a 3-foot putt, and before I could protest Murphy knocked the ball toward the cup but missed it.
"How many?" I inquired.
"Six," replied Murphy.
"It may be a six with Tracy," I told him, "but with me it is a seven."
Murphy let out a roar like a bull elephant in pain, but no man can outshout me. If I do say so myself, I have a voice that can be heard from any golf course in southern California to Catalina on a clear day.
"The object of the game," I bellowed back, "is to get the ball in the hole— not close to it. If that were the case, I would have a handicap of eight instead of eighteen!"
On the next tee Bob Hope and three of his twenty-two gag men were just teeing off. Bob had his Great Dane dog along with him. It was a large, fierce-looking animal, but apparently it had a strain of mongrel in it. At the first outcry of pain from Murphy, the dog's tail went between its legs; and when it heard my bellicose reply, it lit out across country running like a frightened gazelle. It took Bob half an hour to catch the mutt and bring it back, 150 pounds of quivering psychoneurosis.
I discovered early in my golfing career that it is a very expen