Hasta La Vista, Gringo
Go, you little sweetheart.
He got the call. It was Mark. Mark told him that Joe, his father, had just started home hospice. Joe was 89 and had been sick for several years. He didn’t ask Mark how long he thought Joe would live. He just assumed it wouldn’t be more than a week or two.
He immediately thought about the logistics to attend Joe’s funeral. He was living in Highland Park, and Mark and Joe lived in Santa Barbara. This was Saturday, and he and W were supposed to go to Asheville for a week on Wednesday.
If Joe died in the next four days, he would cancel the trip and fly to Santa Barbara for the funeral. If Joe died while they were in Asheville, he would go to Santa Barbara directly from Asheville.
He had known Joe Scher since he was three. Fifty-seven years. Joe was more than just Mark’s dad. He was family. He loved Joe, and he knew Joe loved him. He had so much respect for Joe.
For Joe’s funeral he wanted to wear a suit. Problem. He no longer owned a suit. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had worn a suit. Times had changed. Just a sport coat, nice pants, button down shirt, and sometimes, a tie.
Even for funerals.
He needed to buy a suit. Where? He thought. Nordstroms.
As he drove to Nordstrom’s he did the math. The suit, of course, would need alterations. Today was Saturday. The Nordstrom tailors most likely didn’t work on Sunday. The soonest, and that’s if he was lucky, the suit might be ready would be on Monday.
What if Joe died on Sunday? The funeral would be on Tuesday. That meant he could pick up the suit as late as Monday evening, fly out early Tuesday and still make it to the funeral. That assumed the service wouldn’t start before noon.
If Joe died today, the funeral would be Monday. How would he make that work? He would have to have the suit by Sunday. Nordstrom’s brand was customer service. Surely, once they found out the suit was for a funeral, they would make it happen. Of course, they would.
That relaxed him.
He stopped thinking about the logistics. He started thinking about Joe. His wry smile. The crinkle in his eye. When he and Mark were kids, Joe was an exacting father with very high standards. Perhaps Joe was that way because he was a self-made man; growing up, his family lived paycheck to paycheck; they even moved 11 times in 10 years.
Mark lived in fear of screwing up. Of course he screwed up. As Mark’s best friend, he was often there when Mark screwed up. Many times he was part of the screw-up. When they did screw up, the countenance on Joe’s face, the piercing look in his eyes, the distinct lowering of his voice and the deliberate cadence in which he spoke made them pray they would never screw up again.
Like that was going to happen.
He has always hated shopping. That day, the Nordstrom salesman made it effortless. The salesman understood what he was wanted. A suit that spoke to the occasion. A suit that reflected respect.
The salesman said, “Follow me.” He marched directly to the well-stocked suit section of the men’s department. Without hesitation, he pulled out a beautiful charcoal grey suit.
“This, sir, is your suit.”
He was right.
“It’s a classic. Hart Schaffner Marx. You can wear this for years.”
He only wanted it for the funeral.
Turns out he needed more than just a suit. He also he needed a shirt, a tie, shoes, and a belt.
“Can I get a shirt with French cuffs?’
“Of course.”
He planned to wear the cuff links that were his father’s. They were elegant. His father’s initials, SNL, were engraved on them. Joe and his father knew each other. He knew his father liked and respected Joe. He knew the same was true for Joe.
Yes, French cuffs was the right call.
Of course, the suit needed alterations. Good news. The Nordstrom tailors worked on Sundays. The suit would be ready by 5:00 p.m. the next day. That truly was good news. If Joe were to die that evening, he could make it to Joe’s funeral on Monday.
When he played golf the next day, he told the guys about Joe and the suit. The guys were Al, Bob and Steve. They had been playing together for many years at Winnetka National, which was the jazzed-up name they had bestowed upon their municipal course.
Al was the big shot in the group. He was founder and chairman of Golin, one of the largest PR firms in the world. He was legendary in the industry. He was just 26 years old when he met Ray Kroc and soon after became McDonalds first PR agency of record. Today, 65 years later, they still are.
Al thought he made a great choice buying a suit made by Hart Schaffner Marx.
“I have three in my closet. You can wear them ‘til the day you die. Then after you die, you can be buried in it.”
“Is that your plan?”
“You know I hadn’t thought about it. Now I will. I’ll let you know next Sunday.”
Bob was a notable head hunter for the advertising industry. He and Bob met when their sons were good friends growing up.
“So, it’s a charcoal suit?”
“Yep.”
“Cuffs or no cuffs?”
“Cuffs.”
“Smart. Shoes. Black or brown?"
“Black.”
“The tie?”
“Greyish blue, flecked with yellow diamonds. Do I pass?”
“You know I’m just looking out for you, Mr. Logan.”
“I know you are.”
They were both being sincere about the looking out part. Bob is a man of tremendous compassion and empathy. God knows how many hours Mr. Logan has bent his ear on a golf course going on about his problems.
Bob is fastidious about clothes.
They have a first tee ritual. Before teeing off, Bob, who’s a head taller, leans in, fixes Mr. Logan’s collar, straightens his shirt, knocks off the lint — even if there isn’t any — steps backs, gives him the once over and says, “Looking pretty sharp today, Mr. Logan.”
The first time Bob made his lean in move, Mr. Logan was certain Bob was going to kiss him.
Steve wanted to know how much the suit cost. Normally, Mr. Logan would be put off by that question. He understood where Steve was coming from. Steve was a fine accountant. Through the years, he represented many professional athletes, including Vinnie Del Negro, the head coach of the Bulls.
When it came to spending money on himself, Steve struggled mightily to pull the trigger. Why? Because his mother did a number on him and made him feel unworthy. As Steve told it, his mother was just one of life’s horrible people. When they went out for a family dinner, his mother always ordered veal. After one bite, she always said, “This veal is vile.”
Facts are facts. Steve’s mother choked to death while eating dinner at Steve’s brother’s house. God, how great if it had been veal. It was skirt steak.
Steve wanted to know the price of the Hart Schaffner Marx suit because he hoped it was expensive and he could beat himself up for not being deserving to spend that kind of money on himself. When he heard the price, he was mildly disappointed.
On Wednesday, Joe’s condition was the same. Mr. Logan and W flew to Asheville for the week. The suit, shirt, tie, belt, shoes, and cufflinks went right along with them.
Joe held steady throughout the trip. A few weeks later, Mark told him Joe was making a comeback. How much of a comeback? He was going out for lunch with his hospice team. A week or so later, the home hospice team withdrew.
Mr. Logan had never heard a story like that. Perhaps you have. He decided Joe wasn’t out of the woods. Over the next four months he took three more trips.
After every trip, he and Steve would have the following conversation walking down the first fairway.
“Did you take the suit?”
“Took the suit.”
“Take the shirt?”
“Took the shirt.”
“Shoes?”
“Yep, the shoes.”
“The belt?”
“Took the Belt.”
“Cufflinks?”
“I’d never forget the cufflinks.”
“How much was your hotel room?”
“More than you would pay.”
Joe’s health continued to remain steady. One day an invitation arrived to celebrate Joe’s 90th birthday. How great is that?
He was going to wear the friggin’ suit to Joe Scher’s 90th birthday party.
That he did. It was a beautiful party. Joe’s voice was weak. He moved gingerly. He was still Joe Scher.
Mark gave a wonderful, deeply moving toast.
The next morning, Mark took him to Joe’s house to spend time with Joe. When he saw him, Joe seemed invigorated. It must have been the party.
Joe was extremely smart. One of those guys who was playing chess while everyone else was playing checkers. Joe knew it was the last time he was going to see him. He wanted that last memory to be a good one.
Al always extolled the virtues of curiosity. Al and Joe had that trait in abundance. So, like old times, Joe was asking the questions. Joe wanted to know how he was doing. How are the plays coming along? Working on anything new? How’s W? Tell me about the kids.
When he said good-bye to Joe, he wasn’t thinking it was the last time he would see him. He was thinking how blessed he was to be part of a celebration and to spend one-on-one time with Joe to boot.
Joe died two months later. There wasn’t going to be a funeral. Mark told him not to come out. So, the suit stayed in the closet.
He was grateful he didn’t have to wear it.
You might think the story ends here. If you do, you haven’t been paying attention. Sure it’s a story about Joe and a suit. But it’s bigger than that.
The next time he wore the suit was three years later at Al’s memorial service in 2017. Al lost his battle with prostate cancer. The headline of his obit in The New York Times was, “Al Golin, PR Man Whose Vision Helped Make McDonald’s a Success, Dies at 87.”
Told you he was a big-shot.
Mr. Logan was honored to be asked to speak at the memorial celebration. Just one of six people, including the current CEO of McDonald’s. How he wished he had a ghostwriter. Nope, he was going to have to write this one on his own.
He knew he was asked because there was a hole in Al’s life that needed to be filled. Al and golf. There are, of course, many ways to take the measure of a man. But, if the man plays golf, there may not be a better one.
Al is without a doubt one of the finest people he’s ever known.
So, all he had to do was write a speech that explained how he came to know this by playing a weekly game of golf with Al.
Not easy. He spent days at his desk writing down stories about Al and all things golf.
He started with Al’s tee shot. Always beautifully struck. A soft draw that invariably found the middle of the fairway. Of course, at 80 years old, he hit it 30 yards shorter than when he was 50. Like every other aging golfer, he was incredulous at the loss of distance.
Al’s approach shot no longer landed on the green. If the golf gods were being generous that day, they allowed a couple of them to roll up to the green. As the ball rolled, Al often yelled, “Go, you little sweetheart.”
The guys loved to chime in.
The speech started to come together. If you’ve ever written one, you know the hardest parts are the beginning and the ending.
There were well over 500 people in attendance that day. He sat in between Bob and Steve. When Steve saw him, he gave him the business.
“Is that the suit?”
“Hart Schaffner Marx.”
“The shirt?”
“French cuffs, and as you can see ,with my Dad’s cuff links.”
“The tie?”
“Yep.”
“The shoes?”
“Yep.”
“Public parking?”
“Valet.”
“Damn!”
Bob approached Mr. Logan.
“Is that the suit?”
“The one and only.”
“How’s the speech?”
“As good as it’s going to be.”
Then Bob leaned in, fixed his tie and buttoned the top button of his jacket. Bob took a few steps back and took in the wonder before him.
“Looking pretty sharp, Mr. Logan.”
This is how Mr. Logan began his tribute to Al.
Bob Tesar, Steve Lewis, and I had the privilege to play in a weekly summer golf game with Al for close to 15 years. When you add it up….15 years, 5 hours a round, 25 rounds a season, it equals 1,825 hours. That’s 1,825 hours that we had Al to ourselves.
I know what you’re thinking: What was Al doing wasting his time with these nobodies?
Yes, Al rubbed elbows with Presidents, dined with Captains of Industry, and hobnobbed with celebrities, but at heart, Al was always a man of the people, never too good to hang with the hoi polloi, and even the nobodies like us.
Here’s how he wrapped up.
I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to Al. To tell him that his friendship meant the world. To let him know that he was the finest man I knew. And especially, to thank him for a priceless gift he had given me.
Al showed me that getting older isn’t about looking back. It’s about what’s ahead. If you live life like Al -- passion for family, work, friends, and an insatiable curiosity about about everything and everyone, you’ll have such a bounty of good stuff that waking up every morning will always be a joy.
1,825 hours with Al. It’s not the end. Call it the front nine. Every round of golf we play, Al is going to be right there with us.
“Go, you little sweetheart.”
The guys had a tradition when they played the 18th hole at Winnetka National. The tee box is set high overlooking the 18th fairway. To get there it requires climbing 34 steps.That’s after having put in 14,000 steps traversing the first 17 holes.
Except for Al. He always drove a cart.
When they teed off on 18, they hit their shots together. Here’s how it worked. They spread themselves out equidistantly. Placed their tees in the ground. Their golf balls on the tee. Several practice swings. Then, one of them said, “Ready?”
Followed by,
“Ready.”
“Ready.”
“Ready.”
Whoever initiated the first '“ready,” initiated the countdown.
“3, 2, 1, go!”
They believed their swings were synchronized and they made contact at the exact same time. They never did. They did come close a few times. They are convinced they always hit it in the fairway. Al’s baby draw usually was in the fairway. Bob’s towering draw often was. As for Steve and Mr. Logan, they were more often than not in the water on the left or the woods on the right. To be fair, it is a daunting shot.
As far as they know, they are the only foursome in the world that ever teed off together.
Exhilaration is what they felt.
That’s how you end a round.
After Al died, the three of them played some pretty crappy golf. That’s what grieving did to all of them. They missed Al like a son-of-a-bitch. They missed him so much they popped for a bench with a plaque with Al’s name engraved on it.
Not just that. If you look closely you’ll see the words, “Go, You Little Sweetheart.”
The guys wanted the bench to be placed behind the 18th hole tee box. The powers that be at Winnetka National said the 6th tee box or nothing. The view from 6th tee to the 6th green is really lovely. Especially when you’re sitting on Al’s bench. That they do every round.
No, the story still isn’t over.
The next time Mr. Logan wore the suit was for Steve’s funeral four years later. Steve’s death was sudden and dramatic. Steve was 75 years old. An extremely fit 75. For the last ten years of his life, he walked at least 100,000 steps a week. Per day, that comes out to 14,000 steps and change. Per year, that’s at least five million steps.
According to Google, the average person's stride length is between 2.1 and 2.5 feet, but this can vary based on height and fitness level. Steve was 6-feet 1-inch tall. So let’s guestimate his stride was 2.5 feet.
For every mile, how many steps did Steve take? How many miles per year did Steve walk?
No one could calculate numbers in their head faster than Steve. As he often said proudly, “Numbers are my life.” Be assured Steve is thrilled we’re doing the math.
Cutting to the chase, Steve took 2,150 steps per mile and walked 2,518 miles per year. To put it another way, every year Steve walked to Bangor, Maine and back.
On Saturday, September 25th, 2021, Steve was experiencing some minor chest pain. His internist suggested a stress test. Wednesday morning he went for the stress test. After getting off the treadmill, Steve laid down, cracked some jokes, and suffered a massive heart attack.
How can that even be possible? The man who every year walked to Bangor, Maine and back dies of a heart attack in a hospital after finishing a stress test?
Steve would be the first to say, “The theory of large numbers.” It’s has to happen to someone.
Steve took up golf in his fifties and absolutely adored the game. He had a 20-plus handicap. If you have a 20-plus handicap, you are going to hit 4 or 5 shots a round that will blow your mind. For Steve, it was usually a 7 iron that soared in the air and landed softly on the green.
“I’m en fuego,” he always said ecstatically.
Steve got off on correcting the guys when someone said, “How much further?”
“It’s farther,” he’d say with the smugness of a professional grammarian.
When Mr. Logan would call Steve out for occasionally saying, “Between you and I,” Steve just ignored him.
A few seasons back, Steve and Mr. Logan were walking down the fairway, Steve randomly said, “I can hear everything you’re saying.”
Mr. Logan was puzzled.
Steve said he just started using hearing aids.
“Are you telling me all these years we’ve been walking this course you haven’t been able to hear me?”
Steve said, “Not a word.”
Steve’s funeral was that Friday. Because of Covid, it was held graveside. The weather sucked. It was cold and raining lightly. What sucked even more was that Steve’s four disgruntled adult children from two different marriages couldn’t rise to the occasion and find nice words to say.
Ok, they did say how much Steve loved the Cubs and took them to games when they were young. One brought up that Steve made them pancakes for breakfast.
Mr. Logan so wished he had been asked to speak. He would have said Steve was universally beloved by friends and clients.
Steve’s step-daughter Amanda saved the day. She said how grateful she and her brother were that their mother met Steve. What a wonderful husband he was. That they knew in their heart of hearts Steve would always be there for all of them. She said how much their own children loved him.
She described Steve’s sense of humor as smart, dry as a martini, and sometimes, wonderfully bananas. When Steve left a room, he always turned to her and said, “Hasta la vista, gringo. I’ll see you in Venezuela.” Amanda didn’t have a clue what it meant but it always made her laugh hard.
She cherished the toast Steve gave at her wedding. Said he knocked it out of the park. She said Steve told her he hadn’t prepared a word. With tremendous self-satisfaction, he said he just winged it.
When you give a eulogy you have to land the ending or you have no business being up there in the first place. Amanda nailed it.
She looked beyond the mourners into the distance where the sun was beginning to peak thru. With a full heart, she said, “Hasta la vista, Steve. I’ll see you in Venezuela.”
Steve, like Al and Joe, is one of the finest men Mr. Logan has known..
He and Bob were heartbroken.
That night, as he undressed, taking off the jacket, the shoes, the belt, the pants, the cuff links and the shirt, he smiled remembering all the times Steve put him thru the drill. Always ending with a self-flagellating quip.
Then he heard Steve’s voice.
“The casket. How much did it cost?”
“More than you could ever imagine.”
“I’m en fuego!”
Do You Know This Man?: An Irreverent Memoir, is an ongoing exploration of the one character who eludes, confounds and mystifies. Me. Right now, it’s available for free, including being able to listen to some of my plays and dive into the best of Sportscape Magazine.
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