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BROOKS 7/6/2013 7:59:13 AM
The last time I recall seeing and being with Foster Brooks was at the LPGA Tournament at Locust Hill Country Club, Rochester, NY in the 1970s. (I learned just last week that the LPGA Tournament had been transferred in 2014 from Locust Hill to Monroe Golf Course.
I do not know if this was because of corporate sponsorship, but I will give Mr. Wegman the benefit of the doubt. I know that if I sponsored the match, I would not want it at Locust Hill.)
Anyway, I was hired, as I had been since its inception, to be the 1st Tee Announcer at the tournament — mainly because of my powerful voice that could be heard clearly (without amplification) within a radius of several thousand feet, rattling off the name of the participant as she began her day by blasting her Titleist 8,000 yards smack down the middle of the first manicured fairway.
Foster and I sat in the Hospitality Trailer, swapping lies and drinking free coffee and eating donuts after the last gal had departed with high hopes of becoming that year’s LPGA winner. I had not seen the Funniest Man in America since he had left Rochester to become Perry Como’s warm-up act in Las Vegas, thanks to Shecky Greene’s sudden illness, as well as a Dean Martin regular on TVs Roasts.
How long you had this gig? he asked, genuinely interest, as his over-sized belly began colliding with the table that separated us. (He had no way of knowing it, of course, but this was to be my final year as the 1st Tee Announcer.
The deal they dealt colleague Don Fisher stuck in my crawl. I had told Locust Hill to find another voice next year.)
This was a long time before the LPGA became identified with any corporate entities such as Wegman’s, and I was employed solely by the club. I go back so far that I remember the time Nancy Lopez had to dress in her car, as there was no room for her in the locker room (I think she may have won that year for the very first time).
Good for you, Foster said, I am delighted that you stopped cow-towing to the clerks-in-charge. Do not make the show biz mistake of staying too long at the trough. They can be mighty good to you when you’re young and foolish, but they can be tough as nails when the chips are down. Be ready to move on when the opportunity comes up.
I knew only too well what he was talking about. When WVET bought WROC, they had let Foster go to make room for others they wanted to keep — the union, AFTRA, was blamed, saying Foster did not have enough seniority to protect him. Bull puckies!
Of course, had they not let him go, Hollywood and Las Vegas would have been the big losers, and America would never had its Funniest Man Alive on national TV. Foster Brooks was the only person who could keep me laughing and in stitches, could make me guffaw out loud until I ached, be it alone with him in a bar or in front of a TV set in a darkened room.
What was he doing that day at Locust Hill? Despite his obvious weight gain and ill-health, I assumed (correctly) he had returned to Rochester to buy some land south of the city and live out his days close to his roots.
Perhaps Locust Hill had learned of this and had hired him as guest speaker at the awards banquet that night. They should have. But I never found out for sure, as I, of course, was not in attendance.
We wiled away the morning, drinking free coffee and eating donuts, and I laughed hysterically at everything he said. No question, he was the greatest storyteller who ever lived, and he regaled me with one tale after another about people I knew and others I pretended I did.
Remember when one of Anne Keefe’s husbands, Brooks said — I think his name was Bill Somethingorother — injured his leg trimming a branch off a tree that was overhanging his driveway? Seems he tossed a rope over it and pulled it down so he could cut it. Somehow his foot got tangled in the rope, and when it snapped back up, the poor bloke went with it. Broke his leg at the kneecap. You gotta picture it: Bill Whatshisface, upside down hanging over the driveway, with a chainsaw in one hand, the other end of the rope in the other, screaming for Anne, like she would run out with a martini to save him!
Although I’d heard the story before, I laughed so hard I spilled coffee all over myself, ruining my last LPGA Tournament t-shirt.
Within a year or so, Foster Brooks had shuffled off his mortal coil, and I, thanks to the Don Fisher affair, was never again the 1st Tee Announcer at Locust Hill Country Club.
Tough tamales. . .Come to think of it, where would Perry Como or Dean Martin be without him? Foster, that is.
