As most of you know, when I am not writing for Lanny H Golf, I am an Uber driver. It’s a good way to earn money and meet interesting people.
I was beckoned to LaGuardia and delighted to find one Mr. Tim Finchem awaiting my arrival. Mr. Finchem had copious luggage, including a set of golf clubs. I drive a late-model Mini Cooper SUV, which normally would have been sufficiently roomy, but as my wife insists on keeping a child’s booster seat installed for the grandchildren, there was no room for both man and luggage. I had begun removing the seat when Mr. Finchem, in the spirit of saving time and effort, offered to ride in it. I buckled him in and sped off toward the Triborough Bridge.
I was not sure if I should introduce myself. On a whim, I slipped into “the accent.” It sounds like a mixture of Indian, Western African, and Eastern European. (My wife says it sounds nothing like any of those, that it sounds purely idiotic.)
“You are big golf president. I see your picture many time.”
Finchem, obviously pleased at being recognized by one of the little people, smiled, “Guilty as charged. I’m the Commish.”
I ignored the proffered joke lest I break character. “I read golf Internet say you know Tiger Wood.”
“Yes, quite well. I have spent a lot of time with him over the years.”
We drove on in silence. I pointed to my EZ-Pass toll tag and said, “Save time.” He knew the routine and nodded. Once in Manhattan, I realized time was running out; we were going to midtown, and the traffic on FDR was flowing smoothly.
“I heard you maybe take golf away from Trump.”
He answered with no hint of suspicion. He thought I was an immigrant. Or, as my wife would have it, an idiot.
“Yes, he has said some troubling things. What do you think of him?”
I ignored the condescending question. It was now or never.
“Daily News say Florida governor for Trump, so I think you move Golf Hall for Fame to New York, maybe? And all the tournament like Player.”
He blanched, and I wondered what my wife used to clean pee out of the booster seat.
Nothing more was said. We arrived at his Columbus Circle hotel — yeah, that hotel — and I transferred his luggage to the bellhop. Finchem walked away without so much as a glance.
I called after him, “Nice meet you Mr. Finchem. I too golf man. I Lanny H.” He stumbled into the revolving door. Steam shot from his ears. He circled back around. Through the glass, I saw his lips moving soundlessly. He was pushing the door with all his might, moving quickly. Too quickly. He became stuck in the door, going round and round and round. As I drove away, I snapped a memento with my iPhone.
And that, dear readers, was my interview of Mr. Tim Finchem.