Back in September when I touched down in Little Rock, one thing was instantly clear: This place has some golf to be played. I'd declare it a requirement for anyone coming in, or through, town; though I was disappointingly the only member of the team who took to the course with any regularity.
Within two weeks I had my clubs in hand as I took to the first tee of Rebsamen Park Golf Course. Of the 15 rounds I'd play over the next month, 13 were at Rebsamen. Just about every one would begin exactly the same way, with the nicest mid-60's starter you'd ever meet — Bill.
Bill had a voice that squeaked and just enough twang to make his name rhyme with "heel." Couple that with my shockingly flat Detroiter accent and we had a frequent routine that's still fresh in my mind, months after it became too dark to golf before or after work.
|Me||How's it going today, Bill?|
|Bill||Oh...I'm hanging in there. Headed out there?|
|Me||Definitely. I'll walk the twilight rate, please.|
|*I almost always forgot the scorecard*|
|Me||Whoops, almost forgot my scorecard.|
|Bill||Ohhh yah, you've got to write that stuff down, now.|
|Me||Have a good night.|
|Bill||Okay. You go give 'em hell, now.|
Note It's virtually impossible to find the rates anywhere, but monthly passes were a phenomenally low $100.