John Waddy Bullion
Putt-Putt Golf Scorecard, dated 9/18/73
A scorecard for a round of putt-putt golf signed by Jonathan Richman and Gram Parsons White, with some yellowing. Slight wear, staining. 4 by 6 in.
$1,275
This scorecard represents the only physical memento of the long-rumored, never-before-confirmed round of mini-golf played by Jonathan Richman (of the Modern Lovers) and Gram Parsons (of the International Submarine Band, the Byrds, and the Flying Burrito Brothers) at the Mojave Putt-Putt and Cosmic Fun Center on September 18th, 1973, less than 24 hours before Parsons was found dead of a drug overdose at the Joshua Tree Inn. The signatures and handwriting of both Richman (halting, childlike, unpretentious) and Parsons (loopy, wavering, but weirdly pretty and even downright girlish) have been authenticated independently by Richard Thorne and Associates, Coachella Valley’s leading third-party certification provider. In spite of some slight scuffing, frayed corners, smeared pencil markings, and a mystery stain (possibly a droplet from either the lemon-lime Gatorade Jonathan Richman took sips from throughout his round, or from any number of the half-dozen or so Boy Howdy! beers guzzled by Gram Parsons over the course of the afternoon), this item is in remarkably good condition and will make a cherished addition to any rock n’ roll history buff’s collection.
Initially Boston-based, Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers first traveled out west in 1972 for a series of recording sessions with John Cale (formerly of the Velvet Underground, one of Richman’s foundational musical influences) and quickly fell in with Parsons, already a fixture on the Laurel Canyon scene, even though his star—which was never all that bright during his brief lifetime—had faded somewhat. The two musicians enjoyed holding impromptu jam sessions and trading old records with one another, but oddly, their most intense bond was formed over their mutual love of putt-putt, which they played more than a dozen times at courses across southern California between April 1972 and September 1973. Gram Parsons, the born-on-third-base heir to a Florida citrus empire, had practically grown up on the putting green in back in Winter Haven, and was fond of bringing his own club, a top-of-the-line Ping Anser putter gifted to him several Christmases before by his grandfather, to his matches with Richman. Prior to 1972, the closest Jonathan Richman had ever gotten to a golf course of any size were the brief, tantalizing glimpses of the colorful signs and whimsical fixtures (Pirate ships! Lighthouses! Dinosaurs!) of all the putt-putt places scattered along Massachusetts Route 128 he stole while accompanying his father, a traveling salesman, on business trips. In spite of his lack of experience, Richman took to putt-putt like a natural, matching Parsons stroke for stroke on their first outings, and often emerging as the outright victor. Parsons’ performance was no doubt hindered not only by his dwindling physical and mental state (overweight, pale, estranged from his wife and child, bruised-up from bar fights, addled by heroin and alcohol dependencies), but also by his insistence on wearing his trademark Nudie suits in the relentless and brutal California desert sunshine. Regardless of these self-imposed handicaps, Parsons was, by all accounts, still a scratch golfer (at least on the putting green), and was able to pull himself together enough to routinely complete his rounds with Richman at or below par.
The two musicians were so evenly matched that their head-to-head tilts became the hottest ticket among a certain segment of the early-70s entertainment industry jet set, boasting galleries comprised of a veritable who’s-who of Sunset Strip scenesters like Pamela des Barres, Terry Melcher, Glenn Frey, and Brandon deWilde. As the crowds following their exploits grew, so did the stakes—on at least one occasion Gram Parsons set up a friendly skins game with a cash prize (taken directly from his own wallet) awarded to the winner of each hole. (Jonathan Richman converted that day’s winnings into a snappy new pair of Bermuda shorts.). Parsons and Richman also liked to keep things interesting by occasionally agreeing to each play an entire round with a predetermined handicap, such as only putting with one hand, or playing certain holes blindfolded, or using a child-sized putter. This last self-imposed limitation produced something akin to a spiritual awakening for Jonathan Richman, who discovered that he actually preferred using the shorter, stubbier kiddie club. It was a matter of feel, he claimed—with a putter that near to the ground you could actually feel the transfer of energy that collected in your shoulders, traveled into your hands, torpedoed down the metal shaft and pooled into the putter’s club face, then you could pass that energy along—again, purely by feel—like a whispered secret into the ball you just struck, with the kind of confidence that only came from a mind completely emptied of thought. Gram Parsons just nodded and gave his lanky friend a limp, to-each-his-own smile. He would stick with his Ping Anser, with its lived-in familiarity, even though its grip was wearing thin, and the club head had recently shown signs of loosening from the shaft. Using a kiddie putter had made Parsons profoundly uncomfortable, and not just because of the lower back pain (although the morphine did help with that). Jonathan Richman was right—you could feel more with a kiddie putter—but the closer Gram Parsons bent himself toward the earth, the more he could feel everything.
We may safely assume that the two musicians played their final round of golf together under these conditions: Parsons lugging a worn-and-torn emblem of his depleted fortunes, and Richman fully embracing his inner child with the club he had cheekily dubbed his “Lilliputian solution.” We must take this on faith because, aside from the small slip of paper you are about to bid on, no other first-hand account of this last round of putt-putt exists. No photos from Dennis Hopper and his trusty Nikon, no chicken scratch notes toward an essay by Eve Babitz—in fact, no indication there were any witnesses at all, apart from the two musicians who participated in the round. Perhaps that was for the best, because the story the scorecard tells is a dismal one, for it documents an endless succession of sextuple-bogies: eights on the downhill holes, eights on the uphill holes, eights on the holes that played as flat as a palm on a table; eights on the windmill hole, eights on the totem-pole hole, eights on the Mayan temple hole; eights on the holes that curled like question marks; eights on the holes with dried-up water fixtures, eights on the holes with blind tee shots into tunnels; eights on the “volcano hole,” which spewed forth acrid smoke every twelve minutes; eights on the hole with the rounded hillocks shaped like female genitalia, whose individual anatomical components the legendarily rakish Parsons had to explain to the wide-eyed, virginal Richman; eights to open, eights at the turn, and finally, eights at eighteen, which played host to each beleaguered golf ball’s merciful disappearance into the chutes that would return them to the air-conditioned calm of the Mojave Putt-Putt and Fun Center clubhouse, where they would slide into buckets brimming with their multi-colored comrades, whose dimpled surfaces were already covered in their own battle scars. It was the kind of disaster—dazzling in its comprehensive ineptitude and staggering in its ruthless consistency—that would make even the most experienced, mentally rugged golfer question all he thought he knew about the game. One could not blame Jonathan Richman if he peered doubtfully at his kiddie putter one last time before returning it to the rental rack, nor could one fault a frustrated Gram Parsons for snapping his Ping Anser over his knee like a piece of kindling, then flinging the broken metal shards out into the desert to burn away slowly beneath the pitiless sun.
But listen: maybe we’re misreading this scorecard, taking it on faith that this final round of golf was as miserable as this flimsy little slip of paper seems to suggest. In fact, maybe we’ve misunderstood the entire purpose of artifacts like this, which isn’t to offer proof or to keep records, but to instead create small rips in the fabric of time, tiny, jagged openings that we can squeeze ourselves through and slow, bend, or even freeze its inexorable march. This scorecard contains a mini-world where it is always just after 2:00 pm on September 18th, 1973, and eternally 99 degrees Fahrenheit with a hot wind coming out of the northwest at 23 miles per hour—perfect putt-putt weather, because putt-putt makes all weather perfect—and Parsons and Richman are forever on that course, Richman in his Bermudas and Parsons in his sequined Nudie, and they are still hunching over their clubs, lining up their shots, and chasing after a small, round ball that has come to represent, for both men—for all men, or at least, all men who love the game of golf in all its forms, even when the game refuses to love them back—an essential, fundamental piece of themselves that they could propel through space and time, like a wish, or a prayer.
Still not convinced? Here, take this scorecard and turn it sideways. Now look again at the numbers. Do you see what we’re talking about? Do you understand?
Those aren’t figure-eights—they’re infinity symbols.
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John Waddy Bullion’s writing has appeared in the McNeese Review, X-R-A-Y, the Texas Review, Hunger Mountain, Vol 1. Brooklyn, and elsewhere. His debut collection of short stories, This World Will Never Run Out of Strangers, is forthcoming from Cowboy Jamboree Press in November 2025. He lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with his family. Visit him online at johnwaddybullion.com.