Out of the Woods

By MIKE OSTERHOUT

On the green

Tail end of Sepember and instead of sitting around the house counting the days until turkey season, I opt to call up old friend and pro golfer Prof. Tony Labat in the wilds of San Francisco. Wyoming and Montana are already under a foot of early season snow. Big bull elk are bugling in the Colorado mountains, pheasants are flushing in Dakota corn fields and any number of western states offer a full plate of early-season hunts. The only problem is these hunts are high-end tickets reserved for a privileged few. Camo and call execs, as well as national outdoor magazine writers, go on such junkets. They all sound wonderful but they've never spent a week with Prof. Labat.

I make my calls, crack open the piggy bank and head for the airport. Arriving mid-afternoon in San Francisco, the less-than-competent folks at National Airlines promptly lose my clubs. Seems they've traveled onto the Philippines. The Prof just smiles, nonplused by the foul up. We pile in his '77 Lincoln and head for town.

When not teaching other pros the fine points of the game, Labat can be found at the San Francisco Art Institute where he heads the New Genres department. Just like it sounds, "New Genres" is where the avante garde is flushed out in academia. Since I happen to be the only hunting guide in the country with degrees in art and theology, Tony asks if I'd be interested in lecturing in his class on ethics and real estate. I quickly agree as the big Lincoln screeches to a halt in the Mission.

An avid naturalist, my host points out a circling dotcomorant flying above a towering virtualyptus. "Good. sign," he says, unlocking the door to his digs. "Where are we gonna play?" I implore as Labat mixes up a batch of mohitos and hands me a big Cuban cigar. He waves my question away and we toast my arrival.

San Francisco is my second home. As much as I love the northeast, the wind surfers skipping across the bay, big slabs of fog poised on the western hills and an Oz-like downtown form an intoxicating tableau that's hard to resist. Even the light looks like it was imported from Hollywood. If they had turkey and whitetails I'd move back in a heartbeat.

My lecture is scheduled for the next day. It's a bit like being famous in your own living room, but 20 years of periodic lectures in Labat's classes have afforded me a bit of minor celebrity at the Art Institute. The class is packed. I run through my slide carousel, stopping for emphasis on purchases like a church, a school, a cemetery and outlining my plans for other land deals. One student wants to discuss land in outer space (she's working with NASA) and another wants to book a turkey hunt. I chat over cocktails and finger food, when Labat suddenly grabs me by the arm and whispers "Lets get in 18." I'm ready.

E-lions loll lazily on the piers as we turn the big Detroit beast back towards the Mission. I wonder where we are heading but dare not ask. My clubs are in Subic Bay and the Prof seems to have it in control so I just sit back and enjoy the view. We pick up two other golfers, both semi-pros; Lenny and Woody, and pull up in front of Labat's pad. I look at the three golfers wondering what's going on. "All out!"

As we enter the dark space a green glow seems to emit from nowhere, bathing the room in an eerie wash. Then I notice in the corner the source of the light. A 60-inch monitor with dangling tentacles and play station controls comes into focus. Cigars are lit. Beers are popped and three of the best golfers on the west coast settle into a giant white leather couch for a marathon match. I can't believe my eyes. Complete with electronic heckling, this game combines all the frustration and elation of real golf without the sunscreen and exercise. They all look at me standing there like a deer caught in the headlights. Then with a knowing nod my old friend hands me the controls, moves over on the couch and for the next week, in between gourmet meals, museum visits and art classes, we play golf in cyber space. FORE!