I lost another friend this month. They are dropping like flies. Back in the 70’s a small group of college business majors looking more like a psychedelic rock group purchased a small winery and changed the name to Kenwood. They learned how to make wine, sell wine, and promote Sonoma County into the wine region it is today. Mike was designated the winemaker. He learned his trade as he went and became a good one. It is amazing how many winemakers started their careers under Mike.
Generous is a perfect descriptor for Mike. When one of Mike’s ex-assistants was recently promoted to an executive wine position, Mike took him out and bought him new clothes for the new image. He was that kind of guy. If you were out with Mike you knew he wanted to have fun and he wanted you to have fun.
Thirty years ago I use to make wine and sell it to his winery. We became friends about fourteen years ago. Most of our time together centered on golf. Mike loved golf. I am not saying Mike was a great golfer. But, he was better than eight winemakers who decided to take up golf late in their careers. While other golfers would wince and sigh as we topped balls, hit them fat, or watch them fly fifty yards at a time, Mike never made you feel embarrassed or uncomfortable. He encouraged you to keep trying. I can see why he mentored so many guys. Of course, he also took a lot of money off of us on the course. Our newness to golf did not mean that we could skip betting. “Richard, a buck says you don’t make that putt.”
Eventually we were breaking 100 and we were good enough to start traveling. Every year we had a new adventure. We left Mike’s clubs and luggage on the Maui airport sidewalk. Two hours later we rescued them just as security was hosing them down with some kind of anti-explosive foam. We rented a large party house in Bend Oregon, partying with locals, arguing late into the night as to who really made the better wine. We took over the bar at a desert resort that was hosting the cast party for a science fiction television show. The star walked off in a huff, his crew preferring to hang out with us. I won’t tell you about Vegas. It stays there right?
Four years ago our group headed off to Arizona. We decided to expand that trip and share the fun. We invited four new winemaker friends. We were at the San Francisco airport when I learned that one of the invitees had just taken possession of a new plane. He talked two of the old group to fly with him. They tried for days to convince Mike to join them, but Mike refused. He and I sat together on the commercial airliner. “I don’t feel good about this,” he said. I agreed. There had been a surprise rain the night before. I felt a little sick when I learned they had gone on ahead in the little plane. They of course never made it and were the first of our group to fall. They crashed very near my old winery.
Our golf group fell apart after that. We still played occasionally, but the traveling was over. Row Eleven has kept me busy. I have all but given up golf. Occasionally one or two of us would get together, but never as the old group.
Mike died on the fifth green of a Sonoma course last week. He was caddying, helping another wine industry golfer with his game. Mike's last words as he handed the golfer his putter were “Now go on, you make this putt and get your birdie.” Then he was gone.
I would like to believe that when Mike’s soul left his body he was standing on another green, this one in heaven. Our great friend Tom Hobart who went down in the plane is there to greet him. They are a foursome again.
Tom is wearing a wide brimmed straw hat, a Hawaiian shirt, and is smoking a cigar. He hands Mike new heavenly clubs.
“Guess what Mikey,” he says.
“Tommy?” Mike answers confused but happy to see his favorite golf partner.
“Guess who we are playing with tomorrow.” Tom is grinning. He is excited to be with Mike again.
“No idea,” Mike replies beginning to understand what has happened.
“Jim Morrison of the Doors,” Tom shouts. “And you and I are going to take every cent he’s got.”
Mike smiles widely. He puts his arm around Tom’s shoulders as they walk off the green. “Tom,” he asks. “You don’t suppose we could find some sparkling wine up here somewhere?”
Down on the earthly green someone shouts, “What should we do?”
“Put him in the cart and we will take him with us,” is the answer. “One thing Mike would have wanted is for us to finish the round.”
Just kidding.
Miss you Buddy.