“It feels like being stabbed with an icepick,” says Mayor Foster of his injured right forearm, which may or may not contain a ruptured tendon that causes intense pain whenever club meets ball.  He’s not sure of the exact extent of the injury, but he’s sure that it hurts to play golf.

But see, that’s going to be a problem.  Because Mayor Foster loves to play golf.  Been playing for twenty-something years, when he began tagging along with a friend on weekends.  After a lesson or two (“To unlearn all of the terrible habits I had picked up”), he’d worked his way up to a 4 handicap.  Two back surgeries and a few years later, he still plays at an 11.

After recently noticing the forearm pain and seeking medical help, the Mayor made his intentions clear and quickly asked if he would be able to play golf.  His doctor said it would be alright to try, but the smacking vibration was excruciating and he called back, looking for advice.

“Well,” she replied, “Stop doing that.”

Foster had a better idea.

“I’ll just play the irons,” he said.

So, wood-less he was, at the annual Mayor’s Cup Golf Tournament at Skylinks—a scramble-style foursome tournament with high profile figures and impressive prizes—yesterday near the Long Beach Airport.

The tournament donates proceeds to the Long Beach Junior & Inner-City Youth Golf Programs.

As comfortable as the Mayor is in front of a crowd or with his staff, his real home is on the golf course—a fact evident by his constant musings on the game, golf’s equivalent of infield chatter.  No one in his group is free from his sharp wit, quick to point out the pitfalls in a swing but just as quick to cheer and encourage.  He shares a cart with County Supervisor Don Knabe, and is able to diagnose errors in his shot before the ball even begins its descent.

On the flipside, he’s also your biggest fan.  Twelve-year-old Jack Hayes accompanies the mayor and his group on the course, often setting the best-ball mark and sinking the first four putts for birdies.  Mayor Foster stands behind Jack for a particularly tricky ten-footer, and as the soon-to-be sixth grader makes contact…

Twelve-year-old Jack Hayes knows his way around a golf course, and Mayor Foster is there to cheer him on.

“He’s got it! He’s got it!” booms the Mayor, cheering the ball on as it creeps toward the hole before nonchalantly dropping in.  “Yes Jack!” and the boy’s face lights up like a Christmas tree.

As for his own skills, Foster does not disappoint, using a 60-yard swing to bring the ball within six feet of the hole.  But the pain kicks in and he doubles over, clutching his throbbing forearm as staffers fetch bags of ice.  He finishes the hole.  He’s having too much fun to stop now.

“It feels like an ice pick being stabbed in my forearm,” the Mayor says of his iinjury.  No one believes that he’ll stop playing, though.

“Just getting away is great,” he says as we trek down the next fairway, the rest of the group whizzing by in carts.  The Mayor prefers the walk.

“Sometimes you have some pretty sleepless nights thinking about things.  But I’m old enough now to not let it dominate me.  Otherwise, I’m no good to anybody.”

Today, he’s good to everybody, keeping the crew light-hearted and enjoying the day.  He laughs hysterically when Knabe drives away without tying down his bag, spewing clubs along the fairway.

“Tell me you got a picture of that!”  Even Knabe has to laugh.  Jack is officially the most grown-up person on the course.

But just as Foster can be the center of attention, he also decides to walk the course by himself while everyone else drives to their balls.  The walks are mostly spent practicing swinging technique and looking around aimlessly, in a therapeutic manner that’s not surprising from someone who speaks so fondly and with so much knowledge of the game.  The game is his getaway, it’s no secret.

The mayor takes his time at Skylinks.  So much for spoiling a long walk.

Soonafter, he’ll sink a near-impossible 30-foot putt from the fringe of the green—the kind of shot that keeps even the worst players coming back—and the possibly-ruptured tendon is immediately forgotten with a whoop and a Tiger fist-pump.  The smile is ear to ear—maybe because of the shot, maybe because someone besides Jack finished the hole first.

“Heyyyyyyyyy!  You see that?”  Ok, it was a pretty good shot.

No matter.  The mayor places a comically-large, leaking bag of ice on his forearm and climbs into the cart.

The ice did its job.

Props from Jack.

You guys go on ahead.

They can’t all go in.