Godspeed, Al Rainbow by Chris Anderson
Al Rainbow, is that a stage name?” I asked Al, after a pickup basketball game at Freddy Pratt’s bar on South Geddes Street, on a cold winter Saturday in 1981.
“No, do you go by ‘Hans,’ Chris Anderson?” I didn’t. But Al called me that for the next 44 years.
Thank God golf came along and replaced hoops a few years later, after the knee, back and other surgeries started up. Al’s accurate, high-arched, right corner shot was supplanted with a high, long, slight fade of a tee shot. And the laughs only became louder. And there was always rock and roll.
God called Al back to heaven’s green fairways on Good Friday morning. Al died in a tragic accident on Blue Heron Golf Club, where’s he’s lived for the last 8 years. He left a wife, Rose, the love of his life, two fantastic sons, Matt and Nick, their wives, four grandsons, and a lot of friends. I was honored to be one.
A club in the country, not a country club, Beaver Meadows is known for hundreds of acres of plush fairways and crowned, undulating greens. It’s known even more for its relaxed and fun-filled members. Al didn’t hold court there; he played the court jester. From the course, from a bar stool, and almost always funny. In a game that can attract the stuffy, Al was almost irreverent. He’d play his rock music (Neil Young, Warren Zevon) from his cart, the other cart may have other rock playing and, right on cue, the music would stop just as you’re teeing off. It was impossible to hit the ball. They’d also pull the same sudden silence as you were about to putt.
Al captained our men’s league team at “the Beav,” as we came to refer to Beaver Meadows. He took his captain’s role seriously. He always ordered the ugliest team golf shirts he could find (picture a 70’s prom tux) and proudly have each of our nicknames embroidered on the chest. (“Who’s Hans?”)
He created two tournaments at the Beav. Back in the 90’s there was first the “Smoking Jacket Open.” Al required all of us to wear Goodwill quality gaudy sportscoats and to tee off with a lit cigar in your jaw. Rules included the “club endangerment rule” (CER) that allowed the movement of the ball if a tree, root or the like would interfere with the golf swing. Points were given for NOT playing the fairway, hitting trees, and missing the green while scoring well, with or without the CER. A later “Fire Ball Open” is still played in the chill of November where homage is paid to the famous liquor after a three putt or frankly, just because.
Al is survived by his brother Gary and is predeceased by his other brother Al (true story). Al left behind his side-kick Todd Guard (also not a stage name). Todd was so close that for the first 10 years I knew him it seemed every sentence started with “Me and Rainbow” (which gradually became “Al and I” – we’re so proud of Todd). But being Al’s best friend had its downsides, including the requisite ball busting. One time Al told Todd that the new electric boxes near the 1st and 18th fairways at the Beav were being installed for lighting for “night golf” and Al had all of us play along. By the end of the night, Todd was complaining to anyone who’d listen how the club was foolishly wasting money.
Al and Todd met Rose DiCarlo one day in the early 80’s and planned to meet her and her friends at RJ O’Toole’s bar later that day. Al got there an hour before Todd and when Todd arrived, Al told him he was going to marry Rose. From then on Rose became the ying to Al’s yang. Straight and steady meets crazy and incurably funny. Rose gave Al love, peace and tranquility. A place in north Ontario (their cottage, not the Neil Young song), a trip to the famous shrine at Maggiore (“Rose picked the only war-torn country she could find for vacation” he quipped), and a trip to Coeur d’Alene golf course in Idaho where the famous green floats out on a lake, as seen more in motivational posters than in Golf Digest.
On the Idaho trip the smooth swinging and handsome Al was warming up on the driving range when a Chinese tourist asked Al if he was Fred Couples. Al chuckled and said that he wasn’t.
The visitor said “I didn’t think so, you’re a little too chubby.”
Al responded, “Thanks, buddy, we’ve known each other for 5 minutes and you’ve already played the fat card.”
On a trip to the Masters in 2011, Al met his hero, Gary Woodland, the then future (2019) US Open champion. Why Gary Woodland? Well, he’s from Kansas and a fellow KC Royals fan and therefore a fellow fan of George Brett. Within minutes, Gary brought Al back to a tent and gave him autographed merch. Gary’s family invited Al and the gang out to Kansas City for a barbeque and a Royals game.
You couldn’t get Al into the Dome on a sunny fall Saturday, and you couldn’t get him to watch a Star Wars movie. But he’d lead the way to a concert with one of his many bands playing. He handed out cash to those around him to buy beers at John Mellencamp’s concert out of fear he’d roll down the stairs of the upper balcony at the Landmark.
In November,1996, Warren Zevon played Styleen’s in Armory Square. Yes, it happened. (I’m still waiting for Van Morrison to play Kitty Hoynes) A rare and exciting night, unfortunately Rose was away and Al went stag. He got there early and sat up front in the tiny venue to hear Warren, the “excitable boy,” sing “Werewolves of London” and other favorites. After, Warren signed CD cases and Al jumped in line.
“I’m one of your biggest fans, Warren, but my wife may be your biggest fan on earth.”
“What’s your wife’s name?,” Warren asked, as he autographed the CD.
A giddy Al walked away to read his hero’s inscription. It read: “Dear Rose, why did you marry such a loser? Love, Warren.”
An autumn later, a nervous soon-to-be bride poked her head into her boss ‘s, Todd Guard’s, office to ask if he was making her wedding on the following Saturday. A surprised Todd said no, he was headed away on a golf weekend, he meant to RSVP, and he was sorry he’d miss it. That Saturday, Todd, Al, buddies Bill Evans and Scott Brown were relaxing in their muddy fall golf clothes after a round at Drumlins East.
“Mr. Guard, you’ve made it!” the new wife/employee exclaimed.
“Er, the golf trip got cancelled and I…er…couldn’t tell you in time for the reception,” a nervous Todd reached for a well-timed lie.
Al told on Todd and shared the story about the bride who put the foursome, in their sweaty golf clothes, at a back table that was “already paid for, so why not use it.” Overstaying their welcome and eating and drinking on the bride’s family, the foursome was asked to and danced with the bridesmaids. One of which, who Al described as “cute Ugly Betty,” had the honor of dancing with Al in his golf shoes.
Al could always describe an event or a person and tell a story with half smile and a controlled, slightly higher pitch (which gave away embellishment) and a comedian’s cadence. A “poor man’s Selma Hayek” was how he described a pretty staffer at the club and another woman was said, by Al, to be a dead ringer for 60’s TV personality, Kaye Ballard. To get me laughing decades later all Al had to do was mention Kaye Ballard’s name. Years later and out of the blue, I’d open a blank email from Al with nothing but an attached picture of Kaye Ballard. Someday we’ll all grow up.
It wasn’t always fun and games. Al worked hard in real estate management and thrived perhaps because he was the only BB personality in a room full of AAA’s. His calmness and humor always took away the edge. Al was there regularly in the years between our good buddy, Mike Indick’s, stroke at 41 and his death at 45. Al was sitting in my hospital room when I woke up from cancer surgery. The stories of Al bringing peace to turbulence (e.g., he literally helped unite an adult son and his long-lost father) are far too many to print. And Al always did it with a laugh, of course.
Al’s likely playing some course in Paradise with Arnie, who’s just asked Al to turn down the music. And things are far too quiet down here.
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