Fun was easy to come by at the Lake Geneva Playboy Club-Hotel and many of my best moments were spent with Ken Judd, the golf pro. The two of us had a heightened sense of the ridiculous and soon after our meeting a line of banter evolved to be continued at the next opportunity. Over a drink or two, we decided that what night clubs needed was a comedy team who would talk about nothing but golf. Ken had a great repertoire of stories, we both sang rather well, and, in our goofier moments, decided the act needed his dog Spot, a canine who looked like the RCA Victor dog. Spot was of such brilliance that he reacted to our hilarity through a series of responses thankfully falling short of peeing on our legs and we even gave that one some thought. Spot could bark on command, look bored and perform other tricks in his arsenal that would embellish our comedic efforts.
The “act” became a prime subject of kidding sort of on the square, although it was quite true a significant problem existed which neither of us would address. While the great comedy teams have consisted of people of contrasting appearance (Laurel & Hardy, Abbott & Costello and Martin & Lewis come to mind), Ken and I looked enough alike to have been born joined at the hip. We never brought up the subject probably because it was such a downer. It was surely a case of What….and leave show business?
One day Ken called. “We can’t do the act, Bob. Spot died.”
Ken had a spot on sense of public relations there we times when we needed a lot of it. Unfortunately, the German-born manager of the hotel, who ran the place like a Prussian police station, did not. One day a group of a dozen or so African-American Chicago attorneys had come up to spend the night and play some golf. The manager said he had no record of their reservations and turned them away. Ken, passing through the lobby at that moment, waited until the manager was back in his office, then invited the group to play some golf which they did. While the lawyers were on the course, Ken called Chicago and the situation was rectified.
I doubt Hefner ever heard of what went on, but he would have gone ballistic had the story received media attention. The notion that Playboy, whose liberal credits have always been well-established, would in the 1960s turn away a bunch of African-American lawyers out to play a round of golf at a hotel offering a shot at the good life was truly ridiculous. Nothing ever came of it or Jesse Jackson would have been holding press conferences in one of our lobbies, our home office more likely due to its proximity to Chicago media.
In 1971, Morton introduced another idea to bring attention to the Lake Geneva operation. Arnie, in concert with Ernie Terrell, a former heavyweight boxing champion then an active fighter doubling as a promoter, had decided that the sweet science would be offered as a resort attraction.
An exhibition room, created for corporate America and getting little use, became fight central. Corporate board rooms had not warmed to the idea of allowing its executives to be contaminated by the evils lurking in the Wisconsin countryside. It had not yet occurred to the bean-counting mentality that a company suit is much safer in rural Wisconsin than on Chicago’s occasionally mean streets.
Morton and Terrell came up with a truly ridiculous fight card. They scheduled five fights--all of them in the heavyweight division. There were two outstanding fighters among them: Terrell and George Foreman, the latter a gold medal winner in the 1968 Olympic Games. Yes, the same George Foreman with five sons named George and a man who has probably impacted the dining experience (certainly steak lovers) more than anyone since the invention of the Weber kettle.
As publicist for the event, I had the opportunity to have dinner with Terrell, Foreman and Angelo Dundee, Foreman’s manager and the guy who guided the fistic destiny of Muhammad Ali. We dined at Eli’s, the Place for Steak owned then by Eli Shulman. Eli’s is one of those celebrity places where the food is good and the regulars know each other in a club-like setting.
The next day we were joined by the other fighters in Milwaukee for the official weigh-in, an event designed mostly for publicity although state boxing rules require it. In spite of publicity alerts, no members of the press were in attendance, perhaps a reason for the lack of a phony dust-up between combatants.
While the weigh-in was a strikeout, fight night Saturday was a success at least in terms of attendance and press turnout. Milwaukee and Chicago boxing writers including Neil Milbert of the Tribune were there; also sports columnists from the Sun-Times, Chicago Today and the Daily News plus two of my favorite people: Johnnie & Jeannie Morris. Johnnie was a wide received for the University of Southern California and Jeannie a Trojan cheerleader before they married. Drafted by the Chicago Bears, Johnnie became an outstanding member of the team playing with such stars as Mike Ditka and Dick Butkus.
Arnold Morton and your friendly flack had sold the evening as a combination dinner and fight card and had gussied up the exhibition room with red and white table cloths. Tickets sold for $20, $35, and $50 with the latter including dinner. My show business instincts suggested a Playboy Bunny promenade inside the ring carrying fight round cards. The first time the Bunny strode around the ring, both fighters reacted with marvelously stupefying looks. It was Joe Palooka time. Johnnie and Jeannie (they did sports on Chicago’s WBBM-TV) arrived some 15 minutes before the first fight and I waved them over to my ringside table. Their entrees were quickly provided, then strawberry cheesecake, a hotel specialty. The first fight began between two over-the-hill guys who started pounding the hell out of each other. Within a matter of 15 or 20 seconds, blood began flying all around the ring. Jeannie’s stricken look was every bit as memorable as the two fighters checking out the card-carrying Bunny. Jeannie, a lady with the wholesome looks of an outdoor woman, froze when some of the pugilistic blood dropped smack dab onto her cheesecake.
Somehow, some way, the evening was concluded. The five fights had produced a total of eight rounds and the only competition that would have made sense would have been Terrell vs. Foreman. Both scored one round knockouts over opponents who never should have been in the ring.
The press reaction was minimal. As Sun-Times columnist Jack Griffin was leaving the exhibition hall, I asked: “What do you think?” He answered: “Bob, I think I’ll take a pass on this one.”
There was no more boxing at the resort. Ever.
# # # #
Next Week: Jean Shepherd