After Che Guevara beat him in a round of golf, Fidel Castro, a notoriously sore loser, converted a Cuban golf course into an art school and ordered a sports reporter fired.
The Wall Street Journal
HUMBERTO GONZALEZ: It’s the final round of the Guiteres Sugar Mill Match Play Championship and let me tell you, Juan, you could cut the tension here with a machete.
JUAN MACHADO: That’s right, Humberto. Of course, you can cut anything with a machete—that’s how they chop sugar cane processed at Guiteres Sugar Mill. Guiteres—the sugar mill for you!
HUMBERTO: Uh, I don’t think we do commercials.
JUAN: We don’t?
HUMBERTO: No, stupido. We’re Communists.
JUAN: My bad.
HUMBERTO: As Maximum Leader Fidel Castro and his long-time military comandante Ernesto “Che” Guevera, approach the 18th tee, they are tied at four under par 65, but Glorious Leader of the Revolution Castro has struggled.
JUAN: He’s had to blast his way out of sand traps with his revolutionary innovation in club design, the “hand wedge.”
HUMBERTO: When he hit into the water hazard on 16 he was so mad he gave a three-hour speech to his younger brother and caddy Raúl blaming U.S. imperialism for his hook.
JUAN: I’d love to be a tree frog to hear what these two great golfers are saying to each other . . .
HUMBERTO: We can do that.
HUMBERTO: The CIA’s been listening to them for years. Let’s go to the tee box.
CHE: You want to make this interesting?
FIDEL: Can the Comandante en Jefe hit his damn ball without a lot of stupid chatter?
CHE: Whatever you say. I was thinking maybe a little “Bingo Bango Bongo.”
FIDEL: What’s that?
CHE: First on the green is “bingo,” closest to the hole is “bango,” and first to hole out is “bongo.” It gives a weaker player like you a chance to make some money.
FIDEL: I am not a weaker player! I am El Caballo—“The Horse”.
CHE: Even horses get the yips.
CHE: (Mutters) I never should have agreed to a crummy five peso Nassau.
FIDEL: Talk is cheap, my friend.
CHE: While we’re young . . .
FIDEL: Dammit to hell!
CHE: Pleasure doing business with you.
(sound of worthless Cuban pesos changing hands)
CHE: Can I buy you a drink? It’s the least I could do.
CHE: Here—at the clubhouse.
FIDEL: There is no clubhouse. I hereby declare The Course at the Links at the Woods by Guantanamo Bay . . .
CHE: Why do golf courses have such stupid names?
FIDEL: It is a vestigial relic of the corrupt regime of Fulgencio Baptista. Anyway, out with the fancy golf course, in with the Academia Socialista de las Artes.
CHE: An art school? Seriously?
FIDEL: I am tired of drawing on my 50s TV screen with Mr. Learn-to-Draw, Jon Gnagy.
CHE: Well, how about a cigar then?
FIDEL: No, what I could really go for right about now is . . .
FIDEL: Throwing a couple of poets into jail.
CHE: Regular or symbolist?
FIDEL: Actually, I was thinking a nice, fruity neo-Formalist.
CHE: Too late. They’re all in prison already. Except for the dead ones.
CHE: You could order a sports reporter fired.
FIDEL: Yeah—that’s the ticket.
CHE: How about one of those guys over there?
FIDEL: Only one?
CHE: If you fire them both, PEN International will be all over you like mole sauce on a tamale.
FIDEL: They’re sports reporters–not real writers.
CHE: Oh yeah? You ever read the great Ring Lardner?
FIDEL: All right—which one?
CHE: I say the one with the double-knit plaid blazer.