Commander in Cheat

by Rick Reilly

  Trump’s caddy at Bedminster is almost always a very friendly Jamaican gentleman. People like to tell about the time Trump hit one in the pond. Everybody saw it splash a good 30 feet from shore. The Jamaican gentleman was forecaddying. When the group got up to the pond, the caddy says, “Boss, your ball is right here.” It was sitting safely on grass. Somebody in the group yelled at the caddy, “What did you do with your mask and flippers?”

  Like so much of what happens with Trump, the caddies were revolted by the immorality of the cheating but impressed by the genius of it.

  “For a while he kept a can of red spray paint in his cart,” one caddy said. “Whenever his ball hit a tree that he didn’t think was fair, he’d go up and paint a big X on it. The next day, it was gone.”

  “That’s true!” somebody else yelled. “It’s like the mafia with him. You get the red X, you’re dead.”

  It’s a great gig, caddying at Bedminster, and none of them want to wreck it, which is why they’re smart enough to keep their names out of this. They’re also smart enough to keep up with the main two Trump caddy rules.

  1. If you’re caddying for Trump, keep the hell up.

  The caddies say his golf cart—the #1—is rigged to go twice as fast as the rest. Keep up with him or put in your application at Chili’s. “You gotta run. I mean you gotta sprint. Especially if you’re forecaddying. We used to have this guy, he’d come in from 18 with Mr. Trump, run straight into that bathroom, and throw up. But he always made it.”

  2. If you’re caddying against Trump, lose.

  “Mr. Trump always takes the best caddy,” an older caddy explained, “and he makes sure the guy he’s playing against gets a shitty caddy or a brand-new caddy. We had this one guy, it was his first week, and it was a match with Mr. Trump and one of our best players versus these two guys from another club. The visitors got the new kid. But somehow, this kid got them around pretty good and it’s all tied going into 18. Now, Mr. Trump is fuming. The kid has no idea he’s about to get fired. No clue he’s got a noose around his neck. But Mr. Trump’s partner pulls it out and they end up winning, but, man, that kid came close.”

  Funny, though, the best Trump story I heard wasn’t from a caddy but from a member who came up to me as I was looking at the tournament plaques on the locker room wall. Trump was listed as winner of the “Super Seniors Club Championship” three times, which, naturally, Trump counts in his 18 club championships. Super Seniors is usually defined as age 60 and over. He was also listed as the winner of the “Senior Club Championship” one time—50 and over. But on the regular “Club Championship” plaque, he wasn’t listed at all. But there was another plaque, the “Bedminster Member-Member,” and Trump’s name was on that three times. A “member-member” is a two-man team tournament. It’s usually a one-day deal, the team with the lowest best-ball score wins.

  Anyway, this barrel-chested guy came up to me.

  “You know how Donald got one of those?” he said.

  No, but I’d sure like to.

  “Okay, you’ll love this. One year we were playing the Member-Member on the Old Course. But Trump wasn’t in it. He and his buddy were just playing by themselves at the New Course. When they were done, he came in to the pro shop and asked what score won the Member-Member. They told him some number, net 61 or something. Whatever. And Trump goes, ‘Oh, me and so-and-so played better than that today. So we actually won.’ And the pro is like, ‘I’m sorry?’ And Trump tells them that he and his buddy should be the winners and the guy should put their names on the plaque instead. And that’s how he won one of those Member-Members. Can you believe that?”

  Yes. Yes, I can.

  But you? You should definitely go to lunch with him, because it’s the most unforgettable burger you’ll ever have.

  Take his lunches at Trump Washington. According to a waiter I spoke to there, the Secret Service always puts him at the corner table, a six-top. There are agents everywhere. There’s an agent standing in each corner of the grill, too, with more scattered around the restaurant. There’s even one with the chef, all morning, to watch where he gets the food and how he cooks it. “Mr. Trump always has a burger, every time,” the waiter said. “He also likes to come for breakfast before his round.”

  Trump will order up a ton of fries, cheeseburgers, maybe some hot dogs, and lots of Diet Cokes. Anybody can come up and sit down. Yes, you heard that right. Anybody can come up to the president’s table and have a seat, ask questions, shoot the breeze. Is this a great country or what?

  Keep your ears open, because Trump will say nearly anything. It was at a post-round lunch early in his presidency when Trump told a group of Bedminster members the White House was “a fucking dump,” a quote that made it into Alan Shipnuck’s story on Trump in Sports Illustrated, caused a bit of a dustup, and was renounced by Trump in a tweet:

  I love the White House, one of the most beautiful buildings (homes) I have ever seen. But Fake News said I called it a dump—TOTALLY UNTRUE

  But a source inside Bedminster corroborates it. “This was just after he’d been elected,” the source said. “He was having lunch and pontificating on this and that, about Paris (climate change) and how he’d kicked Hillary’s ass and just everything. And then he goes, ‘I can’t believe I gotta live in the White House. What a fucking dump.’”

  Keep your head on a swivel, too, because there’s always insanity that comes with Trump on a golf day. Remember when Trump greeted 180 Harley Davidson cyclists as part of a bizarre pro-Trump anti-Harley Davidson rally? That happened outside the clubhouse at Bedminster. Remember that whole incident when a Breitbart reporter alleged that Trump campaign manager Corey Lewandowski grabbed her violently by the arm while she was trying to ask Trump a question? That happened at Trump Jupiter. Remember all those Cabinet-post interviewees who kept pouring in and out of meetings with Trump? That happened a lob wedge away from the first tee at Trump Bedminster.

  Also, as long as you’re on property, would you keep an eye out for the famous painting?

  It’s of Trump. It’s six feet tall and was won by Melania at a charity auction for $20,000 (outbidding LPGA star Paula Creamer). It was one of those speed paintings. You know, it takes the guy six minutes and you think he’s terrible and then he flips it right side up and there’s—Jimi Hendrix! Except this one, painted in September of 2016 by Michael Israel, was of Trump. The problem was Trump paid for it with $10,000 out of the Trump Foundation, according to the New York Attorney General’s office, which is very illegal. If you buy a painting with charity money, it has to be used for charitable purposes—like for the wall of a hospital. But Melania bought it and hung it at Doral, according to the New York Attorney General’s office.

  There’s another famous Trump painting that was never painted at all but still caused some teeth gnashing. After Trump won the election, three members of Winged Foot—where Trump has belonged since 1969—wanted to honor their member/president with a huge painting, to be hung in the clubhouse. “Three members out of 900, by the way,” says Thomas Leslie, Winged Foot’s president. “They wrote a letter to me saying they thought it was appropriate that the club put up a painting of Mr. Trump now that he was president.” Leslie said thanks but no thanks. “I said that without taking any kind of political view on this, we only hang pictures of golfers who’ve won major championships here or those who were pros here.” Left unsaid was that with the Men’s U.S. Open coming to Winged Foot in 2020, the less ammo you can give the protesters, the better.

  Okay. It’s time to say goodbye. But before you go, look around for the famous American Academy of Hospitality Sciences Five-Star Diamond Award plaques every Trump club usually has. I’ve probably seen them at five different Trump courses.

  These plaques are quite a rare honor—“another feather in our cap,” as Trump told Mar-a-Lago members in an email once. Except the American Academy of Hospitality Sciences isn’t really an academy and it isn’t a science. It’s just a guy named Joey (No Socks) Cinque and
his secretary/girlfriend (No Nylons?) working out of Joey’s apartment in New York.

  Joey No Socks is quite a character. New York magazine says he survived a mob hit and was friends with mob capo John Gotti. New York police nabbed him selling stolen paintings and sculpture, to which Joey pleaded guilty but served no time. After his conviction, Joey bounced around until he came up with this academy beauty and started handing out these awards. Lo and behold, he struck up a friendship with Trump. Along the way, Trump has been named as a trustee, along with three Trump staffers, Trump’s two sons, plus Joey’s gal, and labor leader Ed Malloy, according to the Chicago Tribune. That could win you a lot of five-star diamond awards.

  JOEY NO SOCKS: OK, this meeting will come to order. First item of business: who should get our famed American Academy of Hospitality Sciences Five-Star Diamond Award this month? The chair recognizes Mr. Trump.

  TRUMP: I name Mr. Donald Trump!

  DONALD JR.: I second it!

  JOEY NO SOCKS: Done!

  As of November 2017, former White House press secretary Anthony Scaramucci and Trump Bedminster General Manager David Schutzenhofer were still listed as “trustees.”

  Joey No Socks even stood next to Trump at his big 2017 New Year’s Eve election-win party at Mar-a-Lago. “There’s nobody like him,” Trump said back in 2009. “He’s a special guy.”

  When asked about socializing with a convicted mobster, Trump said, “Hey, if a guy’s going to give you an award, you take it. You don’t tend to look up his whole life story.”

  Right. Why would a president want to do that?

  Anyway, now it’s really time for you to go. Hope you didn’t steal anything. That’s Joey No Socks in your rearview mirror.

  9

  MO TRUMP MO PROBLEMS

  I like having friends, but I like having enemies more.

  —DONALD J. TRUMP

  THERE WAS ONCE A sleepy little town about an hour south of Los Angeles perched on palm-sweaty cliffs overlooking the blue Pacific called Rancho Palos Verdes. It was a wonderful place to take a nap. Most of the bars closed at 11:30—in the morning. With mostly rich, retired, Republican seniors living in it, Rancho Palos Verdes was about the most peaceful burg you might ever find in all of southern California.

  Was, that is, until Donald Trump showed up.

  It all started with a thunderous roar. “It sounded like this massive incredible rumbling,” remembers singer Tom Sullivan, who lives there. “The ground was shaking under us.”

  But it wasn’t an earthquake. It was the sound of a golf hole sliding into the sea. It was June 2, 1999, six weeks before the much-ballyhooed Pete Dye–designed Ocean Trails Golf Club was supposed to open. Most of the 496-yard, cliff-hanging 18th hole was just… gone. The project built by two brothers—Ken and Bob Zuckerman—was now officially screwed.

  Eventually, they’d file for bankruptcy. A few years after that, riding to the rescue, came the new buyer, Donald J. Trump.

  The town was delighted. This was 2002 and Trump wasn’t a TV star then. All they knew was that he was an East Coast tycoon who jetted around on a 737 with his name on it, had fine spun-red hair, and was usually standing next to his latest knockout wife. They also knew he had a very thick checkbook and a love of golf and would probably rebuild the course in a swanky way. They immediately invited him to town to celebrate this wonderful new relationship. Only Rancho Palos Verdes had no idea they’d just gotten in the ring with a brawler.

  Even as a kid, Donald Trump relished a good fight, sought them out, thrived on them. He was that very bad combination: very big and thin-skinned. He’d pull girls’ hair. He’d pound his baseball bat into the ground. He’d bully smaller kids. “In the second grade I actually gave a teacher a black eye,” he wrote in The Art of the Deal. “I didn’t think he knew anything about music and I almost got expelled.” He spent so much time in detention, he got the nickname “DT.” Worse, no matter how much trouble he got in, Double Down always came back for twice as much.

  At 13, his parents sent him to New York Military Academy, hoping it might smooth him out. It didn’t. Donald came out of military school fists up. His thirst for scrapping can’t be quenched. “My rule is when attacked, fire back 10 times harder,” he once said. And he’s not talking about for a while. He’s talking forever.

  Trump likes talking tough. Likes to tweet about kicking Joe Biden’s ass. Likes to poo-poo NFL anti-spearing rules to protect players’ brains as “ruining the game.” Likes telling 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey hero Mike Eruzione that he liked the NHL better “when they didn’t wear helmets.” (To which Eruzione replied, “Without helmets, a lot of players you watch would be in the hospital today.”)

  Fistfights in golf are rare, but Trump likes telling about the time he punched a guy out at Winged Foot. “It was this big handsome asshole,” Trump told me. “And he was just being a complete jerk! So I sink this putt on the ninth hole to win the match and then I turn and just coldcock him, just knock him out right there on the green!… They ended up suspending both of us. I was back off suspension after two weeks and he never got back in.”

  A couple questions: (a) How do you win a match on the ninth hole? (b) If Trump just suddenly swung and punched, why did the other guy get booted? (c) And why for good?

  Besides, that’s not how some people at Winged Foot tell it. “First of all, Trump is not well liked at Winged Foot,” says member Bill Fugazy, who has known Trump for years and whose late father also knew him there. “He’s just bad news to be around, a weird guy. It’s hard for him to get a game. So when it happened, he was playing by himself.

  “The turn there is on 10, not 9. So he goes into the bar to have a quick soda, then goes to the 11th hole. But the guys ahead of him were just getting on the tee. One of them goes, ‘Donald, what do you think you’re doing?’ Trump goes, ‘Playing through.’ The guy goes, ‘Yeah? Well, usually you ask permission for that. That’s kinda rude.’ Words were exchanged. Trump goes, ‘Get the fuck out of my way.’ This guy goes, ‘Who you talking to?’ Trump shoves him and leaves the course. He was brought in and suspended. The other guy wasn’t suspended. Why should he be? He didn’t do anything.”

  So no punch-out?

  “Who’s he gonna punch?” Fugazy says. “He’s got tiny spongey hands. He couldn’t punch anybody.”

  As Trump got older and started making too many millions to go around punching people, he decided suing them in court was the next best thing. It’s another chance to fight and win. Even better, if he loses, he can always say it was rigged, or the judge was crooked, or Hispanic. Or he can settle and not have to admit he lost at all.

  Trump loves suing like he loves red ties. He’ll sue over anything: flagpoles, trees, hedges, fences, berms, neighbors’ yards, roads, streets, sidewalks, taxes, fees, airplane noise, helicopter pads, property lines, university scams, water, drainage, unpaid bills, half-paid bills, too much rent, not enough rent, stolen deposits, zoning, the environment, courses he’s built, courses he didn’t, deals he made, deals he didn’t, paintings of himself, donations, schools, his announced net worth, and his actual net worth. He’s sued friends, enemies, partners, and rivals. Trump has sued and been sued by just about everybody. According to USA Today, as of mid-2016, Trump had been part of more than 3,500 lawsuits in his life. That’s almost 50 lawsuits a year, since birth.

  Don’t most sports billionaires tangle themselves up in that many lawsuits? Isn’t that just part of the game at that level? “Not me,” says Mark Cuban. “In my whole life, I’ve been sued twice, I think.”

  Poor little Rancho Palos Verdes had no idea about any of that when Trump showed up to their packed town hall to celebrate this new and imperfect union of town and golf course. Trump walked to the podium to cheers and immediately gave the citizens a hint of the fuckery to come.

  He started with a reference to the last course he’d rebuilt—Trump Westchester in New York. “If you had called the mayor of Briarcliff Manor five years ago and asked him, ‘Whaddya think
of Trump?’ his answer probably wouldn’t have been not so great [sic]. We were fighting them really hard. But if you call him now, he’d say it’s the finest relationship they’ve ever had.… Everybody in the town loves us.”

  That would’ve been news that day to then-mayor of Briarcliff Manor, Bill Vescio, considering Trump has barely ever stopped suing his 38,000-person town, or insulting him on Twitter, or telling people not to vote for him since the day he bought the place. As I write this, Trump is suing the town again, this time over taxes.

  That moment at the podium in Rancho Palos Verdes was the start of 16 years of chaos—Trump versus Rancho Palos Verdes, a 10-round knockout fight.

  Round 1: Trump v. Schools

  Turns out, much to Trump’s surprise, he hadn’t quite bought the entire golf course. Some of it—basically the 15th hole—still belonged to the Rancho Palos Verdes (RPV) school district. Without it, Trump would have a back eight.

  Trump flipped. He started calling the superintendent of schools at the time, Ira Toibin, to tell him how unfair it was and how they’d hidden this information from him and how he might sue and how they needed to fix this immediately, if not sooner. He’d call Toibin at home, work, everywhere. “I must’ve had six personal phone calls with Mr. Trump,” says Toibin, a very buttoned-up sort of man who, at press time, was again the RPV school superintendent. “He hadn’t read the paperwork. It was such a lucrative deal, he hadn’t really read it. He didn’t know who we were at all. He kept wanting to negotiate [a buyout] with me. But I kept saying, ‘I don’t negotiate, Mr. Trump. I have our attorney do that for us.’”