Mr. Ayers drives toward a mulligan

Of all our many adventures, the trip to the golf course in Griffith Park might be the most memorable.

Mr. Nathaniel Anthony Ayers likes an outing, and although the musician in him is partial to concerts at Disney Hall, he likes variety too. Batting cages, bowling alleys, Dodger games, trips to the beach: He's up for anything. But his recent request to visit a driving range took me by surprise.

"Have you played golf before?" I asked.

"No," he replied, but he wanted to try something different.

A golf course is a rather proper place, with customs and fashions peculiar to the sport, and so my friend kind of stood out, you might say. He was in military fatigues, with combat boots, a flower lei, ball cap with sunglasses fixed atop it, and a fluorescent vest on which he had scrawled, in a display of neighborhood pride, "SKID ROW."

Eyes followed us into the clubhouse shop, where I bought a 6-iron, and out to the range, where I bought a bucket of balls. I chose a cubicle far from other golfers, but they crept closer to us, indulging their curiosity.

"I'm no expert," I told Mr. Ayers, "but you need to keep your head down, watch the ball, and take a smooth, easy swing. Don't overdo it."

"OK, Mr. Lopez," said my friend, who ordinarily wields a violin, cello or trumpet rather than a golf club.

Determination drawn tight across his face, Mr. Ayers waggled the club, shifting his weight for the right balance. Not once. Not twice. But forever. I felt like Jackie Gleason in "The Honeymooners," waiting for Norton to get going. I looked at my watch, looked at the large bucket of balls and suggested Mr. Ayers make his move.

He did.

Ignoring all my advice, he wound up as if he were trying to kill a rattlesnake and swung from his heels, practically falling over. The tip of the club caught the ball, sending it rocketing into the bucket. Balls exploded as if from a popcorn machine, and Mr. Ayers dashed onto the range in his combat gear to retrieve them.

"Mr. Ayers, come back!" I yelled, fearing he'd be struck by a line drive off another golfer's club.

He made it back from his mission in one piece, got the hang of golf, more or less, and launched some impressive drives into the soft blue heavens.

When people ask how Mr. Ayers is doing, two years after being coaxed off the streets of skid row and into the apartment where he still lives, I'm more inclined to tell them stories like this one.

But there are dark days too, when shadows fill his face and storms gather. On those days, I wonder about the bargain we've struck, and whether his outbursts have something to do with the strange experience of having his story shared with the world.