Golf-A Good Walk Spoiled (thanks to John Feinstein)

Golf … a gentleman’s game.

Really?

Says who?

I grew up running, jumping, hiding, climbing, anything that included the wet act of sweating. I’m not sure if I actually enjoyed the dampness or did I just like the physical activity? I imagine that it was the latter but one never knows. Sports was all I ever wanted to do and it never mattered which game came next: baseball, football, tennis, kickball, softball, basketball … name it and I played it. Even kid games I loved and always seemed to do it fairly well.

Yep, pretty natural at all types of athletic endeavors. Near the top when picking sides although I recall some occasions when I, too, had to wait my turn. Still … performed admirably, if I do say so. Ahem …

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“The game of golf is 90% mental and 10% mental.”  anonymous

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Which brings me to the wonderful game I mentioned earlier … golf. Established in 15th century Scotland, the game has been unchanged for most of those years. Even the first historically found rules of the game, in 1744, has been kept true to form for all 267 years. Pretty amazing and yet you’d think with all the innovations available that significant changes would’ve taken place. Not so … to the game itself. Equipment, that’s a completely different story. We’ll leave the equipment alone for another time as there’s not the time or space to even attempt that subject. An unwanted bout with carpal tunnel is also foreseen if and when I do type for that length of time.

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“If you want to get better at golf, go back and take it up at an earlier age.”  anonymous

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The first time I ever picked up a golf club was probably near the age of 12. My parents had their clubs and bags in the basement of our home for as long as I can remember although I can’t recall them leaving to play all that often. However, the clubs were there. Also hanging around were some wooden shafted irons that I’d grab, swing and imagine myself as one of the professionals I’d see on television. Before I could completely ruin my father’s lawn with trench after trench, he must have decided to shorted one of the hickory shafts to my desired length and his desires as well. By replacing the end cap, as well as the divots, he handed me the newly shortened 7 iron and allowed me to swing away. Pretty gutzie for the guy but he must have seen the natural ability during my previous swings. Alas, a golf pro he was not. Nor was I but I found a way to get the plastic wiffle golf ball airborne. Wow, how cool. Swing after swing I’d jettison the ball, with the multiple holes, flying through the air and around the house for hours on end. Smack … smack … smack. It felt great. The flight of the orb would only last for mere seconds but through my imagination it soared directly towards the flag stick mirage. Oooo, I’d get chills. I was an idiot.

My folks did actually play a few rounds at the local country club as upon their return I could sense an uneasiness in their discussing their play. Not sure as to what a decent round score was, it never really mattered to me when they explained the results. Who won? Unknown factually but I have an idea that mom may have had the upper hand during their outings. Maybe not but the competition must have been fierce. That I gathered as dad would sling the bags back to their proper spots against the wall in the back, basement hallway until the following year. Ah … good times.

Out I’d go, club in tow and swing I’d do. Swing, swing, swing. As a youngster with budding hormones and endless imagery … a 200 yard drive was within my abilities. I knew it. Of course my biggest drawback was the damn lousy plastic facsimile ball and one that I only had trust in using. No real balls in my foreseeable future. Downtrodden I just kept hacking away around the house. There would be a time … I just knew it.

It happened. On a Sunday, after glancing out the window and watching my beautiful swing, dad trudged down the stairs and picked up a couple of his own clubs as well as a few white, somewhat dinged up real golf balls. He appeared in the driveway with gear in hand and I gasped as if Arnold Palmer himself had walked out of the doorway. Holy geezzz! What, where, how?? He came closer, grabbed my hand and we walked to a nearby school yard. I was thrilled. This was it. I was gonna hit a real golf ball. I was gonna hit it a mile!

As we approached the school grounds he offered a few words of advise and some I didn’t really care to hear. Do this, don’t do that. Swing easy, head down. Arm straight and do not wreck the grass! One more thing … don’t think too much.

OK … sure, don’t think, just hit it and leave the grass alone. Easy game.

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“When you look up and cause an awful shot, you will always look down again at exactly the moment when you ought to start watching the ball if you ever want to see it again.”   anonymous

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As I recall, my initial swing on school property was disastrous. I looked down and the dimpled, tiny ball looked back at me. What? Why? I turned towards my dad and his smile wasn’t exactly what I had hoped to see. More advise from the master went something like, “you lifted your head to see where the ball was going. Hit it first.”

Genius, I thought to myself.

After a half and hour of swinging and shagging balls, we retired homeward. Some good hits, some atrocious. However, my golf career had begun.

During the following few years, our family spent a number of hours out on the golf course. Luckily for all involved, the particular course we frequented was an ancient relic with few members. The clubhouse had more character than working plumbing. The fairways had more clover that grass and  the greens were as smooth as a gravel pit and yet there was no better place for the five of us to learn the game, its rules and the etiquette involved.

One of the finer points I learned was to always purchase enough balls. My direction was suspect but my distance was improving. Unfortunately I angled the shots at 45 degrees from designed target.

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“Since bad shots come in groups of three, a fourth bad shot is actually the beginning of the next group of three.”    anonymous

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On a particularly lovely day on the links, dad, one of his cousins, my brother and myself attacked said course with visions of grandeur as an outcome. Those thoughts didn’t last long.

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“When your shot has to carry over a water hazard, you can either hit one more club or two more balls.”   anonymous

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Approaching the second par three of our round, we all sorta looked ominously at our pending shot over the water. A rather short shot but the magnetic pull of the dark, perilous pond is always one to be wary of. As it turns out, dad, brother Bill and myself were either safely on the green or at least across the hazard awaiting our fourth member to hit. After teeing his ball, ‘Doug’ swung with effortless ease. As we gazed at the wonder of its flight, the seemingly floating golf ball landed heavily into the murky abyss. Undaunted, a second ball was teed. Away the ball flew and as if Doug tried with deadly accuracy, again the ball splashed. Eight consecutive balls later, the three of us felt squeamish, awkward and giggling inwardly as if in church. To see dad try to control his laughter was almost surreal but hilarious on its own. All of us turned our backs and nonreligiously prayed to all golf Gods for the next attempt to clear the water so we could complete our round and have a sandwich. Changing his club, Doug bent down, teed his ball, exhaled and blew a line drive shot 30 yards passed the green. Thankfully it was across and we could walk the line of despair and solitude in Doug’s shadow. Not wanting to speak first, we waited for Doug to break the ice. He did so in a mature matter and one which I admired tremendously. “Well that was pretty bad.” Enough said.

After the round was over and we had settled into the rickety, hand-made wicker chairs with subs in hand, I thought about how strange a game it was. Doug had been playing for years and me but for a couple. He still ended up beating me as my untrained swing wasn’t one to correct itself but my realization was that one hole can really screw you and your score. I’ll try to keep that in mind. I’ll also try to manage my temper, as Doug had, just as much as I’m able. Great lessons both.

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“The less skilled the player, the more likely he is to share his ideas about the golf swing.”   anonymous

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After the golf and life lessons of Doug’s performance, I continued to play the game regularly for the following decades. Good rounds and some horrendous ones. Never back to back decent shots. Ever. Playing partners were always giving advise as to what I should do, what I should change in all things golf. Hands. Set-up. Weight shift. Swing easy. Etc. Etc. I even took lessons from two local pros to correct my awful swing but I never gave them much of a chance as … in my head … I just needed tweaking. C’mon guy, say one thing that I should do, I’ll do it and I’ll be fine. As you can imagine, one 30 minute lesson did nothing but mess with my head more than anything else. I continued to be a poor, desperate player looking, wishing for a miracle cure. No extra new clubs for me as, thankfully, I was too intelligent for those gimmicks. In my mind, if I’m unable to hit a golf ball with an older club, a new one isn’t going to help. Fortunately that saved me hundreds of dollars but my game still suffered. Someday … someday. I have plenty of time. Do I? As if retirement will solve all ills. Doubt it.

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“Golfer who claim they don’t cheat, also lie.”   anonymous

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My love for the game stems from many things: the simplicity of the equipment. One ball, one club and get it in the hole in the fewest number of shots. Simple. As stated earlier, I’ve always had a knack for trying new things, new sports and being more than capable to perform at a rather high level. Even at a young age, golf wasn’t too difficult but later in life I realized that I’d never become a ‘good’ player because of my profoundly lousy swing. My earliest lesson from my father … the one that forever messed with my game was, ‘don’t touch the grass.’ My scooping the ball led me to numerous (thousands) ‘topped’ shots and horrendous holes. Bad advise but then again, his fault? Not really. How was he to know? I’m quite sure he had never sat through an honest lesson from someone who does know the game. He’s just a dad allowing me to hit a real golf ball. I’ll let him off the hook. It’s totally my fault for not getting taught correctly. As if you’ve noticed … my sports ego … the one that believes that I’m ‘a natural’ does not help during my quest for becoming that adequately decent golfer. My tail should be planted firmly between my legs and, quite frankly, stuck somewhere. Suck it up, Reiny, and locate a golf pro that knows and understands me, my game and human nature.

Last season, as it was winding down, after another hundred balls were hit and never to be found … I made as appointment with someone. I was hoping for assistance and expecting little.

Funny how you can be smack in the center of ‘middle age’ and be nervous about a simple golf lesson. I was. I truly didn’t wish to be embarrassed, humiliated and told that I was completely lost. Actually I had hoped that the tiny ‘tweaking’ was all that was needed and my ego would still be intact.

Upon meeting my pro, she carefully and tactfully watched, video taped and discussed with me my numerous flaws. We gathered around her laptop and watched my swing. “Oh my God!!” I practically fell over. As if I was shot in the chest I clutched the front of my shirt and nearly fainted. I had the golf swing of a boneless, crazy person whose athletic abilities were nonexistent. Absolutely appalling. That was me?? Where were my friends? Who allowed me to swing like that! Why oh why hadn’t anyone told me?

Julie, my pro, was and is a tremendous teacher. As noted, she had little to work with and yet her concern, patience and grace with me was way more than I deserved. After tearing apart ever nuance of my swing we began to re-do what a golf swing should look and feel like. By watching the video I could actually see where all my problems were. That viewing and following discussion was by far the most important part of my redeveloped game. Seems simple but if I only watched and not had it explained to me I’d still be lost. She was the Arnold Palmer that I needed when I was 12. Not knocking my father but a pro, he was not.

I still have a couple of lessons to start the season with and I’m looking forward to Julie now ‘tweaking’ what I had learned last fall. I’m sure my winter lay-off didn’t improve my swing but at least I now understand it. Will my game improve? My last round of the previous season was my best of that season so who knows? I suppose I almost have to play improved. The new season awaits. The excitement is palpable.

As much as I’m approaching this year with the excitement of a kid at Christmas Eve, I completely understand that it may be a dozen rounds before I feel comfortable with all the added thinking that’s cluttering my skull. It should be interesting and I’ll keep you informed. Yes, I understand your excitement for me … he said sarcastically.

Go forth all you fellow golfers. Before you spend another $400 on the newest driver, take it from me … a few lessons are the better deal. You’ll be surprised.

A gentleman’s game … only when a gentleman figures out a way to hit the damn ball long and straight. Best of luck to all of you.

(check out Julie Pyne’s link on the left side of my blog … she’s a wonderful instructor)

Reiny