Throw a Dog a Bone

Those golfing gods seem to be that way.  When you're feeling like a whipped dog, and just when you are ready to take your clubs to the charity shop, they throw you a bone.

Every Fall I seem to struggle with my depression, finding myself starting to descend into the abyss.  I don't know if it's what they call seasonal affective disorder, or simply the fact I'm increasingly aware that another golf season is coming to a close, and this year I won't be spending the whole winter in sunny climes.  Whatever the case, trying to play good golf in a depressive fog is just about impossible.

After several weeks of struggling, especially on the greens, I finally saw some light at the end of the tunnel.  Today, for the first time in recent memory, I reeled off four birdies in a row, and shot 32 on the front nine.  What made this start particularly pleasing was the fact that Carl the Grinder, who has been beating me like a drum lately, shot 35 on the front today as well and still found Randy and himself eight points down to Radar and I in our match.

Naturally, having played so poorly for so long, it was well nigh impossible not to start thinking about what I was doing.  This, of course, is the kiss of death.  Sure enough I hit it in the woods on eleven and made a double.  Then the muscles really started to tighten up, and the voices started playing in my head.

Making a birdie on seventeen helped me manage to limp in with 39 on the back to beat Old Man Par by one.  As for Carl the Grinder, he just kept grinding away, despite the fact that the putts weren't dropping, and had me worried that he would do it to me again.  For example, on the par five sixteenth, Carl hit his second shot into a green-side bunker.  From the bunker he hit it across the green, through another bunker and onto the back lip.  From that seemingly impossible lie he chipped it across the green again onto the fringe.  I two-putted for par, only to watch Carl putt it in from off the green for his five.  This is what the guy does to you.  He makes pars when you think he's sure to make bogey, or worse.  

Anyway, just when this old dog was about ready to quit, I somehow managed to beat Carl the Grinder, thanks in part to Carl hitting it out of bounds on seventeen and making double.  

"I never miss it there," Carl told me.

Never say never, Carl.  Not only that; my partner and I beat those boys so badly, as Radar said afterwards, "If they'd been eggs, they'd have looked like omelettes."

It just doesn't get much better than that. The golfing gods have taken the force field off the cup; at least for today.  As for tomorrow, Carl and Randy will be looking to exact their revenge.  I just hope the golfing gods throw me another bone, and Radar keeps backing me, at least until my nose starts bleeding.  Heaven knows, I feel like I've suffered enough.  

Getting Out of Your Head

There have been a number of books written on playing golf out of your mind; having a Zen-like approach to playing the game.  Golf is such a head game.  I think that may be why Bobby Jones said that golf was the one game that became more difficult the longer you played it.  

As a kid, you tend to play golf, focussed initially on figuring out a way to hit the ball in the right general direction and trying to get it in the hole; hopefully in fewer strokes than your playing companions.  You may have been given some rudimentary instruction, such as how to grip the club, and how to align your body and/or clubface to the target, and you swing away.  Hopefully, you have a decent mental image of what a good swing looks like, either from watching good players at your club, or the pros on the television, and you try to imitate that swing.

The ball gives you feedback, and you learn by trial and error, and by feel, as you go about "hammering that pesky ball" trying to make it behave.  That is the experience of many golfers, especially those who started the game young as I did.  But eventually, if you show some aptitude, and begin to really get hooked on the game, you start to think about things other than just trying to hit the ball where you're looking.  You read articles and books, and watch videos on the golf swing.  If you're not careful, you become caught up in the "science" of the swing, rather than the "art" of the game.

I have the sort of mind that can't resist, even though I know it's wrong, thinking technically about the golf swing.  I often go to the course actually wondering what swing I'll use that day.  I have a number of swings I'm inclined to use depending on how I feel and how the ball is reacting, or how it reacted the last time I played.  Sometimes I'll use several swings in the course of playing a round.  And, all the while, as I'm thinking about my swing, I'm forgetting about the target.  Not completely forgetting about the target perhaps; but if I'm thinking about my take away, or my shoulder turn, I'm certainly not totally focussed on where I want the ball to go.

My best rounds usually come after much exasperation.  Tired of being consumed with swinging the club correctly and getting less than perfect results, I just hit the damned ball.  I essentially stop giving a hoot.  Suddenly, I can play again; at least until I start thinking again.  I just wish golf were really that simple.  I wish I could always have an attitude like Moe Norman, where it was all so easy.  As Moe would say: "You just hit this dumb thing--the ball--with that dumb thing--the club--over there--the target."  If only it were that simple.  And yet, it really is that simple if you can just stay out of your head. 

There is no one prescribed way to swing a golf club.  Until we are all the same, our swings will all, by necessity, be different.  So, why do I waste so much time trying to swing like someone else, or like I believe I should? I just wish there was a way to stay out of my head; to go back to being like a kid, just hitting it and chasing it.  Oh, to be able to have no thought about how; only where, and how many.

Golf really does get harder the longer you play it.  It's a simple game that is endlessly complicated if we can't stay out of our head.  

The Smiling Assassin

I played in a Golf Association of Ontario event at Briar Fox Golf Club this weekend.  I was playing number one for our club and was lucky enough to face Doug Green from Briar Fox, along with players from two other local clubs, Gananoque and Glen Lawrence.  I say I was lucky to play Doug, because he is a real gentleman with the sweetest swing.  I love playing with him because he has such wonderful rhythm and tempo.

When I arrived for the matches, our team captain greeted me by saying, "Bad luck.  You're playing Doug Green today."

I had to thank him for his vote of confidence.

Doug had played at our course for several years, and we had played together quite often.  While I had beaten him in stroke play events, I don't recall ever beating him at match play.  So perhaps our captain knew of our history.  I haven't been playing very well of late and was hardly brimming with confidence at the prospect of playing Doug on his home course.  But I was looking forward to a fun day.  In fact, I'd actually been hoping to get to play with Doug.  I miss playing with him.

True to form, I started poorly and found myself four down to Doug after nine. Doug had played his usual steady golf and had thrown in a couple of birdies for good measure.  He had a couple of shaky holes at the turn, but quickly recovered and beat me four and three.  I won my match with Rod from Glen Lawrence, and birdied the last hole to tie Bruce, from Gananoque, in a real see-saw battle that we both enjoyed.

As it turned out, my loss to Doug was the deciding match, as Picton and Briar Fox were tied and awaiting the result of our match.  So, I was the mug, and Dougie Green the hero.  As we sat afterwards, one of the Briar Fox guys was laughing as I told him about how much I'd enjoyed being drubbed by Doug.  I said, "He's such a great guy, I can't get upset about losing to him."

He said, "Yeah, he's a great guy.  We call him the smiling assassin."

That's what he is; the smiling assassin.  I couldn't have been beaten by a nicer guy.  Well done, Dougie.  I hope to play you again real soon.  

Carl the Grumbler Shoots his Age

I like to tease Carl about being "the Grumbler," but he can still play pretty good golf for an old budgie.  I had a message from Billy and it seems Carl shot 71 the other day while I was away playing somewhere else.  Carl is 72 years young, so he actually didn't just shoot his age, he bettered it.

I know Carl has shot 72 at least once this year as well, but I think this is his first under par, and under-his-age, score of the year.  Bill told me that I'd better get my game together, and I'd better get back out playing with them right away, because he didn't want to hear Carl tell him, blow-by-blow, how he shot 71 again.

I phoned Carl to congratulate him, and he told me the round could have been a lot better since he actually missed three or four short putts.  I guess the glass is still half empty for the Grumbler.  Actually, he was very happy to have "brought it in" this time because he knew he was close.

Carl admits that he tends to be too aware of what he's shooting and often makes some bogeys coming down the stretch to cool off his hot rounds.  He may be a grumbler sometimes, but Carlos can still play some golf.  He swings like he's falling off a ladder, but he can chip and putt with the best of them, even if he can't help thinking about the putts that got away.   

Bill's right; I'd better up my game if I don't want to have Carl taking any more of my money than he already does.  Congrats, Carlos.

Playing Your Own Ball

I was playing a match the other day against Steve and Spiro, where I was playing their best ball.  We have a lot of fun with these matches, that include lots of good-natured teasing and trash talk.

I had about a ten footer for par on one hole and knocked it in.  Steve and Spiro had shorter par putts, but they were both longer than six feet.  I said to Steve, after making my putt, "That just made yours a little longer, Steve my son."

Steve stood over his eight footer and knocked it right in the center of the cup.  Steve looked at me and smiled, saying, "I play my ball, not yours."  Spiro then calmly made his putt for par as well.

This reminded me of the great quote from Bobby Jones, who said, "The golfer very soon is made to realize that his most immediate, and perhaps most potent, adversary is himself.  Even when confronting a human opponent, the most crucial factor is not the performance of the opposition, but the effect of this performance upon the player himself."

I thought I might have been able to rattle Steve by holing that ten footer, when he probably expected me to miss.  But, as Steve aptly pointed out, it wasn't an issue to him because he was playing his own ball.  What happened with my ball was of no account to him.  

It's easy to say that you are just playing your own ball--not being affected by your opponent's play--but it's not as easy to do.  Good on ya, Steve.

Playing From the "Long Shit"

Jeff and I made the hour and a half drive from Picton to Bellemere Winds, a lovely course that looks over Rice Lake near Keene, Ontario.  We were paired up with two lovely and charming young women, Laura and Cindy, who kindly invited us to accompany them.

Every round of golf is a new adventure, and today was no exception.  My first tee shot found the fescue and it served as an accurate foreboding of just what sort of day it was going to be. On the first hole, I heard Laura calmly inform Cindy, who was asking where the ball went, that the ball was, in fact, in the "long shit."  Cindy, of course, had plenty of company, as Laura, Jeff, and yours truly also found ourselves in the "long shit" on the first hole, and more than a few times thereafter.

You are generally able to learn something from every round, if you are paying attention.  Today I learned two things: I shouldn't give up my day job, and this game is much more difficult if you keep hitting it in the "long shit."

As for Bellemere Winds; it's a lovely course, but you would be well advised when playing it to avoid the "long shit."  And, believe me, there's one heckuva lot of the "long shit" to avoid.

Are We Entering Another Golden Era of Golf?

People always like to argue in favour of their favourite player when it comes to discussions about who was the greatest player of all time, and what era produced the best golf.  We all tend, naturally, to be biased in our views in favour of our favourite player, or players.  But, I suspect, only three or four names will generally always be considered in any discussion of who was the greatest player.  As for golf's greatest era, unless you are really long in the tooth, or you are a student of golf history, you tend to go with the era you know best, namely your own.

I suspect most golfers, or golf fans, would have on their list of the greatest players ever in golf's modern era Bobby Jones, Ben Hogan, Jack Nicklaus, and Tiger Woods.  I would probably add Byron Nelson to that group, if only because of his unbelievable 11 wins in a row, and 18 wins in one year.  That has to be the greatest golf ever played in a year's span.  Furthermore, I believe the records show that, when playing against Hogan and Snead, Nelson was most often the better man.  

The fact that Jones, Hogan, Nicklaus and Woods were all from different eras, we will never have the luxury of seeing any of them go head to head.  And, in the case of Hogan and Nelson, Hogan rose to dominance only after Nelson took a relatively early retirement.  That, of course, means the debate as to who was the greatest player ever will continue forever.  The argument can never really be settled.

What prompted me to write this was a piece Sam Adams just wrote in the blog, Essentially Golf, which made the point that, regardless of whether we ever see a Tiger resurgence or not, golf's future looks extremely bright.  He also made the point that the golf we have witnessed from Jordan Spieth this year in the Majors, and in particular his dominant performance at the Masters, which tied Tiger's record score on a course that was tougher than the course Tiger played, puts Spieth's season firmly in the running for one of the greatest we've ever witnessed.  From a scoring standpoint it was, in fact, the greatest.

So, we really need to give Spieth and some of these new men some respect.  The numbers tell us that Tiger, even in his prime, would probably not have dominated in today's fields the way he did from '97 to 2008.  He would no doubt have won his fair share, and we would likely still be talking about how great he was, but I'd be willing to bet that Spieth and McIlroy in particular would not have folded like cheap suits the way so many other top players did against Tiger in his prime.

The same argument could be made with respect to Nicklaus' generation when talking about Tiger.  Nicklaus faced fields that might not have been as deep in terms of sheer numbers of good players. But Nicklaus certainly faced more great players while earning his 18 Majors and amassing his astounding record of top threes in the Majors than did Tiger.  Think about who Nicklaus faced.  He faced Palmer, Player, Casper, Johnny Miller, Tom Watson, and Trevino, to name but a few.  Most, if not all, of those men have significantly more impressive resumes than anyone Tiger had to face, other than possibly Mickelson.  Okay, Big Ernie was no slouch, and Vijay was pretty amazing as well, but let's face it, Nicklaus faced some incredibly strong competition in terms of guys who didn't back down from anyone.  And, I didn't even mention Raymond Floyd.  Nicklaus faced some great players who wouldn't, and didn't, blink.  They were hard men.

But then, so did Hogan--who played against Snead, Nelson, Demarat, and many others--face some hard, battle-tested men who were genuinely in the category of great players.  Actually, so did Bobby Jones, who faced Walter Hagen and Gene Sarazen, to name but two.  I think, in terms of facing champions, Tiger might have had the easiest run of all the great players in terms of having to deal with two or three world-class champions to stare right back at him at the Majors.

The reality is, however, as time goes on, the fields might get deeper, but like in every generation, the few truly great players find a way to rise to the top of the heap and make a special name for themselves.  And, at the end of the day, when striving to be called a great player, all you can do, and all you should have to do, is beat the guys you play against.  

Tiger was truly great. No one in their right mind would dare suggest otherwise.  But, looking at the golf scene today, in terms of excitement; in terms of fields full of talented, fearless players; there is reason to believe that we are entering an era that just might someday be looked back upon as being a golden era--an era perhaps like the era of Hogan, Snead, and Nelson; or Nicklaus, Watson, and Trevino.  An era of big-time players enjoying big-time rivalries.  

Tiger never really had himself a rivalry, like Nicklaus, or Hogan.  He often won with relative ease.  He won fourteen of fourteen Majors where he had secured the third round lead. A mind-boggling achievement, but I think it's only fair to say that the excitement of those wins was somewhat diminished by their predictability and the relative ease with which Tiger won them.  Yes, we were witness to brilliant golf, but there wasn't much drama.  His wins were often secured with an atmosphere of inevitability.  Once Tiger secured the lead in a Major, at least until a fellow named Y,E. Yang came along, Tiger knew, we knew, and, more-importantly, his opponents knew, that it was pretty much all over but the crying.  Golf is much better for the fans when we are glued to our seats, holding our collective breath, as we watch to see who will win.  We want to see great players.  But, we want to see them truly tested.  Nobody really likes a foregone conclusion, or a blowout.

With Spieth and McIlroy we just may finally get another great rivalry, supported by a large cast of superb players who will be there to steal the show if those two aren't at their best.  Both Spieth and McIlroy have shown that they are capable of truly dominant performances like we saw from Tiger.  Surely, sooner or later, we will see these two heavyweights face eachother in the last round of a Major.  Now that is going to be a treat.

We may just be entering another golden era of golf.  Golf doesn't look to be in much trouble at all, if this year is anything to go by.  I would argue that it just doesn't get much better than this.

It's All Relative

I wrote an article today, essentially bragging, about my latest round of golf.  I was feeling rather self-satisfied--not because I'd shot an even par round--because, for perhaps the first time ever, I'd managed to really do the best I could with what I had to work with. Looking back on the round, I couldn't think of a single shot that I hadn't tried my best on.  I may have hit a few stinkers, but I'd made the same effort on every one.  That felt very rewarding.

Someone was kind enough, after reading the article, to congratulate me on being "some player."  I thought about this and, while I appreciated the compliment, I also realized that it is all relative.  Whether a person is a player or not has very little to do with his score in my opinion.  What counts is how he plays.  I, for one, would rather play with someone who can't break a hundred, but is good company, has a good attitude, and respects the game, than a scratch player who is miserable, self-absorbed, and arrogant.

Golf teaches you quite a bit about life if you're paying attention.  For one thing, golf teaches you that no matter how good you may think you are, there is always someone who is better, or at least will be better on a given day.  You might be the number one player in the world and you will still find yourself being beaten more often than you win.  Actually, that isn't quite true, because, over a seven year stretch, Bobby Jones won more than sixty percent of the Majors he entered.  Tiger had a stretch where he was just about as dominant.  But, the fact remains, golf teaches you to be humble; whether you like it or not.

Golf teaches you that life isn't just about winning and losing.  In fact, the best golf we ever play, or ever watch, is the golf where it could go either way.  And, while we may remember the winner more than the guy who lost, without the challenger, it wouldn't have been as fun, or as memorable; for the winner or the fans.  In golf it really is more important how you play the game.

I think everyone, regardless of what they score, or where they place, should be content to say they gave it their best shot, and did the best they could with what they had to work with.  This is true in golf; and I think it's true in life.  We can't all be CEO's, and we can't all be champions.  But if we play the game with honour, integrity, and a good attitude--and live our life the same way--no one can expect more from us, and I think we should be satisfied.

There was a time when all I cared about was what I shot.  Now, I try only to care about how I played.  If I had a good attitude, tried my best, gave every shot, or almost every shot, the attention it deserved, then I am satisfied.  We all want to score our best every time out, but we won't.  Golf isn't like that.  I regret all the rounds I wasted because I was so caught up in how I was scoring, instead of focussing on how I was playing.

I've had some incredibly enjoyable matches that I've lost.  I've also had some very forgettable matches that I've won.  It really is true: it's not whether you win or lose; it's how you play the game that really counts.  That's true in golf, and it's true in life.

If You Know What to Do and Don't Do It

I think, after fifty years of playing this game, I have finally settled on what I need to do to play my best.  Believe me, I've tried just about everything in this game except the long putter.  I've stacked and tilted, one-plane swung it, two-plane swung it; I've hit it with my right hand dominating, and went to left hand dominance.  I've tried the rotational swing.  I've tried swinging the way Hogan taught us to swing in his Five Lessons.  I've tried the vertical swing.  I've tried to swing it like Jack, Freddie, Lee Trevino, Nick Faldo; hell I've even tried to copy Moe Norman's swing.  I swear, if I haven't tried it, it probably isn't worth trying.

Finally, I've settled on the method I think works best for me.  I figure the way that works for me is to push the club straight back with my left hand and arm, and pull  it through down the target line with the same hand and arm.  I picture a nail going through the center of the ball right along the target line and try to hammer it.  I want to do this on virtually every shot, from the driver to the putter; except bunker shots and little finesse wedge shots where you need to slide the club under the ball.

I was awake at three o'clock in the morning, and, like a man with a mistress, was once again absent from my matrimonial bed, downstairs hitting putts, and then outside swinging a wedge.  It's an obsession.  I guess it's better than being addicted to dope, gambling, or philandering, but I must say my wife shows more than a little patience dealing with me and my golf addiction.

At three in the morning, it struck me.  I had been advising Billy to use the "push and pull" method, along with saying the mantra, push and pull, as he swings.  He has done this with some positive results, including winning the B-flight championship at our course.  I have convinced Steve, who loves to get all caught up in swing mechanics, to go to the hammer the nail method and stop thinking about his swing, which has been producing some much-improved shots; although he's still not scoring as he really should yet.

I have advised others, but too often haven't taken my own advice, jumping around from one idea or method to another.  I have professed to know what I need to do, but haven't been consistently doing it.  So, after my three AM epiphany, I went to the course today determined to, no matter what happened, practice what I've been preaching on every shot.  

After a routine par on one, I hit my tee shot on the par three second into a greenside bunker.  I played a weak bunker shot, and promptly three-putted from about twenty feet for a double.  Lately, I've been plagued with lousy starts like this.  But I stuck to my guns, and, despite missing a three footer on five for a another bogey, made three birdies to make the turn in even par.  On the back, after finding myself two under, courtesy of a couple more birdies and a string of pars, I made a weak bogey on fifteen when my second shot came to rest against the collar of the green and my bellied wedge came up five feet short.  I missed the putt.  

On sixteen, I hit a reasonably solid tee shot that was slightly pushed.  With the help of the push and a cross wind, the ball actually ended up perched, as pretty as you please, in the branches of a small blue spruce that sits on the right side of the cart path.  The spruce catches a lot of balls, and is named, at least by some, the Douglas fir, after my former brother-in-law who routinely tangles with it.  Dazed, but undaunted, I took my penalty drop and made another bogey.  

Two pars later, including a sand save on the par three eighteenth, I managed to tie Old Man Par.  For me, any time I can tie, or beat, Old Man Par, I'm a pretty happy camper.  Given that it was a windy day, and I'd managed to also beat Carl the Grumbler, I was pretty darned satisfied.  But what gave me the most satisfaction of all, when I looked back on the round, was that I had, perhaps for the first time ever, followed the same routine on every shot.  I had picked my target, visualized the nail going through the back of the ball to the target, and pushed and pulled every shot with my left hand and arm, hammering the nail.  Not only had I done this, I'd also managed to repeat the mantra push and pull with every shot. 

For a guy like me, with the number of toys I've got kicking around in my attic, this was a major accomplishment.  I've been the kind of guy who, at the first hint of trouble, or after a bad shot or two, can't resist trying something else.  I'm a tinkerer.

But today, while I didn't play perfect golf; and I didn't shoot my best score ever--or even my best score of the year; I played one shot at a time and made the same swing every time.  I can hardly believe it. I honestly don't think I've ever managed to do that before.

I really shouldn't be surprised that things turned out so nicely for me today.  I was finally doing what I was supposed to be doing. I actually managed to practise what I'd been preaching.  And, when you really think about it, there isn't much point in knowing what to do, if you don't do it.

The Secret

What is it about secrets?  Like most people, golfers love to know the secret; the secret to hitting the ball farther, or the secret to hitting it straight, or to making more putts.  And they seem to also love to share the secret.  Therefore, none of these "secrets" remain secret for long.  After fifty years of searching, I think I've finally learned the secret. And, since I'm a golfer, I feel compelled to share it.  The secret is; there is no secret. There may be information not generally known or understood, but there are no secrets.  The vault of secret information, as far as golf is concerned, is empty.

I worked in the penitentiary service and, as part of my work, was sometimes privy to secret information.  What I came to learn was something well known among most convicts, namely that the only way three people can keep a secret is if two of them are dead. So, in life, and in golf, you can pretty much forget about there being any secrets that aren't going to be revealed sooner or later.

Just look at all the books, videos, and articles offering to tell you the secret to better golf.  We buy the books and the videos, read the articles, and, occasionally, actually think we've found the secret.  The problem seems to be that, for me at least, the secret that worked like a charm last week doesn't seem to work this week.  Perhaps the problem with secrets is, once they are learned, their charm sooner or later wears off.

Instead of looking for secrets, I think we have to rely on cold, hard reality.  Golf is a game where just about anything can happen; and often does.  But, there are some irrefutable facts when it comes to golf.  For instance, a putt that never gets to the hole can't go in.  Bobby Jones wasn't particularly enamoured with the whole "never up, never in" mentality, preferring that people hit their putts so they are dying at the hole.  He liked to say that a putt that gets past the hole isn't in either, but this is not necessarily true, because I've seen putts roll back and fall in the back door because of the slope.

When we use the term "secret," in relation to the game of golf, we aren't really talking about a secret at all, we really tend to mean the solution, or the answer, rather than the secret.  We hope to discover the answer to the mysteries and problems of playing this deceptively simple, and endlessly complicated game.  And there are many secrets, answers, or solutions, that might work for Joe Blow, but don't seem to work for me, or Mary Jane.  That's why teachers encourage golfers to learn the fundamentals of the golf swing, rather than relying on moving from one secret to another.  However, all one has to do is watch the different swings of all the great players over the years to realize that there are many ways to get it done.

The best information I've ever read on golf, and the real secret to golf, if there is a secret, is, for me at least, contained in the second chapter of Bobby Jones' book, Golf is my Game. The chapter is entitled Striking the Ball.  This information, though not really a secret, is the one thing Bobby Jones maintained every golfer needs to know, understand, and remember every time they hit a golf shot if they want to have a high probability of success. And he believed that knowing this information could make all of us a better player, literally overnight.  I have covered that information in a previous blog.  It is all about impact.  That's where the proverbial rubber hits the road.

Thanks to that information from Bobby Jones, I now know that if I can figure out a way to strike the ball with a square club face, with the club travelling down the target line towards the target, a straight shot must result.  This will always be the result, provided of course there is no wind to move the ball off line, and provided the ball is not out of round, and provided there is no mud on the ball.  That's about as certain as golf gets.

In golf, there are no secrets.  There are only facts.  And, the only thing I know for sure is that a putt that never gets to the hole never goes in. And, actually, I'm not sure I really know that for certain.  I think, at the end of the day, all you can do is keep on hitting it.  It's got to go in the hole eventually, provided you are hitting it at the hole with a square club face, and there isn't any mud on the ball, and the green isn't breaking too much...

The Champion and the Askhole

I played today with Steve, Radar, and Billy.  

As we were preparing to tee off, Billy asked me if I was going to congratulate him.  I asked for some clarification, and he advised me that he was the B-flight champion in the club championship.  He said it was all down to the "push and pull" method that he'd adopted thanks to the "John Haynes School of Golf."  

I was really pleased for him because he's certainly been having his struggles.  I was pleased that my suggestion had helped.  Steve piped in, as he is inclined to do at times like this, and reminded me that I had pretty much single-handedly taken him from a 14 to a 20.

I reminded him that you can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear.  Furthermore, I informed him that he was actually an "Askhole;" someone who asks for advice and then doesn't take it.  While I'm not a teacher, I wonder how many teachers out there vainly try to help guys like Steve.  You can't help an Askhole.

We had a fun match, with Steve and Radar against Billy and I.  Billy and I had won the match after fifteen, so Radar decided to press.  And again, Billy, the B-fight champion, and I took them down on 18, when both Steve and Radar missed short ones for par.  

I told them they should have expected nothing else.  After all, they were up against a champion.  It was a fun day.

Wouldn't It Be Nice

Wouldn't it be nice.  Wouldn't it be nice to watch the best players in the world hit, sometimes magnificent, golf shots without having to listen to some moron scream, "Mash potato!" 

I thought it was bad enough to hear, "Get in the hole!"  This, just at, or slightly before impact on the player's drive.  Or, "You da man!"  

I don't mind some enthusiasm being expressed by the patrons, but yelling, "Get in the hole," as the player hits a drive on a five hundred yard par four?  I mean, are these people golfers?

I think it should be automatic ejection for every character who yells any of these things.  I'm amazed that none of them have found themselves sporting bloody noses or black eyes as a result of yelling this stuff in some real golf fan's ear.  Corporal punishment should be legal when it comes to dealing with these jokers.

It's just not cricket; or golf.

Does Golf Really Need Saving?

I regularly hear that golf, as a game, is in trouble.  Apparently, people are quitting the game.  Fewer people are joining clubs.  I hear that fewer kids are playing, apparently opting for the video version to the real thing.  So, is golf in trouble; does it really need saving?

Perhaps, if I was an equipment manufacturer, relying on people purchasing my latest-and-greatest driver, or game-improvement, distance-enhancing irons, I might be worried.  Perhaps, if I was someone who hired a big name professional to build me a golf course in an area where there were already enough good courses, I'd be worried.

But, anyone who loves this game, and understands golfers, knows that as long as there is air, someone, somewhere, will be playing golf.  It's that kind of game.  

So, if your concern is about how much more profitable golf can become, perhaps you have reason to worry.  We have pretty much pushed the envelope in that regard.  But, if you think golf, as a game, is in trouble, you're obviously not a golfer.

Grits is Grits

I have written several stories about my dearly departed buddy, Gerry.  He was my best friend.  The interesting thing about him was his capacity to make everyone feel that way.  I can name more than a few people who would also claim Gerry as their best friend.  Brian is one of them.

The three of us went on a very memorable trip to Myrtle Beach.  They say, two's company but three's a crowd.  But, that never applied when Gerry was in the mix.  

He was a mountain of a man, standing six feet five inches, and weighing in somewhere over three hundred pounds.  He had hands like frying pans, and he was quite able to use them if required. But, given his size, and his capacity for fun, he was seldom called upon to demonstrate exactly why it was a good idea to stay on his good side.

We both worked in the Penitentiary Service.  In fact, that's how me met.  We joined the same day.  It was April 1st, 1981, and we liked to say it was the longest April Fools joke ever played on us.  There are many stories about "the pen," but that would entail writing a book, so I'll stick to our trip to Myrtle Beach.

While still working, we had our yearly trips to Myrtle Beach in the winter.  Sometimes we managed more than one trip, but we generally always found a way to make at least one jaunt.  We set off, probably in a snow storm, which was generally the case heading from Kingston, Ontario down 81 through Watertown and Syracuse, New York.  On that stretch through New York State in the winter, if it wasn't snowing, you simply had to wait five minutes and it would be.  

We stayed at the Sea Mist in Myrtle Beach on one of their golf packages.  I haven't stayed there in years, but in those days, it couldn't be beat.  We had a great room across the road from the ocean, with a hot tub conveniently situated just outside the door.

Every morning we enjoyed a complimentary breakfast--at least we considered it complimentary, since it was included in the package--which included the whole nine yards, even catfish.  I'm not really a breakfast eater, but Gerry would tuck in with abandon, particularly taking a shine to the grits, which he would slather with butter.  He loved them.

Now, I guess you are either a grit person, or you're not.  I'm not.  Brian, as I recall, could take them or leave them, but Gerry just loved them.  They were right up there with Mac and cheese in his books.  Being Canadians, we hadn't been raised on them, so Gerry considered grits to be some sort of exotic southern delicacy. Now, don't get me wrong, Gerry loved good food.  He could cook as well.  In fact, at night, rather than head out to eat, we made a variety of curries that we consumed with suitable quantities of beer.  But this trip, Gerry fell in love with grits.

On the drive home, we found ourselves in a little grocery store in some small town in North Carolina.  How we ended up there, I'm not quite sure, but Gerry was grit shopping.  He was standing in the aisle looking at the assortment of grits for sale, when he noticed a little African American girl, who obviously worked there.  

He said to her, "I'm looking to buy some grits to take home with me.  Could you recommend the best kind to buy?"

She looked up at this strange, gigantic foreigner and uttered words we have since come to live by.

She said, "Grits is grits."

That's so true.  No matter how you cut it, at the end of the day, grits is just grits.  But, they're better with salt and butter; and maybe a little hot sauce.  We miss you, Big Man.

The Grumbler, Bloodied But Not Bowed

I missed our game on Friday to play out of town, but Billy assures me that Carl the Grumbler was in great form.  Apparently, he came adorned in a pair of white shorts.  For Carl, white shorts is not necessarily a wise choice.

On number four, a relatively short par three of one hundred and thirty seven yards from the white tees, Carl hit one of his famous "shank you very much" shots into a thicket of trees and thorn bushes right of the green.  Carl is not one to just give a ball up for lost.  He'll search valiantly for it, taking his five minutes, and maybe even then some more, searching for that ball like it's his firstborn son.

Billy said Carl waded into that thicket and thrashed around for several minutes, finally emerging torn, tattered, and bloodied, but no ball.  His arms and legs were streaming with blood from the thorns, some of which inevitably ended up on those lovely white shorts.  Carl is on blood thinners because of his recent heart attack, but that's another story.

Carl had hit his provisional ball onto the green about forty feet from the hole.  He staggered up to it, took one look and drained it for a four.  This was just another typical escape for Carl, and left Bill exasperated enough that he three putted from twenty feet for a tie.  

But it didn't end there, Billy informed me.  Suddenly, our bloodied-but-not-bowed hero realized he had lost his towel, the one he refuses to attach to his bag.  Back into the thicket he went, emerging eventually still minus the towel, but also, as he discovered on the next hole, minus his sun glasses.  

As they came down number six, Carl went back into the thicket to search unsuccessfully for the sunglasses. "I never found 'em, ". Carl reported to me today, sporting a new pair.  I didn't bother asking him whether they were the pair that were missing an arm.

Carl is not only an inveterate grumbler, he is a first class klutz.  We were laughing about it today.  Billy said, "You should have seen him play hockey.  He scored goals on his knees, lying on his back..."

Carl said, "You should have been ice fishing with me.  Last time out, I had a big jug of Bloody Mary, and slipped on the ice and kicked the fricken thing down the hole.  Then I caught about a seven pound pickerel.  I got it right to the opening in the ice and it threw the hook.  I was mad as hell and reached into the hole like this, threw up my arms and the damn fish came flying out over my head.  It was crazy."

And as for those lovely white shorts?  "Joan was mad as hell,". Carl said. "Blood all over 'em."

Should You Take Lessons and Practise as Much as You Play?

You often hear golfers admitting, as though it's a sin, that they don't practise enough. They also often are heard to say that they really should take a lesson, or three. Usually, they have no real inclination to do either of the two, but feel the need to confess. It's along the same lines as "I should quit smoking," or "I really should lose a few pounds." 

I'm not one to spend much time practising, and I try to make no apologies for it. I have also had only one lesson from a professional; and that was as an eleven year old. While I would never discourage someone so inclined from taking lessons, or doing some serious practicing, I am not prepared to admit that either is absolutely necessary in order to play reasonably good golf. I am also not prepared to admit that doing either will necessarily make you a better player; though it might.

I think golf changed considerably thanks to Ben Hogan. He was perhaps the first great player who practised more than he played. By successfully digging it out of the dirt, and curing a tendency to hook the ball, Mr. Hogan not only became a great player, but also inspired many of his peers and, subsequently, future generations of golfers, to embrace practice as the means to improve. He strongly advised players to spend significantly more time on the range, with the idea that the secret to the game might be found by hitting balls--hundreds, if not thousands, of balls.

Perhaps his book, Five Lessons The Modern Fundamentals of Golf, did as much as any other to convince golfers that, by following a specific set of guidelines and movements, any golfer could become a good player. These days, it seems to be pretty much mandated that better players spend lots of time hitting balls under the watchful eye of a competent professional. Not to do so is now generally viewed as being slothful, or somehow neglectful, the importance of receiving professional instruction, practising, and hitting balls having been so elevated.

The game definitely needs good golf instructors. That is undeniable. In the old days, even the top playing professionals held down club jobs and, as part of their bailiwick, taught the game. Many of them were excellent teachers, as well as great players; not really very surprising. In golf today, however, we see a proliferation of teachers who have, in some cases, become almost as prominent and wealthy as their stable of thoroughbred players despite never having played the game at the highest level with any great success themselves. I suppose these teachers must be good, or they wouldn't be as successful as they are. But, to be truthful, there are also many teachers out there who aren't worth a hoot, regardless of whether they've been "certified" or not. Furthermore, as the Hank Haney experiments with trying to improve the games of various celebrities have clearly shown, the student's willingness and ability to learn is often just as important, if not more important, as the teacher's ability to teach. And, ultimately, when it comes to golf instruction, you just can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.  Very few golfers are going to become scratch players, regardless of whether they practise or get lessons.

We have all watched Tiger go from teacher to teacher, at least to some extent trying to incorporate that teacher's philosophy into his swing and his game, until he has lost the magic and finally found himself in some sort of golfing purgatory. I have likened someone like Tiger turning to and relying on a teacher to help him find his swing as being akin to Mozart taking music lessons. It doesn't make a lick of sense. But we see it happening all the time. In fact, it was recently rumoured that Lydia Ko's current loss of form may be attributable to her making swing changes after she went to David Leadbetter. 

Lee Trevino said he would never let anyone teach him who couldn't beat him. I think that's a pretty sound philosophy. Trevino did allow himself to be taught by other great players. For instance, he learned to be a better bunker player from Gary Player. Jack received short game advice from Arnie. Johnny Miller studied all the great players, and incorporated some of what he observed from all of them into his game. All the great players, to one degree or another, learned from, and were taught or mentored by, other great players. It has been the nature of the game that good players have helped others, especially the up and coming generations. We have all learned from other players, be it imitating great swings we see on the television, or the swings of those we learned the game from. We all tend to do that, imitation, after all, is the sincerest form of flattery. 

But the idea of any of these great players of old rebuilding their swing, the swing that got them on the tour in the first place, probably never occurred to most of them. Bobby Jones said his teacher, Stewart Maiden, never discussed the golf swing. In fact, Bobby said he never had a formal lesson from him until after his playing career was over. Maiden acted as a knowledgeable second set of eyes for Bobby when he was encountering problems. He didn't give him a swing philosophy, other than perhaps "hit it hard, it'll come down somewhere." Jack Grout was the same way with Jack. After giving Jack some sound fundamentals as a youngster, Jack went to Grout at the start of every season to have a Spring tune up to make sure his fundamentals were good and no insidious habits had crept into his game, and thereafter only when he was experiencing problems he couldn't figure out on his own. Jack was self reliant, having come to know his swing and understand his tendencies. All the great players were like that.

In my mind, we all have to be responsible for our own swing. If we aren't, we are in big trouble when the bell rings and we have to play the game without a teacher to guide us. We all have to find, often by trial and error, what works, and what doesn't. We can, and probably should, go to teachers, or better and more experienced players, to seek advice; especially when we are just learning the game, or when we are playing poorly. Some things might help. Other things might hurt. At the end of the day, however, we must search for the answers ourselves. Learning the fundamentals of the golf swing is essential. After that, we must take responsibility for our own game. 

There are a few, tried and true fundamentals which we really must learn in order to become competent at this game. Beyond that, there are numerous characters, be it teachers, swing gurus, or fifteen handicappers who fancy themselves as teachers, who are ready and more than willing to offer their secret to the golf swing. When dealing with any of them, it's really up to us to exercise some caution, and prudence, as we try to find our swing; the swing that best works for us. 

One has to wonder, had Tiger followed Lee Trevino's philosophy, and not allowed himself to be taught by anyone who couldn't beat him, whether he would have found himself in the mess he's now in. When he had his famous "A game," nobody could beat him when he arrived on tour in 1997. When he was on his game, he was simply the best, and the best by a significant margin. He was also incredibly consistent. But, whether seduced by the promise of even greater consistency, or a better swing than the swing that was already producing possibly the greatest golf ever witnessed, Tiger decided to make swing changes. It was his choice, and he now lives with the consequences.

Golf is a funny game, in that some golfers now spend as much or more time working at the game as they do playing it. I don't think there's any game like it in that respect. But Bobby Jones believed you truly learned the game best by playing it. This is very good news for those of us who don't have a strong Puritan work ethic, and have neither the time nor the inclination to spend time taking lessons and working at the game when we could be playing it. We shouldn't feel guilty if our inclination is not to spend hours practising instead of playing. Bobby Jones, the greatest amateur of all time, and arguably the greatest player ever, recommended you practise only when you have something specific you need to work on; after that he advised us to stop hitting balls and give our minds and our bodies a rest. 

So, no need to apologize for not practising as much as some people think or say you should, or for not taking regular lessons. It ain't no crime, and you've got plenty of company. Provided we are observant while we play, and if we can learn to recognize our tendencies, understand our strengths and weaknesses, and hopefully learn from our mental mistakes, we can definitely improve, play reasonably well, and find a great deal of enjoyment from golf. We can do this without hitting balls until our hands are blistered, taking lessons, or rebuilding our swings. And we can do this simply by playing golf, leaving the hard practising to those guys who either play the game to earn their living and feel the need to grind it out on the range, or to the guys who genuinely love practising. 

Carl the Grumbler

Every club has its characters. We've got Carl the Grumbler. If it wasn't for bad luck, Carl would have no luck at all. Just ask him.

Carl is a good athlete, if a bit unorthodox. He swings the club like he's falling off a ladder, but he's got a great set of hands. He once beat my father in a match play event playing with one hand, his other arm in a sling. My father never really got over it. He's won several club championships, and who knows how many local amateur tournaments. But he can't help but grumble. He fancies himself as a tragic victim of fate. The golfing gods never smile on him; at least as far as he's concerned.

Carl is eccentric. He wears sunglasses with one arm missing, a glove with a huge hole in the palm, and constantly loses his towel, which he refuses to attach to his bag. All the way round you hear him grumble about the rough being too thick, the greens being too slow, the bunkers being nothing but dirt, or mud, and how bloody unfair the pin placements are. He just seems to be having the worst time of it. According to him, he can never seem to get a break.

Carl can definitely be a distraction. You have to try to ignore him, because I'm convinced that it's all an elaborate plan; it's part of his schtick to put you off your game. The problem is, he's hard to ignore because you just never know what he's going to throw at you next. He swings like a caveman killing his lunch, scoops, stabs, or flips at his chips, pushes all his putts, and still gets the ball in the hole. It's hard not to watch. I keep playing with him because I figure if I can handle playing with Carl, I can handle just about anything.

On our last outing Carl played the first five holes poorly. He was in full grumble mode. It was all so damned unfair. On the sixth hole, a downhill par five, Carl went for the green in two and found himself in a cross bunker about thirty yards short of the green. Carl stood over the shot, grumbling about how the bunker was "nothing but mud" after the heavy overnight rain. He finally took a vicious swipe at it, hit the ball in the teeth, and sent it crashing into the flag and then into the hole for an eagle. Carl grinned sheepishly as Bill and I shook our heads. 

On seventeen, Carl hit a nice approach that kicked straight left into a thick patch of grass on the edge of the green. He stood, hands on his hips, declaring himself once more to be a terrible victim of fate. After three club changes, and a little more grumbling, Carl chipped it stone dead for his par. Exasperated, I told him I never wanted to hear him ever again whine about his lie. He just smiled, because we'd had this conversation before. 

On eighteen, a par three, Carl hit it fat and ended up on an upslope about twenty yards short of the green. The egg-sucking dog then chipped another one stone dead for his par. I had hit my tee shot about twenty five feet from the pin and was determined not to let Carl's latest escape get to me. I hit the putt too firmly, but it hit the back of the cup, hopped up in the air a couple of inches and dropped back into the hole for a birdie. I looked at Carl and smiled serenely. I didn't know it then, but I had beat him by one stroke.

Carl just can't buy a break. He's the unluckiest guy in the world. Just ask him.

Pack a Snack

I have come to learn the virtue of taking some protein along with me when I play. I have traditionally been from the John Daly school of golf, where nicotine plus caffeine equals protein. However, I started to notice that after twelve or thirteen holes I'd suddenly lose my mind and make a couple of stupid bogeys, or worse. 

I'd seem to lose the plot a couple of hours into the round and, soon thereafter, realize I was hungry. If you wait to feel hungry, you've probably waited too long they tell me. So now I always try to remind myself to eat something by the ninth or tenth hole. It seems to help me from having those let downs.

I don't intend to give up on the nicotine, or the caffeine, because I love my coffee, and there's nothing like a good smoke. I come from a long line of smokers, and have inherited the smoking gene. Bobby Jones liked a good smoke. So did Ben Hogan. So, call me old school. But a little protein definitely goes a long way. I'd probably drink more water too. The problem is, it tastes like water.

Paralyzed?

Are you suffering from paralysis by analysis? Have you tinkered with your swing to the point that you can't find anything that seems to work? If you have, you've got plenty of company, myself included. 

It's a funny game, this golf. You can get caught up thinking about how to hit it, instead of where to hit it, and the wheels can really come off. I was playing with a friend today who was "working on some things," and "things" were going somewhat haywire. I had caught up with him after nine, and had started the day doing the same thing. I had played the first three holes during which I'd used three or four different swings, none of which worked worth a hoot. 

I mentioned to him that when I get all caught up in mechanics, like I did today, I take a few practice swings with my eyes closed. When I do that, I feel "my swing" again and I can usually get back to just hitting the damned ball. He tried a couple of swings, stood up to the ball, and pured a drive two hundred and sixty yards right down the middle.

He looked at me, smiled, and said, "I hit that one with my eyes closed."

I'm not saying you should hit the ball with your eyes closed necessarily. It could be dangerous to yourself and others if you're not a pretty accomplished player, but, if you're finding yourself searching for your swing again, after having tinkered yourself into golfing purgatory, try a few practice swings with your eyes closed. You just might find your swing and your rhythm again. 

Another good thought is Harvey Penick's "clip the tee" teaching. If you swing the club as though you are wanting to clip the tee under the ball, you will square the club face. Harvey said he didn't know why it works, but it does. Neither idea comes with a guarantee, but if you find yourself not knowing which end is up because of paralysis by analysis, it just might help to close your eyes and clip the tee. 

If you are really struggling, you'll probably try just about anything, won't you?

A Lesson From Gerry

My buddy Gerry taught me lots of things by the way he lived.  He was smarter than your average bear; a big, loveable, mountain of a man.  He was no Ben Hogan, but he taught me a thing or two about how to really enjoy the game.

Gerry helped me appreciate that it is actually not only okay to outwardly take some pleasure from the good shots, it is important that you do so. I had always been one of those guys who acted like a good shot was nothing to get excited about, because I felt I was supposed to hit good shots. I had somehow convinced myself that outwardly enjoying or savouring a good shot was somehow uncool, or in bad taste; that it was being arrogant, or conceited. But Gerry taught me that it was really okay to savour the experience of a good shot or a good round, and really let it soak in. In fact, he taught me that not to do so, means you are missing out on the joy of the game.

I haven't really been wired that way. I have been a guy who preferried to think about the putts I missed, or the shot I hooked out of bounds, instead of the good shots I hit. In retrospect, I really should have paid more attention to Gerry, who could shoot 100, hit a bunch of wicked slices and duffs, but, over a post-round beer, only seem to remember and want to talk about the pure seven iron he hit on number thirteen. It took me a while to figure out that Gerry's approach was the way to really enjoy the game of golf. For Gerry, this came naturally. He was simply being himself. For me, a guy who has traditionally been a glass-half-empty kind of a guy, this approach has had to be learned.

Instead of moaning about the short putts I missed, I want to be immodest enough to talk about the great seven iron I hit, like Gerry. I always loved to hear Gerry recount his great shots. I shared his enthusiasm and his joy. It was infectious. So, from now on, those who don't want to hear about a good shot I hit probably shouldn't ask me how I played, because I intend to try to become more like Gerry and have a selectively good memory when it comes to my game.

I'm going to try never again to whine about the three footer I missed, preferring instead to talk about the twenty or thirty footer I made. That isn't being immodest, or a braggart. In fact, it is whining about shots missed that is really being immodest. Everyone misses three footers, so who am I to whine about missing one? Do I think I'm too good to miss a three footer? If I talk about anything, from now on I hope it will be that great drive I hit, or the chip in on sixteen. I want to be a glass-half-full guy. 

Instead of saying, "I would have shot 75, but I missed three short putts," I'm going to happily say, "I would have shot 80, but I chipped one in on seventeen." It's the same round, but from a different perspective. To stress the chip in that prevented an 80, or 100, instead of the missed putts that prevented a 75, or 95, isn't just being modest. It's being real, and it's being positive, and it's just the kind of thing Gerry would have said. He was a guy who enjoyed his game every time he teed it up. He wanted to play well, but he was also a realist who managed to really understand what golf is all about; having fun and savouring the memories. Thanks, Big Guy. I sure miss you.