The Golfer's Mind

Golf is a game of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter. There is an ideal attitude for a golfer. Bobby Jones wrote about this. He wrote that a golfer must be prepared for the making of mistakes. Not only that, but a golfer must not be discouraged on the days when he makes more of them than usual.

When you are hitting it solid--and the putts are dropping--golf can seem almost easy. But, inevitably in this game, the wheels will start to come off. It happens to the best players. What defines the best golfers is how they react when this happens. The best golfers refuse to become discouraged; and they refuse to give up.

I've played a couple of rounds with my friend, Charlie, and his wife, Kathy, from Toronto. We are down in South Carolina, escaping the crappy weather in Canada. Riding with Charlie, we've discussed this attitude that is so important for golfers--this acceptance of bad shots and the refusal to give up. Charlie admits that he does not possess what he calls "the golfers mind." He is more apt to become frazzled after a poor shot, and, in that state of mind, often allows one bad shot to beget another.

Yesterday, playing the River Club, I went out in 39, which was okay given that I putted poorly. But, at the turn--which in our case was the first hole--the wheels suddenly came off. I couldn't find the center of the clubface and I couldn't chip and putt worth a damn. After four holes, I had dropped six shots to par. Charlie was having his own struggles as well.

I said to Charlie, after finally making a par on five, that we should try to play the rest of the holes in even par. Charlie just smiled, not convinced that such a thing was likely, or even possible. I made pars at six and seven--only by virtue of some scrambling. On eight, a nice par three over water, I failed to get it up and down for par from the front edge and needed birdie on the last to reach my goal of finishing the last five in even par.

Rather than become discouraged after missing an easy up and down, I announced that I was going to finish with a birdie. I hit a good drive, but thinned my approach into the front bunker. Now, I had to hole quite a lengthy bunker shot to make good on my promise. I focussed as hard as I could and struck the sand perfectly. I watched in amazement as the ball rolled right into the middle of the hole, not even touching the flagstick.

As crippled as I've become, my game is not likely to do anything but get worse. I can't change that. But at least I can keep working on developing that "golfer's mind" that is so important. It's amazing what you can overcome if you don't give in to discouragement, and refuse to quit.

The People You Meet

One of the great things about golf is the people you meet. The game is all-consuming when you are playing it; so, for four hours or so, you can forget your troubles and just worry about making the damned ball behave. You are generally playing in pleasant surroundings, with birds and various critters sharing the park-like setting with you. But it's the people you meet in your golf travels that really makes it special.

This week I arrived in Murrells Inlet, SC and, as a single, was lucky enough to be paired up with Richie and his nephew, Henry, at Indian Wells; and with Mike, from Cornwall, Ontario, at Wachesaw Plantation East. 

Richie is 81 and claims he played at a six when he kept a handicap. He drove it by me all day and had all the shots, and confessed that he made a lot of money playing as a six. I know I wouldn't have wanted any of his action. Henry struggled a little with his game, but was also great company on the course.

Mike is a five and, at 62, still bombs it. We played the senior tees and he generally had little more than a flip wedge to the par fours. The first time we played at Wachesaw he shot 73 with a double on the last hole. I shot 43 on the first nine, so my 35 coming in did little to prevent me from being thoroughly whipped.

Today I managed to arrange a skins game with Richie and Mike. Henry had to leave for Virginia. Richie and I played the senior tees at just shy of 6000 yards, while Mike had to play the whites at 6300. After nine holes, we each had one skin. Mike and I won ours with birdies, while Richie won his with a par on the tricky third. Richie went out in 39. Mike and I were one shot better.

Mike announced on ten tee that it was now "game on," and wasted no time in winning another skin with an impressive birdie from the right trees. I birdied 12 and 14 for two skins. Mike made par on 15 for a skin after Richie and I failed to get it up and down from the apron. I won another skin on 16 with a par and headed to 18 with a one skin lead. 

Eighteen at Wachesaw is rated as the second or third toughest finishing hole on the Myrtle Beach grand strand. It's a beast. But as luck would have it the senior tees were about fifty yards ahead of the whites today. Mike hit a perfect drive, right in the middle of the fairway, that, unfortunately for him, had about two yards of roll. He was left with about 160 yards into the wind. Richie and I hit good drives leaving me about 120 yards and Richies about ten yards less. 

Mike hit a solid shot that didn't draw for him, leaving him about 30 feet for birdie. I hit a punched 8 iron to about 20 feet, and Richie hit it onto the back apron after the wind layed down on him. When they both missed, all I needed was a solid two putt for the win. However, there is nothing worse than needing a two putt on the last to win, unless it's needing a one putt from thirty feet, downhill

 and breaking left to right. Anyway, I stood over the putt and announced to the boys that I just needed to hit a solid putt. Sure enough, it went straight in the hole for birdie. 

I never birdie 18. Oh, I birdied it once by chipping one in, but birdies are few and far between on that hole. It was a great day with two really nice guys and two pretty damned good players. Mike shot 75 and hit the pin twice without the ball going in. Richie shot 79, breaking his age again. Something that was obviously no big deal to him, given how solid a player he is.

I managed a 73. I've shot 73 at Wachesaw atleast half a dozen times. But I can never seem to shoot par on this track. We're scheduled to play again tomorrow if the weatherman is wrong about the projected thunder storms. The great thing about golf is the people you meet.

It's Still All About How Many

At our course, we don't really have a driving range. We have a tee box where you can hit as much as a seven or eight iron to some patchy ground with a couple of markers; but that's pretty much it. We have a small practice green where it's hard to find anything close to a straight putt. But at least you have a view of the lake.

Ours is not really a club for those who love to practise. We all generally head from the car to the first tee wondering what we've brought that day. We might hit a few practice putts, and maybe even a few chips, prior to teeing off. But that's about it. Funny, when we go elsewhere to play, or compete, we often have the opportunity to hit balls first. But I'm not sure it helps an old cripple like me. I'm usually aching before I tee off if I do. So I prefer to just focus on trying to find the best way I can to get the damned ball in the hole.

I just arrived in Murrells Inlet last night. Bright and early this morning, I was on the porch enjoying a coffee and my pipe, and watching two guys get ready to play. My porch overlooks the practice tee and the practice putting green at Wachesaw East. It's a really good course that hosted an LPGA event for a number of years. 

One of the guys headed to the practice tee and hit one shot after another, with barely a pause before raking another ball over and whacking it. He was done in about seven minutes and announced to the other guy, who was on the putting green, that he hadn't hit one decent shot. 

The other guy had started putting four footers; making the lion's share of them. Then he practised hitting lag putts; putting them all out. And finally he hit some chips and pitches before heading to the first tee. It looked to me like he had a really decent short game. And he seemed calm and ready to play.

I don't know about you; but I'd have been willing to put a fairly substantial wager on the guy with the short game. But, who knows, maybe the rapid-fire guy can putt like a demon. In the end, it really is all about who can get it in the hole in the fewest number of strokes.

Old Age and Treachery

Golf is becoming a challenge for me. Actually, I guess I should say it's becoming more of a challenge for me. I began the season as a three handicapper, crippled with a bad back. I'm now an eight. The game is tough.

But the other day I played a match with Levi. I was giving him the gears about how he must be so discouraged, being two down after ten to an old cripple. Levi responded by winning twelve, fifteen, and sixteen, to go one up. Suddenly, I wasn't quite so cocky.

On seventeen, we both missed our drives left. Levi was in jail in the trees. I was in the rough and blocked by the trees on the corner. To hit the green, I needed to play a thirty yard hook with a five hybrid out of thick rough. Somehow, I pulled it off and found my ball on the front edge of the green about twenty feet from the hole. Meanwhile, Levi had to pitch out and missed the green with his third. Two putts for par and I was back to all square.

Levi and I made par threes on 18 and decided to go extra holes. We both hit it over the back into thick rough on 18. We then both chunked our chips. Levi played his third about six feet past the pin, and I stood over my chip and told Levi I was going to make it. Sure enough, I did--not the first time I've managed to do that to Levi.

Golf is becoming increasingly difficult for me with this damned back. Most of the guys I play with, including Levi, drive it forty yards past me. I'm hitting hybrids where they are hitting nine irons and wedges. But I still absolutely love this game. And sometimes old age and treachery can beat youth and skill. Not always, but sometimes it can. Sorry, Levi.

Sometimes You Have to Improvise

A good rule in golf is to save your tinkering for the range. But in my case, given my back issues, trips to the range are pretty much nonexistant, as hitting multiple shots in a short period of time leaves me crippled. Besides, my father seems to have passed on the tinkeritis gene to me, so I will likely always be prone to fiddling with my swing, both on and off the course.

I've struggled with my game this year. But I've discovered the last few years that my natural swing is the one I use to clip daisies, or the one I make with my eyes closed. It generally works quite well when I use it, instead of the four or five other swings I often resort to trying.

Yesterday was the Quinte Cup. It's a yearly matchplay event between four clubs in our area that has been held every year since the twenties. I just barely made the team this year, needing a playoff to do it. But the day before I had played using my natural swing and had shot 78. That's not normally a great score for me, but this year so far anything under 80 is good. 

So I set out to play yesterday determined to play with my natural swing. In the current format, we play all three guys at the same time in an 18 hole match. It's not an ideal format for match play. But, as Big Bob always says, it is what it is. Despite my poor play this year I was sent out in the number three spot which had me a bit nervous. I was also pitted against my old nemesis from Napanee, Rick Gerow. And I certainly didn't want to give him the satisfaction of beating me like a drum.

Well, my natural swing, after nine miserable holes, had me down six, four, and two in my matches. I was seemingly on my way to being skunked. Rick was struggling as well, so he only had me down two. But I was pretty sure Rick figured he had me in the bag, the way I was hacking it around.

Waiting to tee off on ten I decided that I was either going to have to change things, or accept being humiliated by my poor play and just quit. I know I had resolved to stick with "my swing," but today my swing just wasn't good enough. So I tried to find some sort of action that would keep me in play, and to just find a way to make a score. And I did just that. I chose a shortened swing where I just focussed on having the back of my left hand strike the ball straight down the target line. 

At the end of the day I managed to halve two matches and lost the other. This was not the result I'd hoped for. But, under the circumstances, I was happy that I chose to improvise and to keep fighting hard. As for Rick; he hit his tee shot out of bounds on eighteen and let me halve the match. 

Golf is ultimately about getting the ball in the hole. It isn't about making pretty golf swings. I'm sure the swing I used on the front nine looked much better than the abbreviated punch I used on the back nine. But in golf it's only results that matter. I will try to use my natural swing as often as possible. But I learned again yesterday that sometimes you just have to find something--anything--that works. If the game has gone off the rails, what do you have to lose? And again I learned that there is a great deal of virtue in simply refusing to give up. You won't always win. But you'll feel better for having tried as hard as you can.

Golf Rarely Goes as Planned

Golf, like life, seldom goes as planned. All you can really do, in golf as in life, is refuse to give up no matter how miserable it is.

I played in the qualifier for our club team yesterday. I didn't have particularly high expectations, since I've struggled mightily with my game this year. But I never expected to putt as abysmally as I did. I hit the ball as well as I've hit it for years, but couldn't buy a putt. I missed at least six putts inside five feet, including a couple of two footers.

In the end I was tied with Randy for the last spot on the team and we had to play off. Randy had become angry on the fifteenth hole when, after searching in vain for his ball for at least ten minutes, I said we had to move on. I advised him that five minutes was the time allotted by the rules to look for a lost ball and we had well exceeded that. He was furious. But that's the rule.

As we were about to tee off for the playoff Randy angrily stated that there wouldn't have had to be a playoff if he had found his lost ball. I replied: "Yep. And if your aunt had had nuts she'd have been your uncle." I didn't bother mentioning all the short putts I had missed.

The first hole is a short dogleg par four. I hit a perfect three wood, leaving myself sixty yards to a front pin. Randy tried to take the Tiger line over the trees to the front edge of the green, managed to clatter through the trees, and had about a forty yard pitch over the pond.

I hit it to about five feet. Randy hit a pitch just over the pond into the thick grass and his ball somehow bounced through the rough, onto the green to about two feet from the pin. Levi had driven out to watch the playoff, and I had told him I was going to look at the playiff like a new round, forgetting all the lousy putts I'd hit. I assured him I was going to just stand up and knock that putt in, with the expectation that we'd be going to a second playoff hole.

Sure enough, I stood up and knocked it in the hole. Randy was probably vexed that I was making him putt his two footer, but I'd missed a couple, and he was being a prick, so I made him putt it. Sure enough, Randy lipped it out, banged his ball off the green in disgust, and actually threw his putter at his cart. He drove away without shaking my hand.

So, the moral of my story is: don't give up, Randy is a dickhead, and, if your aunt had had nuts, she'd have been your uncle. Golf rarely goes as planned. But, if you keep trying, things sometimes work out. And sometimes they won't, but at least you'll have the consolation of knowing you tried your hardest.

Take Your Pre-Shot Routine

Bobby Jones said that golf was actually a simple game that involved hitting a ball with a stick. Man, have we managed to change that. Sometimes golf is now a five-hour ordeal that involves waiting, and watching, while average golfers try, in vain, to imitate the golfers they see on TV. The simple game has become awfully damned complicated.

Moe Norman, the famous Canadian golfer, didn't have time for all the nonsense we see today. In his old age he preferred to just hit balls because playing took so damned long. Missing it quick is something that seems to be no longer part of the golfing vocabulary.

There is a great story of Moe's time on the PGA tour when, frustrated by the snail's pace of play, he putted a ball between another player's legs and into the hole as the player was retrieving his ball. Sadly, they ran Moe off the tour. He just wasn't "serious" enough.

Now, Bobby Jones believed that every player deserved to be given ample time to play his shot unmolested. And that's fair enough. But he also believed that to be an acceptable playing partner you needed to learn to keep the ball in play and to be ready to play your shot when it was your turn. Today, too many players are forcing their playing partners to endure a lot of nonsense and fooling around when playing their shots.

I would love to kick the person who first decided to teach the ore-shot routine right in the "how's your mothers." Now, thanks to the apparent virtue of a consistent pre-shot routine, we get to watch a guy who can't break ninety put on his glove before every shot; then close the flap, then undo it and close it up again as per Ernie Els. We may also get to watch him tug on his shirt like Tiger, aim the clubface like Justin Rose, and even do the "do I, or don't I," three-step into the ball like the kid, Bradley, from Vermont whose aunt was a great player. And then, after all the pre-shot routine shenanigans, we get to search for his ball in the woods. 

We really have to get back to playing golf as it was meant to be played; where we hit the ball, chase it, and keep hitting it until it's in the hole. We can do it if we stop encouraging players to imitate the pros; and if we start making the pros hurry the hell up. I know I'm venting, but I remember those days as a kid when I could play 45 holes in a day. Now, the juniors, who have all learned to have a good pre-shot routine, are some of the slowest players on the course. 

We keep hearing about people in the golf industry wanting to grow the game. We keep hearing about how it takes too long. Well, we could start by teaching people not to imitate the pros. We could teach them to just hit the damned ball and chase it until they're breaking 80, or 75. We could suggest that, should they choose to wear one, they might want to keep their damned glove on; or at least have it on when it's their turn to play. That might be a good start. 

Golf, according to Bobby Jones, isn't really that hard--at least when you first start playing it. It is just another game where you hit a ball with a stick. Take your pre-shot routines and shove'em. Sorry, I know I'm venting.

Don't Get Mad

Steve is still working, so he met me today after work to play the back nine before dark. It's that time of year when the days are getting shorter and the leaves are starting to fall; rather depressing if you are a golfer and not planning on heading south for the winter.

I had played the front nine by myself, playing three balls on most holes, and doing some experimenting. All I had seemed to gain from my experimenting was a very sore back. But, after taking some morphine on seven, I was finally starting to loosen up a bit on ten. 

Ten is our hardest hole, playing 415 yards to a green fronted by a pond. Unless you hit a solid tee shot, ten becomes a lay-up hole where you try to wedge it up and down for your par. And today, after a short drive, I had to do just that, laying up to 100 yards and wedging it to six feet, I made what Steve and I call a "Peter Cole par." Peter is a short-knocker who still manages to make par after par using his short game. I made a nice par on eleven, which is another tough par four when it's into the wind. Then I made birdie on the short, par four twelfth. Things were going pretty well.

But I was still doing some experimenting with ball position, thinking that I had allowed the ball to start inching too far back in my stance. I'd moved it up and was really hitting it well. But, as Harvey Penick said, you should take one or two aspirins, not the whole damned bottle. After two solid shots, I had a perfect wedge yardage to a back pin on thirteen. But, as I stood over the shot, I thought, "I've done well moving the ball up in my stance, why not move it up a bit more?" The result was a skulled shot over the back of the green and a bogey. 

On fourteen I was still fiddling with my ball position and drop-kicked my tee shot about 80 yards. Instead of getting mad, I said to Steve, "Let's see if I can't make a three from here." That's become my way of dealing with stupid shots. Instead of getting angry, I just try to see if I can minimize the damage. 

So, I proceeded to follow that lousy tee shot with a fat wedge shot that nestled into a lousy lie thirty yards short of the green. The ball was sitting in a muddy hole on the edge of the rough. Rather than get annoyed, I tried, despite the lie, to hole the next shot. Instead, I knocked it 35 feet past the damned hole. Double bogey was now looming large. But I still just said, to myself this time, "let's try and hole this putt and get out of Dodge." 

I stood over that putt, tried to focus with all my might on the front of the cup, and damned if I didn't roll it right in. Steve, meanwhile, had hit his tee shot short and left of the green, fluffed his pitch to about ten feet, and missed his putt for par after he saw my 35 footer go in. We had both made bogey. That's golf. I left the green feeling like I'd got away with something, and Steve was left to wonder how on earth we'd halved the hole. 

But this attitude I've managed to develop has really helped. Instead of getting mad when I hit a stupid shot, I just try to see if I can manage to get away with it by hitting a good shot, or at least not hitting another stupid shot. It doesn't always work out, but it makes me better company. It also saves me having to climb trees to fetch clubs I've thrown. And it sometimes infuriates my opponent when I get a half or a win on a hole I probably should have lost. That's my new approach to golf. Don't get mad, get even. Besides, I'm really not really good enough to get mad.

Golf is Just a Game

lI must admit that it's pretty hard to focus on golf with all the madness going on in this sad old world. What with devastating hurricanes, the largest mass shooting in history in Vegas, North Korea and the Donald posturing and talking nuclear war, terrorist attacks in Britain and Europe, etc.; golf just doesn't seem as important as jt was. It's just a game; a brief distraction from the craziness.

You really have to wonder whether we aren't all headed to hell in a hand basket. But then, this has always been a crazy, mixed-up world. As my old grandmother would have said, "There's nothing as queer as folk." People can be pretty damned crazy. And yet, in the midst of the madness, the goodness and selflessness of some people shines through. When the going gets tough, the tough really do get going.

So, I may not be focussing on golf as much as usual. And that's probably okay. Golf will always be there to take us away from our worries for a few hours. It's the greatest game there is for your mental health. As Harvey Penick said, it's cured more crazy folk than psychiatrists. 

What I don't get is why the Donald golfs so much and yet remains such a thoroughly despicable man. But, I hear he cheats at golf, just like everything else. That would explain it. You can learn a lot about a person by golfing with them.

Mr Seventeen

I've been having some good matches lately with Steve and Chris. Playing their best ball, we've come down to the seventeenth with it being anyone's match to win.

But Chris has figured out the seventeenth, while I've had my struggles. The last three times out, Chris has won the seventeenth with a birdie and two pars. Once, it was birdie to win two and one. The second was par to win and go one up. And this afternoon it was a par to square the match. 

Steve and Chris have had my number winning two of the last three and halving the other one. And every time it's been Chris on that damned seventeenth hole. We're going to start calling him Mr. Seventeen.

It's really nice to see the progress the guys have made in their games. Not that long ago I was giving them strokes. Now it's straight up, and they're winning. The other day both of them shot 39 on the back nine. Chris has been as low as 83 and Steve has been as low as 77. 

I did manage to beat Old Man Par the other day with a 71, so I may not be done quite yet. It's just that damned seventeenth hole and Chris; Mr. Seventeen.

It Could Be Worse

It's hell getting old. But, then again, it probably beats the alternative. Yesterday, I really felt my age. I played in an inter-club match play event at Trillium Wood. It wasn't a Senior event, so once again I had to test the theory that old age and treachery could sometimes beat youth and skill. 

I was in the final group. It was not a particularly comforting spot to be in given the current state of my back and my game. And it was even less comforting when our team captain greeted me before the matches, saying, "Here comes our sacrificial lamb." I'm not really sure about this guy's approach to captaincy, but it wasn't anything I wasn't already thinking, so maybe he was just trying to lessen the tension. Who knows. 

Two of my opponents were twenty-somethings that were around scratch. The other one was Joe, a well-known player closer to my age from Smugglers Glen, who I had played once before and been soundly beaten. I didn't know the young guys, but I knew Joe could really play. I figured I had about as much chance of winning a match as getting hit with a piece of SkyLab. But, if someone had to be the sacrificial lamb, I figured it might as well be me. I've long ago learned how to lose. And I've learned that it isn't fatal. In fact, it's not so bad if you figure you gave it your best shot.

I hit a few balls on the range and was hitting it pretty solid, so I teed off feeling about as positive as I could feel under the circumstances. I also felt a bit better when I heard that Joe was late and planned to catch up with the rest of us out on the course, forfeiting the holes he missed. That turned out to be only the first hole, but I figured a one up lead on Joe was better than nothing.

The young lads could really bomb it. On holes where they actually needed to use driver, they were easily fifty yards by me. I hung in there as best I could for the first nine holes, actually making the turn up in two of my three matches. I was feeling pretty good, even though I'd had to go to the morphine to deal with the pain. I even thought at that point that I might actually manage to stay alive for enough holes that I wouldn't be totally humiliated upon my return to the clubhouse. In fact, I dared think that, if I could just keep doing what I was doing, I might even win a match or two.

These days my back is so bad that I'm really only good for about twelve holes--and that's if I don't make a bad swing. My last inter-club outing a week ago, I played the first twelve holes in two under par and had two of the three guys I was playing six down. I'd made four birdies and they had struggled. Things were looking pretty good with me being dormie with two of the guys and two up on the other guy. But then I started to fade, making bogeys on four of my next five holes. I won the two matches easily with a par on fourteen, but the guy who was two down came roaring back and beat me.

Sure enough, the same thing happened yesterday. After twelve holes, I started to really fade. I started hitting short, hooky drives and pushing and hooking approaches, struggling to get through the ball and finish my swing. I managed to win my match against Joe, five and three. But this was only because Joe had back issues of his own, and played probably about as poorly as he could possibly play. He was finished after fifteen holes and headed back to the clubhouse for some liquid "painkiller." I lasted just one more hole before the two flat-bellies finished me off as well. Youth was definitely served on the day. Us old guys got pretty soundly beaten by the young guns.

It's becoming increasingly clear that my days of competing successfully are coming to an end. The prognosis for my back is not good, so I'm definitely not going to get better, and I'll likely only get worse. But it really is still fun to compete. I thoroughly enjoyed my day, as I did last week. The company was good. The matches were friendly, and somewhat competitive. And I'm still on the right side of the grass; bloodied, as they say, but not yet bowed.

It could be worse. It can always be worse.

The Long Ball

To comb the net related to golf instruction very quickly reminds us that the major focus or preoccupation of most golfers, and therefore teachers, is on how to swing the golf club. Furthermore, a central theme seems to be ways in which golfers can learn to hit the ball farther. Golfers seem to be in continued awe of "the long ball."

I recently wrote an article dealing with the amount of coverage Rory was receiving because of his long driving. In that article I pointed out that it was the end of the matter that was so much more important if it was low scores you were looking for. Rory may have been driving the ball incredibly well, but he didn't win any championships. If you want to win championships, you had better be able to chip and putt.

Steve has started playing some really decent golf. After struggling for the past couple of years, he is now regularly scoring in the high seventies, instead of the low nineties. There is a big change in his game. And he looks like a different player on the course. He is more relaxed and a lot happier. Having worried for the past couple of years that I may have helped Steve go from being a low eighties shooter to a low nineties man, something has clicked for Steve-O.

One of the changes Steve has made is the switch to using his three wood or his four iron off the tee on the par fours and fives. Playing with his TourEdge Exotics three wood--a club I found in South Carolina and passed along to him--Steve hits the ball pretty much as far as he hit his driver, but much more often in the short grass. He is so pleased with the results from this approach that he no longer even carries his driver. He has become thoroughly convinced of the benefits of hitting the ball a few yards shorter in some cases, but keeping it in play.

Steve has also made huge improvements in his short game. He pitches and chips the ball much better. And it is here that he is saving so many more pars when he misses greens, as all of us do. Steve is visibly more relaxed on the golf course. He looks so much more confident when playing. And it all boils down to two things: getting the ball in play off the tee, and scrambling. 

If golf is about shooting the lowest score you possibly can, then perhaps we can learn something from Steve. We all need to use whatever means necessary to get the ball in play off the tee, rather than simply trying to just hit it as far down the fairway as possible. And we need to develop our short games. It may not be as sexy, or exciting, an approach to playing the game as swinging from your heels and going for the long ball. But, so long as golf is about shooting the lowest score rather than hitting it the farthest, perhaps there are a lot of players out there who might do well to leave their drivers in the trunk of the car like Steve. Just a thought.

Running Like a...

I play with one character, name withheld to protect the guilty, who is a writer. Given my love of writing, as well as golf, we often have fun with ideas and expressions as we play.

We like to try to put just the right spin on what's happening on the golf course. I had annoyed Spiro, much to the amusement of ny writer friend, by once exclaiming that Spiros' worm-burner was "running like a Greek with a handbag." Spiro was offended by the insinuation that any self-respecting Greek would steal a handbag.

Not to be outdone, my writer friend hit a low runner the other day and exclaimed, "That's running like a lone midget at a fetish conference." Now that may not exactly be politically-correct. But you have to give him an "A" for originality.

I'm Not So Clever After All

I wrote an article the other day about the virtue of playing conservatively and missing it in the right places. I was feeling pretty good about myself after having done just that to secure the win in our Men's League.

Well, not many people should be teachers in this life. And clearly, I'm not one of them. Yesterday, I played a match with Radar as a partner against Peter Cole and Paul Gentile. Radar and I ham and egged it pretty well, ending up three up with four to play. I played well early until my back started giving me grief, and I rode Radar the rest of the way. 

We lost fifteen to a nice birdie by Peter. And it was then that things really started to unravel for us. On sixteen Paul pushed his drive to the right into the fescue and had to take an unplayable. Peter hit his second into the fescue on the left and never found the ball. Radar and I were, or should have been, quids in. It was then that I failed miserably in terms of practising what I'd just been preaching about playing conservatively. 

I had hit a fairly good drive and had just seen Peter hit his second shot in the weeds on the left. Given that Paul had also taken an unplayable, a par on sixteen would have likely been good enough to leave us dormie, if not give us the win. I was sitting on a bit of an upslope. The wind was coming fairly strong off the bay which would push my ball left. Off an upslope, the usual miss is left as well. So, having seen where Peter ended up, playing from about ten yards behind me, you would have thought that common sense would prevail.

I could have taken a six iron and knocked it safely down to within 120 yards of the green. But I took my usual club, a 22 degree fairway wood, that would have got me inside 100 yards. It would have got me inside 100 yards had I not pull hooked it off the uphill lie. The ball would have followed Peter's ball into the thick cabbage had it not hit a tree.

I was now lying two about 150 yards from the pin in jail behind a couple of trees. Paul had hit his fourth shot just short of the green and was likely to make a six. All I had to do was pitch the ball out and knock my fourth on the green and we were almost certainly going to be dormie. Instead, after consulting with Radar, I decided to try the perfect shot; a low hook through a small gap in the trees. I hit the ball almost perfectly, but it hit the tree and almost hit me as it bounced back. 

I now had another option. I could now just chip it out and then knock my fifth shot on the green and have a putt for bogey. But, in for a penny, in for a pound, I tried another miracle shot. The ball didn't hook out of the rough and I hit across the fairway and behind another tree. And so it went. When Radar hit his fourth shot over the green and then duffed his pitch, Paul was able to win the hole with a bogey six.

If I had just pitched out with my third shot I'd have almost certainly made six for a half. But, as the saying goes, if my aunt had had nuts she'd have been my uncle. That's what often happens when you try to be too clever by half and attempt to play the miracle shot. You often end up looking like a mug. The biys won eighteen to halve the match. Radar and I had managed to blow a three up lead with four to play. And, the way we played coming in, we were lucky there wasn't five holes to play, because we'd have likely lost the next hole as well.

Hitting dumb shots really makes you feel stupid. It saps your energy, because you realize that it all could have been avoided had you simply exercised some common sense, taken your medicine, and got the ball back in play. Unfortunately, in my game, common sense isn't always that common. So, this story comes as a sort of confession, after my having talked about how smart I was the day before. I guess I'm not so clever after all.

What Club Do You Usually Use?

We have an interesting fifth hole in Picton. It's about 345 yards long, straight up a hill that has been named "heart attack hill" for it's steepness. There is a mound, covered in fescue, directly in front of the men's tees that has been known to catch many a mishit tee shot. I've thinned the odd one into it myself.

Radar told me yesterday about an incident that occurred there between Scott, our Pro Shop manager, who was about a two handicapper at the time, and Mike Pero, who won either the Canadian, or Ontario Amateur championship--I forget which one right now--had played the Canadian Tour, and had a few starts on the PGA tour. Scott was playing with Mike and somehow managed to hit his tee shot into the dreaded mound in front of the tee on number five. There was a certain amount of embarrassed silence between them, as you can imagine. You want to play well when you're playing with someone like Mike Pero.

But Scott is not one to be too embarrassed. He found his ball buried in the thick fescue on the bank, looked over at Mike and calmly asked, "What club do you usually hit from here, Mike?"

That Scott is a real piece of work.

Shooting Your Age

Generally speaking, to shoot your age in golf is an accomplishment that few amateurs get to experience. For one, you had better be a pretty good player. And you had better live to be a decent age, and stay reasonably healthy, to even have the chance to do it. Today, Carl the Grinder did it again. 

Carl and I ended up playing with Toller and Stan today. They were visiting our course and I invited them to join us in order to make up a foursome. As a result, they became, willingly or otherwise, witnesses to  Carl the Grinder at his best; playing for two dollars like it was the Open championship. 

Carl and I pretty much always have a match. I think playing a match helps you enjoy the game more, even if it may not always necessarily make you play better. The great putter of Bobby Jones' era, Walter Travis, once said that you should always play for something, "even if it's only a ten-cent cigar." And I think he was right. If you aren't playing for something, you're really just practising. 

After a near-perfect opening drive, I yanked my wedge shot into the pond on the left side of the green and promptly made a six. My back had been telling me to stay home; and when I did that to give Carl the first hole, I thought I probably should have listened. On the par three second hole, Carl hit it to about four feet and made birdie. I hit my tee shot in the bunker, blasted the ball out of the bunker and across the green, and then chipped in for a three. It was a wasted chip-in, given that I'd lost the hole anyway, but it helped lift my spirits a bit.

On three, after a reasonably good drive, I hit my second shot long and right of the green and eventually found myself three down after three when Carl made an easy par. By now I was really wishing I'd listened to my back and bloody well stayed home. It seemed inevitable that I was going to get thoroughly trounced by Carl, who was obviously in good form.  Sometime, early in the proceedings, I had told Toller and Stan about the fact that Carl had already shot his age or better four times this year. I don't mind bragging him up a bit, because I think it's pretty damned impressive. I mean, I'm not exactly holding my breath waiting for me to start shooting my age. 

Anyway, we played on and I managed to eventually fight my way back in the match and even go one up after I chipped in for birdie on sixteen. On seventeen, I hit a solid drive only to have Carl knock it twenty odd yards by me right in the middle of the fairway. It's really rather annoying to have a 74 year old consistently knock it by you. But, as a wise man once said, "it is what it is." 

After this terrific drive, Carl mentioned that he needed another birdie if he was going to shoot his age again today. I hadn't really been paying attention to what he was shooting. I knew he had gone out in 36, but he had made a double bogey on ten and a bogey on eleven, so I had sort of counted him out as far as shooting his age was concerned. But he had kept it together, making a nice birdie on twelve, just missing a birdie on thirteen, and then, after bogeying fourteen when his tee shot kicked left of the green leaving him short-sided in thick rough, just missing another birdie on fifteen and making an easy par on sixteen. Sure enough, Carl was three over par standing in the middle of the fairway at the hundred yard marker on seventeen. He needed one more birdie and a par to shoot 74. 

Now I've noticed that it is generally not a good idea to be thinking about your score; especially thinking about shooting your lowest score ever, or about shooting your age. More often than not, bad things happen when you get ahead of yourself and start thinking about what you might shoot. But, sure enough, Carl hit it pin high and about twelve feet left of the pin on seventeen and then drained the putt to get it back to two over and to square the match heading to eighteen. 

On eighteen, Carl hit a perfect tee shot to the centre of the green, leaving himself about a fifteen footer to actually shoot one better than his age. I, meanwhile, missed the green on the right and was again sitting in the thick rough that encircles most of our greens.  I knew I really needed to chip it in for a chance to win. Unfortunately, I tugged my chip and left myself about a five footer for par.

Carl, with a chance to finish birdie, birdie, and actually better his age, then hit a rather wishy-washy putt to about a foot and a half short of the hole. I let him mark it and think about it for a minute or two while I set about holing my five footer for par. I picked my ball out of the hole and then tossed Carl his marker, conceding his putt for the half. I was grateful to have managed to square the match, particularly since I didn't have the two bucks in my pocket to pay him had I lost. I find it rather stressful to play for money when I don't have any cash on me. I think Lee Trevino spoke about that; saying that real pressure was having to make a putt when it's for ten bucks and you only have two bucks on you. 

So, Carl shot his age again today. Okay, it wasn't an official result, since it was match play and I'd given Carl a couple of short putts during the round. But it was close enough.

I can only hope to live long enough to someday shoot my age. I'm 60, and my best score is 65. So, I don't see it happening for me any time soon. Carl, on the other hand, is starting to make a regular habit of it. In fact, he recently shot 70 at Timber Ridge, near Brighton, Ontario. As for Toller and Stan; I don't know what they shot, but they were good fun to play with. I just hope they enjoyed their day as much as Carl and I did.

Brooks Koepka Flew Under the Radar

Well, at the start of the week I don't think many were putting their money on Brooks Koepka to be the U.S. Open champion at Erin Hills. He really flew under the radar all week. 

Sure, we knew this guy could play. He is another of these athlete golfers who has the power, like DJ, to over-power a golf course. And we knew Erin Hills was going to favour the big hitters at over 7800 yards. But Koepka was able to go about his business at Erin Hills without much attention. He was just another of those young power players who we knew was talented, but had yet to prove himself on the big stage.

Koepka honed his game after he turned pro on the European tour. And I suspect his experience on that tour, playing on so many different courses, in so many different conditions, made him a better player than he might have been had he stayed in the U.S to try to earn his way onto the PGA tour in the normal way. His experience on the European tour also taught him that he was capable of winning against seasoned pros. He did it five times. It had to have helped him at Erin Hills as well, a links style course where you had to be able to handle the wind. After today, you might just see more American kids try to qualify for the European tour. 

The fact that he is a good friend of DJ undoubtedly also helped Koepka believe that he could win a Major. He had had a front row seat, watching DJ win his Open last year. And DJ had apparently texted him last night and told him he had what it takes to win. You don't win Majors without self-belief. 

Koepka's Ryder Cup experience also taught him that he was capable of handling the real heat on the grandest of stages. Let's face it, he was simply poised and ready to be a Major champion. He knew it. And, looking at it in hindsight, we should have known it as well.

Brooks Koepka was able to fly under the radar as he won the trophy most cherished by most American golfers. One thing for certain is that he won't be flying under the radar any longer. 

Top Hand Golf for Golfers with Buggered Backs

After a three-week visit to St Andrews in Scotland, I had a dream. That dream was to pack up and move to the Home of Golf and live out my days playing those links courses. It was a dream shared by my wife. I now feel relatively confident that this will never be more than just a dream.

The reason it will have to remain just a dream is that I'm so crippled with my back at this point that I'm likely never going to be able to walk the Old Course. And the Old Course is for walkers.

I saw my family doctor today. Half-crippled, moaning and yelping as the back spasms struck me, the nurse was good enough to put me in to one of the examination rooms instead of having me embarrass myself in the waiting room. I thought that was awfully charitable of her.

Not only that, but I saw the good doctor well before my scheduled appointment time. I can only think this unforeseen blessing might have been a reward for my having at some point done some other suffering soul a good turn. On the other hand, it could just have been that the nurse had no desire to listen to my yelps; especially since they were sometimes followed by expletives. 

I was starting to sound more like a guy suffering from Tourette's syndrome than a patient with sciatica, multiple damaged discs, spinal stenosis, bone spurs, etc. My long-suffering wife accompanied me to see the doctor in order to make certain I conveyed to him all of my medical concerns or complaints. This is because the Doc and I tend to spend more time talking about golf than we do my health. I mean, who wouldn't rather discuss golf? And, all too often, I have arrived back home after an appointment only to have to confess to Kathryn that I had neglected to actually discuss the very issue that had prompted the doctor's appointment in the first place.

I am fortunate to have a terrific family doctor. He's definitely not filled with his own self importance. It's more like visiting a buddy than a doctor. And one of the things that really won me over in his case was when, early on in our relationship, he confessed that he'd really wanted to be an astronaut, not a fricking doctor. Here was a man I could truly relate to. 

My father suffered for thirty years with chronic back issues and pain. He was also an avid golfer. In his 85th year, suffering from debilitating and chronic pain for which even large doses of morphine provided no relief, my father resorted to doing what he had more than once told me he would do when he felt the time was right. He took the pistol he had personally taken from a German army officer during World War II in France and shot himself. 

As he was my best friend, as well as my father, his loss was pretty devastating. But I understood then, and understand even more now, that he did what he had to do. Not only was he in almost constant pain, the old Colonel knew that things were not going to get any better. Death was surely a more merciful option in his eyes than continued suffering without hope. 

He couldn't golf anymore. And this guy who read an average of three to five books a week, now couldn't either focus or stay awake to read anymore because of all the morphine he was having to take. And, as I look back, the last straw was probably about a month before his death when I took him to the hospital to see about another hip replacement. They told him they couldn't do it because they'd discovered a heart murmur. I could see all the hope go out of my old father's eyes.

I have been told that I am one hundred times more likely to commit suicide because my father did. And my doctor, who really wanted to be an astronaut, makes no bones about the fact that he would really prefer to prevent this from happening. He also knows that the day I can no longer play golf will be the day my risk for a similar fate to my father's will increase exponentially. So I know, and the good doctor knows, that something's probably got to give in my case.

I am headed for another MRI, and we'll likely try a few things if we think they might help. But I'm not counting on things improving very much. This back and neck business likely has a strong genetic component. But I have a new dream. My hope is that I can use my experience to try to find a better way to hit the ball for people with a seriously buggered back. That is going to be my new dream while we see whether they can either find something to help me physically, or I eventually have to just pack it in. 

I've been thinking about this swing for cripples thing for some time now. I have some ideas. And I intend to try them out first with me as the guinea pig. I think that's not a totally unreasonable dream. After all, I'm obviously never going to win the Open at St Andrews. In fact, I may never even be able to play the Old Course again--unless they decide to permit carts. But, with this new dream, I'm at least still in the game. And that's where I certainly hope to stay for a little while yet.

So, don't be surprised if the name of my blog becomes Top Hand Golf for Golfers with Buggered Backs. How does that sound?

What Should You Look At?

I must admit that I don't watch very many golf instructional videos. First of all, they deal almost entirely with the golf swing, or parts thereof. And I've been there, done that. If, after fifty years of hitting golf balls, I still have to figure out how to do it, I probably have no business considering myself any sort of golfer; even a poor one.

And yet, these videos seem to still flourish. And the consumer of them cannot just be people just taking up the game, because I'm told that the numbers of new golfers out there are not increasing astronomically these days. There still seems to be a demand out there for swing instruction; even among long-time players. The search for the perfect golf swing, like the Holy Grail, seems to continue, and likely always will.

The other day, as I watched videos, I was surprised to see that one of the popular newer methods had a video on what you should be looking at when you hit the ball. I kid you not. Apparently, there are golfers out there wondering what they should be looking at when they are trying to hit the ball. If true, I'm glad for their sake that they are golfers and not carpenters, because they'd have seriously damaged and deformed thumbs if they were trying to hammer nails instead of hitting golf balls. 

Only in golf could such a question arise. Would a batter, in baseball, ask what to look at when trying to hit a pitch? Would a tennis player wonder what to look at when attempting to hit a backhand? Perhaps, but I find that extremely doubtful. But this is just another indication of how mixed up golfers can get. 

This particular video about what to look at comes, I gathered, as a result of the assertion that the flat point, or bottom, of the professional's swing is four inches past the ball. That may be interesting information to know, if it's true. But I've somehow managed to get by so far without knowing it. And I hope to hell I don't start thinking about that the next time I tee it up. Quite frankly, I've got enough things I'm trying not to think about as I'm hitting a shot as it is. This might be the thing that finally convinces me to just hang it up. Information overload.

The rule of thumb in golf, as in life, is that you should ideally be looking at the object you intend to hit. That's why I've never really asked, or been asked, what I should be looking at when I'm hitting a golf ball. It's a dumb question. If it's the ball you're intending to hit, I'm willing to bet my shady reputation on the fact that it is the ball you should be looking at. And, if the question really troubles you, and requires more clarification, it is probably best to look at the part of the ball you intend to strike. If you do that, you'll likely be fine. However, if you need to be told that, I suggest you consider taking up fishing instead of golf.

The only video I've seen that was dumber than this one was the one where the teacher advised us to hit balls with a basketball between our knees. That was the "piece de resistance" as they apparently say in Paris. Teachers get big bucks for coming up with this stuff. I guess I just don't think outside the box enough to be a golf teacher.

Getting back to what the video said you should be looking at; I must confess that I never got there. I decided to move on to another one that promised to teach me how to get more lag in my swing before that video was finished. I've always wanted more lag. But, I hope the reknowned teacher said it was the ball. Because, if he didn't, I've been doing it all wrong for fifty years. 

Even a Crippled Cat

I turned sixty this year and was hoping it would be a good one--you know; sixty is the new forty and all that. Instead, I'm getting increasingly crippled with my back and neck, and have had sciatica to boot for the last month or so. I can hardly walk. It wasn't what I'd hoped for, but I'm still able to play at least.

Other than a seventy at Salt Creek this week--Salt Creek is a par 65, so that 70 sounds better than it was--I've been unable to break eighty for about three weeks. Carl the Grinder has beaten me like a drum in our matches every time out but one this year. He's also out-driving me by forty yards--and he's 73. I'm getting pretty damned discouraged.

But yesterday, after Carl beat me six and five, and Radar had beaten me three and two, I was feeling about as low as I could be. But then, on the last hole, which in this case was sixteen because it had been a shotgun start, I hit it to about seven feet with an eight iron from 120 yards, and then made the putt for birdie. For just a brief moment I felt like a golfer. I told the boys that if Kathryn asked me how I played, I'd just tell her I birdied the last hole. Of course, she didn't ask. 

Today I played with Ken in a nice Scotch mist. I quite like playing in a soft drizzle. Once again, I couldn't piddle a drop. I was happy to make bogeys most of the day, and even did a TC Chen double-hit on seven, eventually making an eight on the par four. I was having back spasms like crazy; couldn't hit it two hundred yards with the driver, and was really starting to think I was done like a dinner as far as golf was concerned.

Then, on eighteen, after hitting about four inches behind the ball and leaving my tee shot on the upslope of the Valley of Sin on the front right of the green, I did it again. Eighteen is a par three, with a green that has a ridge running through the middle of it that slopes away to the back. It was a back pin.

As I stood over my pitch shot of about 90 feet, I said to Ken, "A real golfer would hit a shot here that lands on top of the ridge, takes one hop and bites, letting the ball trickle to the pin." He nodded in agreement. And, I'll be damned if I didn't step up to the ball with my 58 degree wedge and hit the exact shot I described. The ball finished three feet below the hole. And I even made the putt. 

So, two days in a row, after playing like a bum, I finished like a golfer. Either the golfing gods are telling me not to give up quite yet, or it's just proof that even a crippled cat can catch the odd mouse. Either way, I guess the old boy still has a bit of life left in him. I can't wait to play tomorrow. But, I hear it's supposed to pour all day.