WR Marshall's Golf Column: Not All Hackers Created Equal (1/16/08)
http://www.golftribune.com/articles/192/1/WR-Marshall039s-Golf-Column-Not-All-Hackers-Created-Equal-11608/Page1.html
WR Marshall
WR Marshall is a syndicated golf columnist based Charleston, S.C.
By WR Marshall
Published on 01/16/2008
I came to golf late in life. Not the AARP rate if I play before 8 a.m., and don't forget the senior discount in the club house late, but a bit too late too have the muscle memory I’d have if I’d played as a kid.
Hence, I have days where it looks like I can play, and I may be able to sniff 80, but those are countered by a greater number of days when I hack it up so badly I give my playing partners permission to me from course like I’m the gopher in Caddyshack.
I spent my youth surfing and climbing and getting hit in the head and jumping off things that should have resulted in insurance canceling injury. Somehow I dodged that bullet, and when sense finally found a way into my addled, waterlogged brain, golf found me a willing pupil.
I came to golf late in life. Not the AARP rate if I play before 8 a.m., and don't forget the senior discount in the club house late, but a bit too late too have the muscle memory I’d have if I’d played as a kid.Hence, I have days where it looks like I can play, and I may be able to sniff 80, but those are countered by a greater number of days when I hack it up so badly I give my playing partners permission to me from course like I’m the gopher in Caddyshack.
I spent my youth surfing and climbing and getting hit in the head and jumping off things that should have resulted in insurance canceling injury. Somehow I dodged that bullet, and when sense finally found a way into my addled, waterlogged brain, golf found me a willing pupil.
I came to golf late in life. Not the AARP rate if I play before 8 a.m., and don't forget the senior discount in the club house late, but a bit too late too have the muscle memory I’d have if I’d played as a kid.
Hence, I have days where it looks like I can play, and I may be able to sniff 80, but those are countered by a greater number of days when I hack it up so badly I give my playing partners permission to me from course like I’m the gopher in Caddyshack.
I spent my youth surfing and climbing and getting hit in the head and jumping off things that should have resulted in insurance canceling injury. Somehow I dodged that bullet, and when sense finally found a way into my addled, waterlogged brain, golf found me a willing pupil.
As everyone who’s ever played knows, golf is an anti-intuitive physical nightmare. You flex what you think you should relax, you straighten what you want to bend, you slide what you’re supposed to turn…a nightmare. Many a night my wife has shaken me awake and said, “You we’re screaming: ‘Keep your head down, you idiot!’”
I recently took a trip with my son to New York. We had a little extra time on our hands and ended up at Chelsea Piers, the same place the Titanic was supposed to dock on its never-ended maiden voyage. It’s not a port anymore; it’s now a place for New Yorkers to play sports. There’s an indoor soccer field, a gym, a bowling alley, the requisite smoothie joint, and the crown jewel of the Chelsea Piers; a three story driving range where a bucket of balls cost the same as a membership at Winged Foot. It’s a tall, skinny, state of the art range over looking the Hudson River. There are eight spaces on each floor, each with an automatic ball feeder. They even have a “golf institute” on the third floor where you can get instruction on hitting a ball into a net overlooking the brown water.
There’s a lengthy golf tradition in New York. In fact the first round of golf in America was played on little six holer in Yonkers built by Messers Reid and Lockhart in 1888. We all love it when the Open goes to the Empire State—Bethpage is egalitarian golf at its best and the crowds are unlike any in golf (and I mean that in a good way). Then you have all those venerable, old clubs upstate, and let’s not forget the upstart, overpriced hedge fund clubs on Long Island. No one can question New York’s love of the game.
And I’m not going to start, but…maybe it does have something to do with the water, maybe it’s bad karma left over from turning the Titanic’s destination into a fun park, maybe it’s just New Yorkers being New Yorkers, “Yo, I’m swingin’ heah.” Whatever the cause, I have never seen a collection of worse swings in one place anywhere in the world—and I’ve been a lot of places in the world.
As a hack, I know a bad swing when I see one. In fact I’m on such intimate terms with bad swings, I know a bad swing with my eyes closed—which is often the way I lash at the ball. But these…these bad swings are to bad swings what balata is to distance, what Mac O’Grady is to common sense. If these folks didn’t have clubs in their hands the EPA would be checking the Hudson for the contaminant that caused this group seizure.
There was guy swinging a driver like he was trying to dredge the river. There was young woman who popped up on her down swing like she was in the back row of the gallery and wanted to catch a glimpse of Tiger as he walked by. There were two Wall Street lookin’ dudes; one with such a pronounced slice, calculus would have no choice but to define it as a circle; the other with such a radical hook that calculus would just get up and leave the room.
Any observer would have thought the laws of physics dictated these two swings would have to cancel one another out at some point, and at least one ball would go straight—so much for science. There were the hit ‘n gigglers wearing Jimmy Choos, and the dating couple who’s “golf lesson” only lacked a webcam for it to be streaming softcore porn.
At one point I had to cover my son’s eyes. He’s only eight and has a pure, natural swing; I didn’t want him haunted by what he saw.
As we left, my son, who plays with me often and knows I’m not bumping anyone out of the top 125 any time soon, said, “Hey, Dad, you’re a pretty good golfer…compared to them.”
And he was right.
So, my fellow hacks, take comfort; somewhere, someone is hacking it up worse than you.
Hence, I have days where it looks like I can play, and I may be able to sniff 80, but those are countered by a greater number of days when I hack it up so badly I give my playing partners permission to me from course like I’m the gopher in Caddyshack.
I spent my youth surfing and climbing and getting hit in the head and jumping off things that should have resulted in insurance canceling injury. Somehow I dodged that bullet, and when sense finally found a way into my addled, waterlogged brain, golf found me a willing pupil.
As everyone who’s ever played knows, golf is an anti-intuitive physical nightmare. You flex what you think you should relax, you straighten what you want to bend, you slide what you’re supposed to turn…a nightmare. Many a night my wife has shaken me awake and said, “You we’re screaming: ‘Keep your head down, you idiot!’”
I recently took a trip with my son to New York. We had a little extra time on our hands and ended up at Chelsea Piers, the same place the Titanic was supposed to dock on its never-ended maiden voyage. It’s not a port anymore; it’s now a place for New Yorkers to play sports. There’s an indoor soccer field, a gym, a bowling alley, the requisite smoothie joint, and the crown jewel of the Chelsea Piers; a three story driving range where a bucket of balls cost the same as a membership at Winged Foot. It’s a tall, skinny, state of the art range over looking the Hudson River. There are eight spaces on each floor, each with an automatic ball feeder. They even have a “golf institute” on the third floor where you can get instruction on hitting a ball into a net overlooking the brown water.
There’s a lengthy golf tradition in New York. In fact the first round of golf in America was played on little six holer in Yonkers built by Messers Reid and Lockhart in 1888. We all love it when the Open goes to the Empire State—Bethpage is egalitarian golf at its best and the crowds are unlike any in golf (and I mean that in a good way). Then you have all those venerable, old clubs upstate, and let’s not forget the upstart, overpriced hedge fund clubs on Long Island. No one can question New York’s love of the game.
And I’m not going to start, but…maybe it does have something to do with the water, maybe it’s bad karma left over from turning the Titanic’s destination into a fun park, maybe it’s just New Yorkers being New Yorkers, “Yo, I’m swingin’ heah.” Whatever the cause, I have never seen a collection of worse swings in one place anywhere in the world—and I’ve been a lot of places in the world.
As a hack, I know a bad swing when I see one. In fact I’m on such intimate terms with bad swings, I know a bad swing with my eyes closed—which is often the way I lash at the ball. But these…these bad swings are to bad swings what balata is to distance, what Mac O’Grady is to common sense. If these folks didn’t have clubs in their hands the EPA would be checking the Hudson for the contaminant that caused this group seizure.
There was guy swinging a driver like he was trying to dredge the river. There was young woman who popped up on her down swing like she was in the back row of the gallery and wanted to catch a glimpse of Tiger as he walked by. There were two Wall Street lookin’ dudes; one with such a pronounced slice, calculus would have no choice but to define it as a circle; the other with such a radical hook that calculus would just get up and leave the room.
Any observer would have thought the laws of physics dictated these two swings would have to cancel one another out at some point, and at least one ball would go straight—so much for science. There were the hit ‘n gigglers wearing Jimmy Choos, and the dating couple who’s “golf lesson” only lacked a webcam for it to be streaming softcore porn.
At one point I had to cover my son’s eyes. He’s only eight and has a pure, natural swing; I didn’t want him haunted by what he saw.
As we left, my son, who plays with me often and knows I’m not bumping anyone out of the top 125 any time soon, said, “Hey, Dad, you’re a pretty good golfer…compared to them.”
And he was right.
So, my fellow hacks, take comfort; somewhere, someone is hacking it up worse than you.