Friday, November 7, 2014

How to Mark Your Ball

I'm sweating to death in the back row of my high school's 15 passenger van.  I've got 5 sets of golf clubs crammed in the seat next to me and all of the windows are rolled up.  We're sitting in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart while our golf coach is inside buying golf balls.  We're running late to the tournament.

It wasn't often that I got to play in varsity tournaments, but it was my lucky day.  We took our top 5 players to every varsity tournament, but I was either number 8 or 9 on our team's player list, depending on the year.  Circumstances had aligned just right this time:  somebody's grandma had died.  Another player's sister had a dance recital he had to attend.  Another player was suspended for two weeks for drinking beer in his car in the school parking lot.  I was a last minute replacement player. It wasn't the first time, so I knew the drill:  We all got a brand new sleeve of golf balls before the tournament. 

After a few minutes, we see our coach coming toward us with two boxes of golf balls tucked under his arm.  He's sort of running, sort of waddling, breathing heavy, nearly getting run over in the parking lot.  He was a replacement too.  He took over on late notice when our previous coach moved back to Florida two weeks before school started.  We all thought this guy was a doofus.  He wasn't helping himself.

We passed the balls around the van, each taking a sleeve of balls.  Then someone got out the golf ball engraver.

The golf ball engraver was a ridiculous hand-held gadget which let you stamp your initials on the side of a golf ball.  There were little plastic letters you could change and insert into the side of the device.  It was limited to three letters at a time.  There was a sheet of blue carbon paper you stuck between the letters and the golf ball and when you pressed them together you got 3 bright blue letters right on the side of the ball.

We were supposed to be engraving LHS on our balls, our high school's initials, but being teenage boys, we thought of every crude 3 letter word or 3 letter abbreviation for a slightly longer crude word.  We passed them around the van laughing at each other's creations:  POO, NUT, PEE. Use your imagination.

I thought the engraver was so cool, I got one of my own later that year and used it to stamp by own initials on my golf balls for a few years.

A few months ago, I was running late to my tee time at the golf course.  I was out of new golf balls, so I grabbed a handful from my used bucket of balls I keep in my garage and threw them in my golf bag.  Later that day after hitting a tree on the 17th hole and cutting the cover of my ball, I needed a new ball for the 18th.  So, I reached into my bag and pulled out a ball.

I noticed it was a little discolored and dirty.  A Top Flite XL? I haven't used these in years, I thought.  But then I saw it, stamped on the side of the ball in faded blue ink:  TRD.  I think I laughed out loud.  Then I remembered our best player on the team saying to us in the van: "I hate these cheap balls Coach buys us.  They're like hitting a rock solid turd."

But I scrubbed off the dirt and teed it up.  And then I made a par with that old TRD.

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Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Golf Bets

According to one of the many appendices to the Rules of Golf, "There is no objection to informal gambling or wagering among individual golfers when it is incidental to the game."  The rules go on to state that it's impossible to define exactly what "informal gambling" might be, but their best guess is that it would look something like this:
  • The betting players generally know each other
  • Participation in the gambling or wagering is optional and is limited to the players
  • The source of the money is put up only by the players
  • The amount of money involved is not considered to be excessive

A few years ago when I started playing a lot of golf, I started betting a lot too.  But our bets were never cash.  They were small bets.  And I lost nearly all of them.

They usually started out because someone was running out of something they needed--tees, golf balls, maybe they lost their divot tool.  I lost bets for all three of those.  Once, we were playing golf in the early winter and complaining about how cold our hands were.  Now, when it gets cold out, my buddy likes to put on his fleece winter golf gloves and remind me where they came from. 

Of course, sometimes we bet on who would buy lunch after the round.  (One time I actually won a food bet and got a whole plate of free cheeseburger sliders at Applebee's!)  But mostly, I lost those bets too.  Luckily, we went to Subway a lot.

On a trip to Florida to see some Spring Training baseball games, I went on a losing streak and had to pay up three days in a row: a new golf towel from the pro shop,  a beer and hot dog at a Cardinals game, a dozen golf balls.

But my best day on the course for winning a cash bet came earlier this year.  I went to the course by myself and got paired up with a couple from Texas, in town for a family reunion.  I introduced myself on the first tee and they asked me to play first.  So, I lined up my drive and hit the middle of the fairway.  It wasn't until I was putting my driver back in my bag after the shot that the husband asked me if I wanted to "play for a little something today." He proposed everyone put up 5 bucks, winner takes all. I told him I was in.

We'd certainly broken the first suggestion of golf wagering (the players generally know one another) because we were clearly strangers.  But he'd also broken an unwritten rule, at least in my book.  You have to agree on a bet before the round begins.  Why wait until after I hit my opening drive to propose a bet?  Because he was a much better driver than I am.  But what he didn't know was I'd been watching him on the practice green and he couldn't putt to save his life.

I don't mean to sound like it was a dirty bet.  It was a great round.  They were pleasant people.  They told me they didn't like living in Texas. They didn't like their college-age daughter's new boyfriend they'd met the night before.  They were excited about the next day's family reunion.  And they were both good players.

It was a close round till I somehow birdied both 16 and 17, the only time I've ever birdied those holes consecutively on my home course.  I ended up winning by three strokes.  I wished them farewell in the parking lot and looked at the ten bucks in my hand.  I knew exactly where I was headed:  to buy lunch on someone else's dollar for a change.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Hole In One

We'd just finished the 5th hole when my ten year old daughter asked me if I'm going to become a professional golfer. 

"Well, it's a little late for that," I told her.

"I know you're old, but you always make a hole in one," she said.

I took a long look at the hole we'd just finished: a short track of green AstroTurf, an uneven hill down the right side, two well placed bricks perfect for a ricochet shot.  With my bright green golf ball, I'd gotten a lucky bounce for a hole in one. 

"It's my turn next," she said.

We started playing just after she turned 3.  Since then, my daughter's been in love with mini golf, or kid golf as she calls it.  We've played in multiple states, fun courses, bad courses, old courses, pirate-themed courses, plain boring courses, and an incredibly cool UFO themed 9 holer in Chattanooga.

She's got a strange, tall posture when she putts.  Her backswing is too short.  Her hands are too far apart.  Once, I tried to help her out with her setup position.  Her response made too much sense to ignore: "Quit making it so hard! Just let me have fun!" 

When she was 6, I told her I'd send her to a week long golf camp that met for a few hours every morning.  She didn't have any interest.  "I'm a kid. I just play kid golf," she told me.

I'm not terrific at kid golf.  I try to be, but the balls are too hard and the rubber putters are too soft.  And how in the world am I supposed to read the right amount of speed to get it through the bridge and over the back of the brontosaurus, but hit it soft enough so it doesn't go into the moat of stagnant water behind the hole?

But since the beginning, she's always been after the hole in one. I'm good for a few each round and my daughter usually makes a few too.  But what she really can't stand is when I make a hole in one on a hole and she doesn't.  She came up with a new rule that we play by: If I make a hole in one, she gets to play the hole until she does too.  It's made for some long, frustrating afternoons.  But I'm always, always amazed at the pure joy that erupts from her when her purple golf ball finally trickles into the hole, even after the 47th try.  It's a vertical leap, a yelp, flailing arms, the sound of another kid golf hole conquered.  Once she threw her putter as high as she could in celebration;  I caught it just before it hit the nearby pond.

I've never made a hole in one on a regulation golf course.  But one of these days, on what is sure to be something like my 4,389th attempt, my swing will be perfect, the bounce will be pure, and I'm going to put one right in the hole.  And when I do, I'll be jumping for joy, just like my daughter.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

The Putter Without a Name

The first time I shot my low round of 79, I stood on the 18th tee knowing all I needed was a double bogey to break 80.  The 18th was a dogleg right with a narrow tree-lined fairway.  I hit my drive into the trees. My second shot was a pitch out to the fairway.  I hit a thin 8 iron over the green.  My chip came up short.  I had two shots to get it in the hole and an iffy lie on the collar of the fringe. I hit a soft chip with my sand wedge, a touch too hard.  I was left with a five footer for double-bogey and a 79. It was going to be up to my putter.

The truth is, putting has always been one of my strengths.  My drives go left and right.  My iron play comes and goes.  But as far back as I can remember, I've always been one of the best putters in my group.

I've even had the same putter in my bag since I was in high school.  It's not a brand name you've heard of or one you could sell on eBay for extra cash.  It's just a simple little blade putter that used to be black and shiny. I don't use a putter cover for it anymore because it's so beat up now it wouldn't matter. I'm pretty sure my father bought it at Kmart for 17 cents when the local store went out of business. 

Some golfers are notorious for naming their putters, the most famous of which is the great Bobby Jones and Calamity Jane. I've heard of putters named Thor, Goose, Paco, and Fozzy.  But I've never given mine a special name.  It's just my putter, the only club in my bag I haven't replaced in the past 3 years.  

But a few years ago, I decided I needed a new putter.  I'd heard about putters that made it easier to line up a putt, putters that made it easier to not leave a putt short, putters that "accentuate the face angle at address, and highlight the face angle throughout the stroke."  Et cetera.  Et cetera.

I did a bunch of research, tried a handful of models, and ended up with this heavy gold thing that looked like a spider descending from a titanium spaceship.  One guy told me it looked like C-3PO's private parts. I think he was right.  After two months, I ended up giving it away and going back to my trusty old putter.  I don't think I'd describe myself as a feel player, but that club just never felt right.

Later that same summer, I was on the prowl again, giving it a go with a used Yes! brand putter named Sophia.  These things come with names stamped right on the back of the putter, lest you forget.  I tried to make it work. She had a soft face and a tender grip, but we never quite worked out.  I had a tendency to come up short.  So I gave her back to the previous owner and went back to my old putter for good.

I was glad to have my old putter back, cracked grip and all.  Because a few weeks later, when I stood over that five foot putt for a 79, I knew I'd make it.  Right in the middle of the cup.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

The Round That Got Away


When I guessed the right club from 160 yards into a strong wind and the ball hit the flagstick, I knew something was happening.  I try not to pay much attention to my score, but as I tapped in for the easy birdie, I knew exactly what I was shooting: I was even par after 7 holes.  Everything was going my way.

It was a week before Thanksgiving in Indiana, too cold to golf.  Too windy.  But I had the day off work and was determined to play.  It was just me and a couple other diehards on the course. I put on my winter hat and headed to the first tee. I wasn't expecting much. It had been a few weeks since I last played.  I hadn't counted on it being so windy.  I was already cold.

I hit a mediocre drive that settled in the right rough.  As I lined up my second shot I was already thinking: It's going to be one of those days.  Pitching out from under the trees. Hoping for bogey. If only I could hit it hard and low, fade it a little left to right, I might make the front of the green.  I set up the shot, took my stance, swung without thinking too much.  The ball did exactly what I was trying to do. It landed just short of the green. A good chip and a short putt later and I'd parred the first hole. No big deal.

But the good shots kept coming: par, par, birdie, bogey, par.

Seriously? This has to be my best start in a while, maybe ever. Surely I can't keep this up...

A few years ago someone gave me Dr. Bob Rotella's book, Golf Is Not a Game of Perfect and this has always stuck with me:

"Most golfers, if they play often, have experienced a string of holes where everything fell into place, and for a while at least, they played the golf they had always sensed they were capable of.  For one golden hour, perhaps two, the golf ball went where they wanted it to go and they strung together pars.  There is no such thing as a golfer playing over his head.  A hot streak is simply a glimpse of a golfer's true potential."

Call it whatever you want.  But I had it.  I was on fire. I was in my golden hour and I could do no wrong. I was hitting good shots, making the putts, watching all the breaks go my way.  After nine holes I was one over par, my best opening nine ever. I had to pee and nearly stopped in the pro shop, but I was getting anxious and thought stopping would throw me off.  So I held it.  I had to keep going. 

I've shot 79 twice in my golfing life, once after a streak of playing nearly every day for two weeks, and once out the blue at the very beginning of golf season.  But neither round was magical.  They were just rounds where I didn't screw anything up. 

But somehow this seemed different.

On the back 9, the wind was blowing even stronger.  I made par on the first two holes, no sweat. By this time, of course, I’m thinking: This is my career round, but by how much? Two strokes? Four? Seven?  Keep this up and you might shoot 72.  Imagine the celebration that would come later.  Would anyone believe me?

I even managed a par on the Hill Hole, my former nemesis.

Enter the 14th hole, a 149 yard par 3.  There are no sand traps, no water in front of the green, plenty of room to miss to the right if you want to hit a safe shot.  It's a huge green.  The flag was right in the middle.  It should be a 7 or 8 iron, 2 putts and another par. This is not a scary hole, except for the woods to the left.  

As I’ve become a better golfer, I’ve learned that I will occasionally and inexplicably hook a ball to the left, way left, not even close to the right direction.  This is apparently a common thing as ex-slicers overcome a chronic case of missing everything to the right.

And that’s exactly what I did.  I hooked my tee ball deep into the trees to the left of the green.  I knew it was gone the second I hit it.  It wasn't even close.  50 yards to the left.  I had no choice but to tee up another ball.  And I did it again, a huge hook, this time even worse. I teed up another ball and came up short of the green. By the time the hole was over, I’d made a quintuple bogey 8. Career rounds don't include quintuple bogeys.

After that, all the breaks went the other way: a bad lie in a sand trap, a backwards kick off a tree, a hard bounce off a sprinkler head.  I went on to double bogey 15, 16, 17, and 18. As I tapped in my putt on the last hole, I noticed that I was cold again and had a headache from the wind.  My feet hurt.

Hobbling back to the parking lot, I couldn't help but dream about what could've been.  Any golfer knows that's no way to think, reliving every missed putt or sliced iron. But the worst part was I knew it would be the last time I'd play my home course for the season before the cold winter weather moved in for good.  I didn't know whether to be thrilled with the best 13 holes I’ve ever played or to stew about the last 5.

Either way, I knew it would be a very long winter.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

The Black Market

"It's good sportsmanship to not pick up lost golf balls...while they are still rolling."--Mark Twain

One time when I was 16, my grandfather had to drive me to golf team practice.  Before I got out of the car, he handed me a five dollar bill and said, "In case you get hungry."  So, I went in the pro shop, looked at the grill menu and bought a brand new sleeve of three golf balls.  On the first tee, I showed them off to all my buddies; then I lost them all on the front nine.

New golf balls were a rarity among my high school friends.  On the B team, we played with any balls we could find, mostly scuffed and waterlogged balls we'd find in the rough, far away from the fairways.  And since none of us were any good and we were regularly hitting out of the rough, we found lots of abandoned golf balls.  With my friends, it wasn't as easy as you got to keep the balls you found.

Like a lot of things in golf, there seemed to be an unwritten rule on the B team about who got to keep the balls. There were three rules which we had to follow:

1.  On the next tee, each player was supposed to announce any balls he'd discovered on the previous hole.  There were usually one or two each hole.

2. The most senior player on the team had first dibs on any balls, whether he'd found them or not.  He could simply claim them and they were his.  One year, we had one guy who would take every ball just because he could.  By the end of our nine holes, his bag must've carried 10 pounds of balls.

3.  If the most senior player didn't want them, they went on the black market. You could barter with teammates for your found balls, trade balls in the same way kids trade baseball cards, or just give them away to teammates who needed them.

A lot guys traded cheap cigarettes for golf balls: (I'll give you three GPCs for that shiny, sort of new-looking Titleist.)  One guy always carried mini Snickers bars in his golf bag, which he used to trade for balls.  Mostly, I chewed sunflower seeds which carry no black market golf ball trade value whatsoever.  Sometimes, the bartering went on for multiple holes until a deal was reached.  I mostly ended up with a bunch of beat up Top Flites.

Sometimes we'd make a bet for a ball. (If I beat you straight up on this par 3, you give me that ball with the Houston Oilers logo on it.)

These days, I mostly play with new balls, though not very expensive ones.  I still pick up balls here and there, but I'm spending less time these days in the rough where all the lost balls end up.  Though, next time we're on the course and one of my buddies stumbles on a nice one, I might just challenge him for it.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Golf Genes

I've started to think some things are in our genes.  But for a long time, I wondered if golf was in mine.

Look at any sport and you'll find fathers and sons, cousins, sometimes brothers who have played the game at its highest levels. Baseball is full of them. Football too.  And of course, golf has seen its fair share of famous father and son golf pros, starting way back with the ultimate Sunday afternoon partners, Old Tom and Young Tom Morris.  Move beyond fathers and sons and you'll find even more. 

Clearly, it helps to come from a long line of golfers.

Is it surprising then, considering my poor golf game, that I don't come from a family full of golfers? When I started playing golf, I couldn't name one golfer in my family--not my father, not my brothers, not even an uncle or cousin.

That's changed a bit now. Though my father is not a life-long golfer, he did eventually take up golf in his 50s, after I'd already grown up and moved away. Now, we play golf together every chance we get.

I was worried that somehow the game just wasn't in my blood, that I wasn't genetically designed to swing a golf club. But then my father recently produced this gem:


That's my grandfather, playing in uniform in 1946.  That big mound in the background? Mt. Fuji, of course.  I had no idea he was a golfer, though my father says he only ever played when he was in the military.

Still, if you count my grandfather's military career and my father's late entrance into the golfing world, my family is working on three generations of golfers. As proud as I am to say that, it does knock out another one of my reasons for playing bad golf (Excuse #3,472: non-golf genes).

Of course, I look at that picture and wonder if my grandfather made the putt.  But even if he didn't, I know this:  my golf teacher would compliment his posture.