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Has anybody seen my swing?

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Posted: Friday July 30, 1999 12:24 PM

Sports Illustrated senior writer John Garrity was a 42-year-old 8-handicapper when he suddenly lost his swing. Since December 1989 he has been looking for it -- a modern-day Odysseus adrift on the troubled waters of swing theory. As Garrity travels the world reporting on golf, he visits as many driving ranges as he can, avoiding the dreaded "mats only" ranges that prevent him from teeing it up. Here is his story.

Saturday, June 26, 1999

ABOARD DELTA FLIGHT 1657 TO FORT MYERS, FLA. -- My new 3-wood arrived yesterday, courtesy of UPS. I had ordered it directly from Taylor Made through the company's director of research and development, Dick Rugge. I told Dick the head of my Founders Club 4-wood had separated from the shaft while I was hitting balls at the Mississippi State University golf course in Starkville. "Now I'm hitting tee shots with a 3-iron," I said -- fudging the fact that strategy, more than technology, dictates this conservative approach.

"No problem," Dick said. He took my specs and promised delivery within a few days.

Golf writers are used to this sort of treatment from equipment companies. The clubmakers see us as trend-setters. If we're seen playing the latest from Orlimar or Callaway -- or better yet, if we write about some hot new club -- it's good for the clubmaker's bottom line. Consequently, the garage of your more acquisitive golf writer is choked with unsolicited, half-solicited, and shamelessly solicited equipment.

My garage is not so cluttered. Since I occasionally write about the equipment industry, journalistic ethics require that I refuse anything pricier than, say, a sleeve of golf balls or a promotional cap. This frustrates the p.r. directors of the major companies, who say they don't know how to sell me clubs. ("We don't even have an account in which to place such moneys," a Wilson executive once told me.) So when I said to Dick, "Please bill me for this," he practically gasped for air.

"OK," I said. "I'll make a charitable donation in the name of Taylor Made."

"That would be wonderful," he said. So next week I'm sending a hundred dollars to the Golf Writers Assocation of America with instructions that it be earmarked for its college scholarship program. In the meantime, I've got the new club in my bag. It has an extra-long, extra-stiff graphite shaft and a copper-colored finish that makes the head look as sporty as a wing-tip shoe. It's so pretty, in fact, that I don't think I'll hit balls with it until I consult Brian Mogg at the Leadbetter Academy in Orlando. I don't want to mar the finish with one of those pop-ups to right that I was hitting in the autumn of '98.

Monday, June 28

NAPLES, FLA. -- I know what they say about mad dogs and Englishmen, but the only time I had to hit balls today was the steamy interval between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. I popped three Advils and drank about a quart of water as I flipped through the Yellow Pages, looking for a range. There were several listed on Immokalee Road, on either side of I-75.

My first stop was the Arrowhead Golf Course. Arrowhead looked promising because it was in a gated community, and most development courses have grassed ranges. A woman at the gatehouse gave me a big smile, a parking pass, and a handful of maps and brochures. As I drove in, I passed a few dozen closely packed houses, some still under construction, and an army of workers in hard hats. I spotted a few golfers on the holes that snake through the development.

Arrowhead's range, unfortunately, was better suited for boating than beating balls. There were no target greens or bulls-eye signs -- just a big, shimmering pond, dazzling in the midday sun. No one was practicing. A man stood at the edge of the water, fishing balls out of the drink with a net.

I looked at the property map given to me by the gatekeeper. There it was: "Aqua Range." I sighed and returned to my rental car.

Continuing east on Immokalee, I found the Ferguson Golf Center, a lighted commercial range. Ferguson's had both mats and grass tees, and there was even a wood deck with a couple of tables and umbrellas next to the golf shop. I paid six dollars for a medium bucket and laid down another dollar for a bottle of water.

Ferguson's proved to be a good choice. The range balls, most of which were new, sat up beautifully on the woolly bermuda grass. The target greens gave me something to shoot for with a sand wedge, an 8-iron and a 3-iron, and the bordering pine trees came together behind the farthest green to form a kind of fairway for wood shots. I hit a few pitching wedges first, and then some 8-irons, standing closer to the ball than usual and a bit more upright. From this position my swing felt "lighter." The ball jumped off the clubface, and I could maintain my wrist angle at impact. I nailed five straight 8-irons to the middle of a target green, 160 yards out, each a tight draw with a medium-high trajectory.

When I switched to a 5-iron, I lost the feel. The high hand position at address seemed too extreme for a middle iron and forced me to play the ball farther forward; that, in turn, made my shoulders open slightly, inviting a pull hook. But if I lowered my hands, I hit a fat shot or a weak push.

Pausing for a water break, I toweled off my face, which was already dripping, and switched to a dry glove. To regain my rhythm, I went back to the 8-iron. No problem. Good distance control, a tight draw -- and all with no discernible effort, just a light, three-quarter swing. I looked at my bag. The new 3-wood was there, covered up by a ratty black Cornell University headcover.

What the hell? I grabbed the 3-wood, teed a ball up, and took a smooth but vigorous swipe. The ball came off the clubface like a rocket and soared over the most distant green, into the woods. Grunting with satisfaction, I teed up another and rifled a shot that was slightly pulled, but equally long.

I went on to hit maybe 15 3-woods. Three or four I snap-hooked into the trees. The others flew well. It was gratifying to hit the long ball again.

I stopped again to towel off and chug from the water bottle. I took up the 8-iron again, but the easy swing and the feeling of lightness were gone. My sweaty right hand was now slipping on the grip; my left hand was squishing inside the glove. To keep control, I squeezed the club with all my might. Suddenly I was hitting balls off the toe, the club actually spinning in my hands.

My practice session was over. I peeled off my glove, gulped down the remaining water, and carried my clubs to the car. As I changed shoes, my perspiration rained on the asphalt. My shirt was pasted to my body, and my khaki pants were stained almost to the knees. I checked the car clock; I had practiced for thirty minutes. What am I going to do on Thursday in Orlando? My lesson with Brian Mogg was scheduled to go three hours.

Wednesday, June 30

NAPLES, FLA. -- I've been asked why I didn't hit balls at the "Aqua Range."

It's partly that I wanted to hit to targets and partly that I was suspicious of the range balls. Aqua range balls are chosen for their buoyant property, not their flight characteristics.

The last time I practiced on an aqua range was in south China, in the early '90s. The Chung-Shan Golf Resort had a lovely water range with nice mats to hit from and floating islands of artificial turf at which to aim. I was warming up for a round on the Arnold Palmer-designed course when thunder began to peal, sending me scurrying to the shelter house. The other golfers just kept hitting balls, ignoring the thunder and a light rain. I asked an attendant about the lightning, and he said, "Other side of mountain." Indeed, a rocky ridge overlooked the golf course, and the rumbling seemed to be coming from behind it. So I shrugged and joined the others hitting balls. Later, while I was playing on the course, the sprinkle turned to a deluge and thunder boomed and echoed like cannon fire. But no warning siren sounded, and everyone kept playing.

Back in Hong Kong, I told a friend, a Maryknoll priest, about the Chung-Shan lightning and the curious meteorological phenomenon that kept it always on the "other side of mountain." I said, "If they hadn't reassured me, I would have been really scared."

My priest friend didn't give me a lecture on Asian weather. He simply smiled and said, "The Chinese are a very fatalistic people."

Thursday, July 1, 1999

ABOARD DELTA FLIGHT 1544 TO KANSAS CITY -- After four months of flailing and confusion, I made it back to Orlando this morning for a desperately needed session with Brian Mogg. I checked in at the Leadbetter Academy office -- which is in a camp-style building in the trees at the Lake Nona Golf Club -- and paid $150 for a three-hour session. (I have never had a lesson with David Leadbetter himself, although I could do so at the drop of a second mortgage.) I picked up my bags and walked to the far end of the Lake Nona range, thinking, "Where are the young assistants who usually speed me to the lesson tee by cart?" The teeing area -- you've seen it on TV, if you get the Golf Channel -- was vacant. There were no aiming boards, no bag stands, no fresh folded towels, no ground-level mirrors, and no perfect pyramids of white range balls.

Twenty minutes later, the first assistant arrived with two ice chests and a couple of cases of bottled water. "What time is it?" I asked, feeling a little foolish.

"About 7:50," he said. "We're running late today."

My lesson was at nine. I had either mis-set the alarm, or my hotel clock was off by an hour.

In any event, I had plenty of time to warm up. And showing some wisdom, for once, I didn't. I conserved my energy and body fluids by sitting on a plastic chair and meditating. Mostly I stared at the closely mowed bermuda grass. The Leadbetter tee is always cut low, exposing my most fundamental swing flaw -- a tendency to get too steep on the downswing. My divots tend to be narrow and toe-down. You can get away with that from fluffy lies, but tight lies usually start me chunking and skulling.

Brian arrived at nine, looking alert and slightly amused, as always. (I'll write about him in some later installment, once I've decided if he's my liberator or tormentor.) We went through the now-familiar routine, videotaping a few of my swings from various positions. We then repaired to a small building behind the lesson tee to look at the tape. To my surprise, Brian saw considerable progress since the last lesson. "Almost everything is working the way we want it," he said, drawing reference lines on the screen with a marker. "Takeaway is good. Your lower body is great, I wouldn't change a thing. Your left arm is so much better; look how much smaller the gap is. Your problem starts right ... here." Clicking through my backswing in slow motion, he froze the picture when my hands got to the top. "What do you see?"

I saw that my club, a 5-iron, had veered suddenly "across the line." The shaft was pointing roughly toward Tampa, when we wanted it aimed south, at Miami.

Ah, but the flight attendant has just announced that all tray tables must be stowed for our landing in Kansas City. Brian's remedy for over-the-line disease will have to wait until our next installment.

Watch this space for another installment of Mats Only. To send John Garrity advice, share your experiences, or suggest a driving range, click here.

 

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