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A Middle East adventure
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. Tuesday, Feb. 27 DUBAI, United Arab Emirates -- I rented a Chevy Lumina at the hotel this morning and plunged into city traffic, standing out like a sore thumb among the BMWs, Volvos, Mercedeses and Lexuses. Trade money has turned this stretch of desert coastline into a cross between Houston and Las Vegas, and the visual impact is startling -- post-modern skyscrapers soaring out of sandy waste, yachts anchored in pristine marinas, white-robed sheiks watching their horses run at the Nad Al Sheba race track. The golf courses, I understand, are irrigated with Perrier. Anyway, I drove out to the Emirates Golf Club for a quick look around, watched Tiger Woods hit some balls on the beautiful practice range, and then headed back into town for a little tuneup of my own. My venue was the Dubai Creek Golf & Yacht Club, site of the 1999 and 2000 Dubai Desert Classics. The Creek is pretty posh, so I wasn't surprised that the club had its own golf academy and driving range. The grass tees, sadly, were closed -- it must have rained some time in the last five years -- but the mats were excellent and the target field was lush and green, defined by grassy mounds down each side. Three plastic buckets, totaling 150 balls, cost me 60 dirhams, or about $1,620 (hold on, I think I've got the decimal in the wrong place). It was a beautiful afternoon -- brilliant sky, gentle breeze, a few oasis palms behind me. I worked my way from the wedges up to the driver and back down again, trying to maintain the same smooth tempo with every swing. I think I succeeded -- I didn't get too quick with the big sticks -- but I continued to be randomly wild with the 5-wood and driver. I couldn't coordinate the rotation of my hands with the rotation of my body -- or, for that matter, with the rotation of my eyes, which I rolled every time I push-faded a drive in the general direction of Abu Dhabi. Afterward, I putted for a few minutes on the shaded putting green. Just for kicks, I experimented with Mark Calcavecchia's "paintbrush" grip, which he used so effectively in winning the Phoenix Open a few weeks ago. The key is the middle finger of the right hand, which extends down the grip at the back of the shaft. The index and ring fingers of the same hand can go where they like; I let mine stick out like stale breadsticks. The result: awesome putting from 20 feet in. With the right hand weakened, my wrists lost their urge to steer and it was just a matter of maintaining forward pressure with the right middle finger. I tried 10 putts from six feet and made nine of them. It was a mild improvement over my usual 20 percent. For dinner I stopped at an Arabian fast-food place and feasted on lamb chops, french fries and that bread they make in flat triangles so it won't roll off the table. There was also a little bowl with some tan-colored paste in it, but it looked like Kiwi-brand shoe polish, so I passed. By the end of the week, I'll probably be dining with sheiks in their domed palaces and practicing my putting on Arabian rugs. Or not. You can't force these things. Thursday, March 1 DUBAI -- Last night I learned something about my two new swings: They don't work past my bedtime. Or maybe I'm just not used to playing under the lights. This I can say with confidence: The Nad Al Sheba Club has the best open-'til-midnight golf course I've ever played. Nine of the holes of the par-71 layout are in the infield of the Nad Al Sheba race track, so you get the double visual treat of acres of floodlit turf with a background of white rails, grassy track and towering grandstand. It reminded me of Pete Dye's Brickyard course in Indianapolis, which dallies for a few holes in the Speedway oval. And come to think of it, I stunk it up when I played there, too. Of course, it's hard to hit the ball when you're being needled by a gang of professional acupunc--, er, photographers. My foursome included Sports Illustrated shuttermeister Bob Martin (an Englishman), his assistant Mick Gandolfo (another Englishman), and Action Images photographer Brandon Malone (another Englishman). Bob, a 28 handicapper, is a very large, volatile man with a magical ability to find water. On the 18th hole, a par-5 with a lake guarding the green, Bob was contemplating hitting his fourth from about 220 yards, hoping to steal a match that was all square. Mick, his better-ball partner, wisely advised him to lay up and then pitch over the water. "Just chip it up there with a pitching wedge," Mike suggested. Bob, after railing at Mike for his gutlessness and lack of support, yanked the wedge out of his bag and sighed. He then took a nice, easy swing and launched one dead straight and high into the air ... and watched in horror as it flew about 130 yards and splashed down about a yard into the hazard. "You bloody fool!" Bob yelled. "You've coached us right out of victory!" Well, not exactly. I -- perfectly positioned after a long drive and a 7-iron layup -- fatted my pitching wedge approach into the drink. Mike and Brendan each drowned a ball as well, and then Bob, dropping a ball at the edge of the water, shanked another one onto the rocks. By the time we were through, there was as much water on the banks as there was in the lake, and the match finished a dreadful tie. "Winners all!" I proclaimed. The Brits agreed and cheerfully repaired to the clubhouse lounge to watch the big soccer battle between England and Spain. I drove back to town, puzzling over my woeful display of wild-long, fat-short, pull-hook and toe-hook shots. It wasn't quite a meltdown -- I hit several solid shots and didn't top or skull any -- but I had the uneasy feeling that my fundamentals were leaving me again. Heaven help me if I am sliding back into that slough of despond. If I lose it again, it's lights out.
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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