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Summer Love Paradise found on a range in the English countryside
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. Friday, July 27 LIVERPOOL, England -- I've just come back from a midnight stroll down Matthew Street in the twisty warren where the Beatles got their start. The alleys are packed with young celebrants, the guys wearing everything from sport jackets to football jerseys, the gals in backless party dresses and tank tops. The Cavern Club, interestingly enough, was the only joint that didn't have a long line outside the door. Liverpudlians must consider it a tourist trap. I only mention the Beatles because HELP!, I need some lovin', HELP!, not just any lovin' -- sorry, because I need some help remembering if the Beatles hit golf balls in any of the montage scenes in their movies. Anybody remember? (Swings with ski poles don't count.) In any event, none of the Liverpool golf centers advertises a Beatles connection. ("Hey, how do you like your new Norwegian woods?") So, this afternoon I took my search for British driving-range charm back to Formby, the little golfing village just up the Lancashire coast. First, I hit a bucket of balls on the covered range at Formby Hall Golf Club. Good mats, good balls, clear targets and excellent visibility. The field rises slightly at the far end, so you can see where your long shots land. If you really pop your drive you can watch it sail over the 250-yard sign and into the back fence. On the negative side, Formby Hall has those shoulder-high safety partitions that make you feel as if you're hitting out of a horse stall. I find it difficult to align myself to targets when I'm standing in a rectangular box. (I call it "coffin syndrome.") I was pleasantly surprised, however, when the clerk in the pro shop informed me that it was Happy Hour. He sold me about a hundred balls for a mere £2. I like bargains. I then returned to the Formby Golf Range, a scruffy little enterprise just down the road. The Formby range is in a pastoral niche that makes one want to quote Hardy or Mortimer, and the hour I spent there was as charming as a man can stand. Huge cumulus clouds drifted across the sky without once interrupting the flow of warm sunshine. Seagulls swooped, bees buzzed, and a small tractor chugged around the field, picking up balls. I bought a 7-UP in the brick house where the golf shop and tea room are located, and the avuncular man behind the counter said, "That's lovely. Thank you very much indeed." He was even warmer to a little boy in a Pokeman T-shirt who kept coming in and holding up a handful of coins to buy candy or chips. "Just leave my finger, thank you," he said, when the little boy pulled his hand along with the change. Verdict: charm. The covered tees were a tumbling-down wreck, and there were only six open-air stations, but the place was crawling with happy children, laughing teenagers, and content grandpas. I was one of the grandpas, and I was content because the mats were new, the balls were new, and the English countryside was at its summer best. Time slowed to a shuffle. The breeze felt like a caress. The tractor chugged back and forth. Best of all, the balls I hit went where they were supposed to. There are places I'll remember. In my life, this is one. 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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