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Defending my golfing honor
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. Saturday, Aug. 25 KANSAS CITY, Mo. -- The indictment arrived by e-mail. The prosecutor is Dave Norris of Indianapolis. "John," he begins, doing his best impression of Kenneth Starr, "in a recent column you make reference to several rounds of golf played by yourself at some pretty famous courses. I envy you. But I don't envy the way you keep score. You say you shot 'about' an 80, 81 or whatever. How do you do that? I know exactly what my score was by honestly counting my strokes, playing with no gimmes or mulligans. I don't want to come off as snobbish (it may be too late), but I am sick of all these guys talking about their handicap being 'about an 8' or 'about a 10,' and then when you play with them and count every stroke they shoot a cool 95. How about keeping your score correctly, every time, and reporting on that? Encourage people to play by the rules with your example. Please." Smiling as he watches me being led off in handcuffs, Norris adds, "By the way, do you know what they call a mulligan in Scotland? 'Hitting 3.'" Recognizing the gravity of these charges, I called the law offices of Johnnie Cochran. I was told he was playing golf. So I am forced to defend myself. First of all, Dave, my official USGA handicap is 8.3. At least that's what it says on my most recent Kansas City Golf Association handicap card, which is dated 1992. The "score history" on the back of this card ranges from a low of 79 to a high of 98. Regular readers of this column will tell you that these scores reflect the period during which I lost my swing. Also, as you are no doubt aware, the Golf Handicap and Information Network (GHIN) throws out your high scores. On a number of occasions I went out and shot "a cool 95," as you put it. My handicap did not budge. When my game deteriorated to the point that I was hitting school buses and endangering livestock, I stopped turning in scores. Actually, I stopped playing golf and spent most of my time on the practice range, trying to figure out what was wrong. When I did play -- usually in a charity scramble or in a friendly fourball with other golf writers -- I would declare myself "about a 12 or 13." A better guess would have been 20, but my good shots still looked like those of a single-digit player, and I didn't want to be accused of sandbagging. (I never was.) These days, as my game heals, the situation is slightly different. I play about two rounds a month, usually on some wonderful, testing layout by Donald Ross or Pete Dye. I play the ball down, I don't take mulligans, and when I hit a ball over a fence I charge myself stroke-and-distance. But I don't keep my own scorecard, and I don't report the scores that others keep for me. When I play in a scramble, of course, there is no individual score to report. My remaining rounds, with fellow golf writers or course architects, are friendly, better-ball matches. If my partner has made par and I then roll a birdie putt three feet past the hole, an opponent will knock my ball back to me and say, "That's good." Similarly, if I'm out of a hole -- that is, if my partner is making birdie while I need to get up and down from a greenside bunker for bogey -- I'll pick up to speed play. These actions are fully within the rules of match play. They do not, however, result in an accurate score. When I say I shot "about an 80 or 81," I am assuming double-bogey from the bunker and I am allowing for the fact that I might miss a three-footer or two during a round. As for the insinuation that I am manufacturing scores à la President Clinton, I refer you to the Mats Only archive. In previous columns, I have reported my ineptitude in almost pornographic detail -- e.g., my cool 99, last June, at Spyglass Hill. I close my defense, Dave, by objecting to your final argument, which assumes facts not in evidence. What do they call a mulligan in Scotland? A mulligan. Most British golfers prefer match play to stroke play and roll their eyes when we Yanks take five minutes to plumb-bob a two-foot putt. "American golfers seem to be obsessed with their scores," an Englishman told me during a recent round in Lancashire. "We'd rather keep moving and enjoy the match." I rest my case. Now it is up to you, the Mats Only jury, to render judgement. If you find for the prosecutor, Mr. Norris, I promise to resume my joyless enumeration of every stroke, every hole, every round, using a regulation golf pencil -- the kind with no eraser. If, however, you find against Mr. Norris on the counter-charge of golf snobbishness, I ask that you sentence him to 90 days of community service. (The probation office recommends duty as a ranger at a big-city municipal golf course.) In the meantime, I will send Mr. Norris a copy of the new Dan Jenkins golf novel, The Money-Whipped Steer-Job Three-Jack Give-Up Artist. He'll need something to read while the jury is 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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