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Blame it on the range
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. Thursday, Nov. 1 HOUSTON -- I chose my range last night the old-fashioned way. I spotted the lights from I-45, took one of those frontage-road turnarounds that Houston builds to confuse carpetbaggers, and pulled into a gravel lot beneath a sign shaped like a giant golf ball on a tee. I had found Brown's Golf World. First, the good. The range balls were lined up in wire baskets on a table outside the shop door, and you could tell that somebody had a sanitation fetish. These range balls were scrubbed cleaner than an 8-year-old ring bearer at a wedding. Fair value, too -- $8 for a very large basket, a few dollars more for a container the size of a rain barrel. I also liked the ambiance in the shop, which was a windowless trailer with a few chairs and a TV set. A fellow behind the counter took his eye off the set just long enough to make change for me. "Help yourself to balls," he said. I was reminded of how simple a commercial transaction can be. The lights behind the tee line were decent, and I was pleased to see that it was an all-grass range. The field was a simple, flat rectangle facing east. The yardage signs were clean and bright and arranged in a chevron pattern, like a flight of geese. A few flagsticks broke up the monotony. I had a couple of quibbles. Two yellow nylon ropes stretched along the ground down the tee line to delineate the hitting area. I'm used to this -- you see boundary ropes at high-end resorts and private clubs, not just commercial ranges -- and I understand that it restricts range wear and keeps us lined up in subservient ranks, golf slaves that we are. But I hate the ropes. They make it more difficult to align to targets that are not straight ahead. The grass didn't thrill me, either. It looked good, but it was mowed as close as a Marine's neck hair. The soil was very firm, so it was practically like hitting from hardpan. Good players actually prefer those conditions, but I have some bad memories of tight-lie practice sessions. One time in Tucson, Ariz., I gave my last 30 balls to a teenager and drove glumly to a Round Table restaurant, where I moped over a pepperoni pizza and listened to sad country songs on a jukebox. No problems tonight, though. I struck my gap-wedge crisply, hit my 6-iron right-to-left or left-to-right on command, and bounced a bunch of 3-wood shots past the 250-yard sign. Stars twinkled overhead in celebration of me. Friday, Nov. 2 HOUSTON -- Another night at Brown's Golf World, aka Brown's Mosquito Ranch. How do the little buggers get inside your shirt? Twenty minutes into my practice session, my back was on fire and my arms were covered with big welts. Not surprisingly, I lost my tempo and the ballstriking turned decidedly ugly. It started with a series of well-struck 8-irons that flew further and further left, even as I tried harder and harder to hit them right. Then I began hitting my irons fat and the 3-wood all over creation -- pull-hooks, straight balls, push-fades. This is a familiar pattern. The same thing happened last spring when I was warming up for a lesson with Rob Stanger at a commercial range in Palm Desert, Calif. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the cause of this particular disorder. Too much weight on my left side at address? Too much weight on my right side at impact? Too much weight on my shoulders due to world events? I'll have to go online this afternoon and consult the Mats Only archives. It is possible, of course, that the range is to blame. Yellow ropes, tight lies, blood-sucking insects, supernovae exploding in the firmament ... it would drive anyone to distraction. Saturday, Nov. 3 HOUSTON -- No doubt about it, Brown's Golf World is to blame. I went back yesterday afternoon, after punching out early at the Tour Championship. The mosquitoes were gone, the sun was at my back, and this time I was armed with knowledge. According to my Mats Only column of March 21, a pull-hook results when I forget to keep my hands ahead of the clubhead at impact. Alas, nothing worked. I concentrated on maintaining the angle between my wrists and the club shaft as long as possible, but I kept hitting the hardpan before the ball. That was no fun, so I played the ball a little further back in my stance, set my hands closer to the target, and hit little knockdown shots with a short follow-through. That resulted in only one good shot out of three, so I tried moving the ball forward and keeping my weight more centered. That produced a high fade. It occurred to me that I might be standing too far from the ball. I crept up a little, possibly too far, because I could almost see the dimples on the opposite underside of the ball. I hit two terrific wedges ... followed by three straight duds. Then, in a triumph of mind over surlyn, I stepped back and took a deep breath. "It's the range," I said calmly. This drew a curious stare from the burly, bearded golfer practicing behind me. "It is the range," I said, returning his stare. "I'm not falling into the old trap of fiddling with my swing. My swing is fine. I'll hit the ball well when I get off this damn hardpan." He smiled nervously and resumed hitting balls. I, on the other hand, walked to the provided water bucket, dunked my clubheads, and cleaned the grooves with a stiff-bristled brush. I then walked off the tee line without looking back. Nothing wrong. Nothing to fix. Nothing happening here, as the street cop says. And here's the astonishing part: I actually believe it.
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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