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Taking a challenge in Japan Posted: Wednesday November 28, 2001 12:04 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. Tuesday, Nov. 20 ON AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 60 TO DALLAS -- I couldn't leave Tokyo without visiting a multi-story, automated driving range. The Japanese squeeze them in everywhere -- in parks, in railyards, between factories, next to schools, along rivers, beneath freeway overpasses, over canals and under radio towers. The one I went to this morning, Jingu Golf, is in a baseball stadium near Tokyo's Meiji Memorial Picture Gallery, a 15-minute walk from the New Otani.
There was a little confusion at the front desk. "Bottom?" One of the two young women behind the counter looked at me as if I were 20 feet tall and not a mere 6-7. The other, trying to suppress a giggle, said, "Two? Four?" Apparently I had to declare in advance which level I would hit from. "Bottom," I said. I didn't want to risk a bungee-less plunge from a 60-foot platform. We then performed a pantomime in which I offered money for range balls while the young women grinned compliantly. With gestures they got me to understand that I had to stuff my yen into a machine on the opposite wall. The minimum donation was 3,000 yen, or about $24. I fed in three banknotes, pushed a button, and a little computer card popped out. Still beaming, the young ladies pointed me toward a door and made a downward motion. "Stairs," one of them said. "Domo arigato," I said fluently. I had no trouble finding the field-level tee line, which was not too busy at 10 in the morning. Six or seven men and a couple of women, all Japanese, were hitting balls off mats. I chose a station near the middle, giving me a straight shot at the left-field wall. Each station had its own chair and table, and there was a metal partition where you could hang clothes on a hanger. The computerized ball dispenser gave me no trouble. I put my little card in the console slot. A green light began to blink. Machinery whirred under my feet. A golf ball ascended on a rubber tee.
It dawned on me that these balls might not be Pro V1s. I took one and dropped it on the concrete. The ball bounced about as high as my pants cuff. I swear I heard it groan. Meanwhile, a middle-aged Japanese man in a bright yellow sweater had begun hitting short pitch shots from the station behind me. His target was one of those little ring-and-net baskets that are exasperatingly difficult to hit. Craving competition, I took my gap wedge and began aiming for the same target, practicing the fundamentals that Rob Stanger taught me last spring in Palm Desert, Calif. On my second try I bounced one into the net. The man behind me said, "Hai!" ("Yes!") I looked around, and he was grinning. He rolled a ball off his tee, squared up and chipped toward the target. The ball flew low and looked true, but it landed just beyond the basket and hopped into the outfield. "Tasukete!" he said, raking another ball onto the mat. The battle was joined. I was the Challenger, he was the Iron Chef. The mystery ingredient was ... well, tofu, judging from the way the balls felt at impact. After about 10 misfires, I hit the target on the fly. He made two in a row and then went into a prolonged slump, landing balls all around the little ring but failing to connect. He finally changed clubs and pointed at a more distant target. I nodded and took up my 8-iron. For another five minutes or so we aimed for the dark-green circle around the target flag, giving little cries of satisfaction when we were successful, muttering comically when we missed. We had no real way of keeping score, but I think I won the round. I hit the circle two times out of three. Finally, I picked up my 3-wood and held it up for him to see. "Hai, so des," he said with a nod. And that's where Jingu Golf humbled me. Any distance advantage I enjoyed over my opponent was negated by the big net, which was about 175 yards out and as tall as Godzilla. That made it a game of accuracy, and this fellow was straight. I mean, he could smack his driver down an alley and not hit either wall. I wasn't exactly horrible, but I kept trying to put some juice into those zero-compression balls. I hooked, I faded and every few shots I hit one straight. But the man in the yellow sweater was clearly my better. Without warning, he ran out of balls. Game over. He bowed in my direction, I bowed back. He picked up his things and walked off backward, still smiling and bowing. I smiled. I bowed. Jingu, a fallible authority told me afterward, is Japanese for a Shinto shrine. Jingu Golf? Well, a little reverence never hurt anyone -- or any driving range, either.
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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