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A temporary setback Posted: Tuesday January 22, 2002 4:43 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. Friday, Jan. 11 HONOLULU, Hawaii -- Tour rookie Stephen Gangluff had a Mats Only-style meltdown yesterday. Playing in the first round of the Sony Open at Waialae Country Club, he started hitting shots that looked wind-blown. Only the wind wasn't blowing that hard. "I hit it terribly," he said afterward. "The ball was going right, I'd try to adjust, and suddenly it was going left. Then I got frustrated and starting missing putts." After Gangluff missed a 4-footer on the 18th hole and signed for a 6-over-par 76, he headed straight for the range and practiced for two hours. "I thought it would be a waste of time," said his caddie and fiancée, Shana Pack, "but I was wrong. He worked it out." Today, in fact, the Virginia pro bounced back with a 65. That left him a stroke shy of the cut, but making birdies did wonders for his confidence and sent him away happy. "It was just a little thing," he told me as the sun set behind the palms. "The ball was too far forward in my stance and I was hitting up on it. I just moved the ball back and started hitting it better right away." Gangluff's experience made me want to renew my campaign for a change in the rules of golf. I think a player on the verge of collapse should be allowed to call timeout, race to the range and hit 10 practice shots. Or if that's not feasible, the player could simply drop a few balls in the fairway, turn 90 degrees and belt them into the neighboring housing development. In the absence of such a rule, I have had to take absurd measures to right my sinking ship. A few years ago, on a golf retreat with my Golf Plus colleagues, my swing came apart at the Bloody Point Club on Daufuskie Island, S.C. I would have limped in, but we were scheduled to play another round that very afternoon at Haig Point Golf Club. With the permission of my playing partners, I skipped the 18th hole, sprinted to the range and hit about 20 shots while they finished the round. My problem was -- you guessed it -- ball position. Within seconds I was hitting the ball solidly again, and that very afternoon I went around Haig Point in ... well, damn, I seem to have lost that scorecard. These days, of course, I finish my rounds without taking a sabbatical. I don't want people to think I'm strange. Saturday, Jan. 12 HONOLULU, Hawaii -- I had a bizarre practice session last night at the Ala Wai Driving Range. I was hitting the ball great with every club in my bag, lob wedge to driver, but especially with my lob wedge. My target was a sparsely grassed green about 40 yards away -- a mound with a flag stuck in it, actually -- and I was in total command of the club. High cuts, low punches, it didn't matter. Everything landed within three or four feet of the hole. I took out my driver and lashed a few bombs downrange. Then I pulled the lob wedge again, just to revel in my mastery. I dropped a ball, took the same smooth, easy swing -- and shanked it. "Huh," I said, staring at the net running down the right side of the range, where the ball had ended up. I pulled another ball onto the mat with my club, set up confidently, swung -- and shanked it. Another ball, another swing. Shank. Another ball, another and another. Shank, shank, shank. I kept my cool. I aimed for the flag and took a full-power wedge swing. The ball sailed over the target and landed about 75 yards out. Relieved, I went for the green again, took an easy, graceful pass at the ball -- and shanked it. Ten shanks later, I slid my lob wedge back into the bag, confident that I could hit any target at the right edge of my peripheral vision. With trepidation I grabbed my 8-iron, wondering if the whole bag was now infected. But no. I hit a half-dozen 8-irons right on the sweet spot and pretty much on line. I didn't hit any more wedges. It was too weird. Sunday, Jan. 13 HONOLULU, Hawaii -- I slept fitfully, worried about those shanks. Around 9 a.m., I drove back to the Ala Wai Driving Range and bought a large bucket of balls. This time I set up on a mat at the other end of the range, close to the left boundary fence. I hit a few 8-irons, no problem. I hit some full shots with my pitching wedge, all fine. I tried the driver and hit one big hook -- trouble? - but then smacked four in a row that I liked. I couldn't put it off any longer. I pulled the lob wedge, aimed for the 40-yard flag and dialed in my 40-yard swing ... bingo! Crisp contact, perfect ball flight and the ball landed right by the flag. I hit another and the ball landed pin high, six feet right of the hole. I hit another and it flew a bit long but right over the flag. I hit 10 more wedges in a row and none of them made that awful clicking sound or peeled off low to the right, like a banking fighter jet. "Huh," I said. I'm just going to pretend that Saturday night never happened.
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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