A lesson learned

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, March 9

CORAL SPRINGS, Fla. - This afternoon, during a lull at the Honda Classic, I slipped out of the media center and drove a couple of miles down the road to the Coral Springs Driving Range and Learning Center. It's a first-class commercial range on land that used to belong to coral snakes and alligators. Huge tee area. Nice grass. Sculpted target greens. Yardage signs that stretch out past the range of your vision. I was really looking forward to an hour of relaxing duffery in a one-club breeze under a cloud-dappled sky.

Me: "A large bucket, please."

Maitre d' : "I'm sorry, sir, the range, it is all booked!"

Me: "The ... what?"

Maitre d': "If you had called for a reservation we could have spared you the disappointment."

Me: "The ... what?"

OK, I noticed the grandstand behind the teeing area as I walked in. I saw the camera tower. I saw the portable light banks and the technicians scurrying around. And you couldn't miss the flapping Pinnacle banners for some big-deal long-drive contest scheduled for 7 p.m. But, hell, that was four hours away. How much warm-up time do you need when you only carry one club in your bag?

Maitre d': "If you would be so kind as to return tomorrow ...."

Crestfallen, I carried my bag back to the car. Then I noticed a man putting behind a little box hedge. Signs by the practice putting green said, "Adults Only." OK! Acting as mature as possible, I stepped onto the green with a putter and three balls, intending to try the "zone putting system" that Rob Stanger is currently demonstrating over on the Mats Only veranda.

Assistant Best Boy: "Sorry fellows, green closes in five minutes."

Me: "It ... what?"

Assistant Best Boy: "Got to get things ready for the show."

Right behind this guy was another worker, who started pulling the little metal flagsticks out of the cups.

Totally frustrated, I returned to the parking lot, threw the balls and putter in the trunk, and slammed down the lid. It is a bad day when a by-the-bucket driving range treats you as if you are an importuning party boy trying to get in the door of a trendy New York nightclub.

I drove back to Heron Bay, shuffled to the press room and slumped into my chair. What's the point in being in Florida in March if you can't hit golf balls?

Sigh.

Monday, March 11

ORLANDO, Fla. - I finally got to hit some balls, but I was momentarily worried when I carried my bag from the parking lot of the International Golf Club and found a deserted driving range. What was it this time? A biohazard waste spill? A ball dispenser breakdown? Regis Philbin's birthday?

Fortunately, it was just a lull in activity. It's my guess that the IGC range doesn't get much afternoon use because it faces west. I hit two buckets of balls and never saw a shot land. (Just like on the golf course!) I could see the ball fly, though, so it wasn't a wasted session.

But how weird. I warmed up with my gap wedge and I hit the first 10 shots fat. I mean seriously fat, like an explosion shot from a bunker. The ball traveled about one- third of its intended distance. My mechanics and tempo felt fine, so I moved the ball a little forward and then back in my stance. Fat. I checked to make sure my weight was moving toward the target through impact with the tip of the shaft working down the target line.

Everything checked out, but my shots were still fat. I got out my tape measure and checked the length of the club. I whipped out a level and made sure I wasn't hitting from an uphill lie. I put down clubs to make sure I was aligned properly. I cleaned my glasses. I adjusted my cap. Fat, fat, fat.

Then I remembered something that Rob Stanger had pointed out in my last lesson, a year ago in Rancho Mirage. "You're addressing the ball with an open clubface," he said.

"I don't think so," I said, gripping my sand wedge and holding the club parallel to the ground. "It looks square."

"Address the ball."

I gripped the club. I waggled my wedge over the ball a couple of times. I then settled my weight a bit toward my left foot and put the club behind the ball. As I did so, my hands moved slightly forward to deloft the club. The clubface ... pointed right! I had never noticed that.

"Close the face a bit," he said. I did so. "More." I made the adjustment. "More!"

I couldn't believe it. "It looks like it's hooded. It's dead shut."

He crouched behind the ball and placed another club at a right angle to the clubface. "Where's it pointing?"

I turned my head and let my eyes follow the line out from his club. And yeah, it pointed right at the target. "Witchcraft!" I yelped.

So I got into the habit of gripping the club so that it looked closed before I addressed the ball. But when I looked at it today, the clubface was just barely turned in. So I hooded the club a bit more -- aimed it at my left ankle, actually -- and took another swing. Whack! Perfect contact, perfect square divot, and the ball flew right at the target (landing, I'm sure, inches from the flag). I hit a few more solid wedges with this "closed" clubface and then repeated the exercise with an 8-iron and a 5-iron. Nothing but solid shots.

For the final test, I pulled my driver and closed the clubface just a teeny bit. I then hit 10 balls, and every one flew like a rocket toward the net at the far end of the range. The tee area was no longer empty, and a couple of men walked over and sat on a bench behind me -- convinced, no doubt, that I was a pro who had wandered over from the Bay Hill Invitational for a private workout. (No one was around, thankfully, to witness all my fat shots.) I finally put the driver away, because I like to quit on a good note. The crowd dispersed.

I know, of course, that I will return to the same range in a day or two, hood the club slightly, make smooth, confident passes at the ball -- and hit nothing but snap hooks. And somebody will helpfully point out my problem: "It looks like your clubface is closed at address."

Golf is a merry-go-round, and everyone's horse comes back to the same place.

Watch this space for another installment of Mats Only. To send John Garrity advice, share your experiences, or suggest a driving range, click here.

 

Related information
Stories
John Garrity's Mats Only Archive Rob Stanger's Lesson Tee Archive
Multimedia
Visit Video Plus for the latest audio and video
Search our site	Watch CNN/SI 24 hours a day
	Sports Illustrated and CNN have combined to form a 24 hour sports news and information channel. To receive CNN/SI at your home call your cable operator or DirecTV.