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Derelict in my golfing duties Posted: Tuesday June 04, 2002 11:58 AM
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. Wednesday, May 29 KANSAS CITY, Mo. -- Ah, light at the end of the tunnel. As sometimes happens in this writing business, I've been swamped. I've been bailing out my creative rowboat with a teaspoon while burning the candle at both ends. I've been between a rock and a hard place. I've been ... OK, too many metaphors spoil the broth. Put simply, I've been too busy with Sports Illustrated business to write about swings and things. First I was on airplanes -- Dallas, San Diego, no time for golf. Then I drove to Palm Springs on assignment. The desert was starting to sizzle, but I hit a bucket of balls at the College Golf Center on the afternoon of May 15. The next day I squeezed in an 18-hole playing lesson with Rob Stanger on the tournament course at Mission Hills Country Club. Rob coaxed three birdies out of me and showed me how to hit long, greenside bunker shots with a hooded clubface and hook swing. The next thing I knew, I was fumbling for the ringing phone in my hotel room and muttering hello. It was the office. "We've got a report," my editor said, "that Sam Snead is dying." More planes. Home to Kansas City to pick up research materials and a change of clothes. On to Roanoke, Va., gateway to Snead country. Driving into the mountains, I kept hearing a line from a song by Mary Chapin Carpenter: "And years are made of sand, slipping through my hands ..." Friday, May 31 KANSAS CITY, Mo. -- More e-mails from readers commenting on Rob Stanger's "hit the ball on the third groove" drill. Jerry Keller of Great Neck, N.Y., one of Stanger's students, says he laughed when he read Russell Hubbard's letter dismissing the drill as "nonsense." "I thought the same thing when I met Rob three years ago," Keller writes. "He had me focus on that damn third groove and the sound it was making. But in the months that followed, I went from not even coming close to breaking 100 to currently shooting in the low 80s. I used to focus entirely on the cockeyed positions that most instructors teach. (That is nonsense.) Now my swing is simple because I understand how to make the ball do what I want it to do." Another Stanger disciple, Ed Cole of Orem, Utah, says, "Experience it before you condemn it, Russell. It is such a breath of fresh air to have an instructor teach you how to create the flight of the ball without twisting you up with swing mechanics. Now I don't try to create the perfect swing. I just try to create the desired ball flight." He adds, "I laugh at these driving-range hackers who are searching for the elusive perfect swing ..." Before I can take umbrage, Cole completes his thought: "... because I used to be one of them." Saturday, June 1 KANSAS CITY, Mo. -- "Didn't you hit any golf balls in Virginia?" my wife asked. "None at all," I replied. "That is, not many. None to speak of." I did wander onto the practice range at The Homestead one afternoon. The Homestead is the elegant old resort in Hot Springs where Snead got his start as a club professional. The practice facility -- wide, lush and dotted with target greens -- climbs a ridge alongside the first hole of the Old Course. I'm not fond of uphill ranges, as a rule, but this one is attractive and commodious. There is also a splendid chipping green with six pin locations and a mowed apron that extends 30 or 40 yards. I may have hit a few dozen wedges while waiting for the ink to dry in my reporter's notebook. The following day I visited the famous Greenbriar Resort in White Sulphur Springs, W.Va., less than an hour's drive from The Homestead. My wife and I stayed at the Greenbriar a few years ago -- I was researching a book chapter about American golf resorts -- and I had favorable memories of everything but the practice range, which was dinky and marred by threadbare mats. Since then, I am happy to report, the Greenbriar range has been totally rebuilt. The double-ended practice facility now features grass tees, bottomless pails of range balls and beautiful target greens with white-sand bunkers. Every tee station has a water basin and brush for cleaning clubfaces, and each bag rack has a little plate giving precise yardages to every flag from that station on that particular day. How classy is the Greenbriar range? Well, Sam Snead's signature is on every mat. And if that doesn't impress you, consider the high-toned sign that greeted me the day of my visit: PLEASE USE SYNTHETIC SURFACE ONLY. If I ever write a range-rat column for The New Yorker, I know what to call 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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