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Consistently inconsistent Posted: Monday July 22, 2002 1:00 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. Thursday, July 19 GULLANE, Scotland -- The farmhouse we've rented for the week is musty. It has only one small bathroom for its five bedrooms. There is one electrical outlet per room and no way to connect to the Internet. There is a television -- a 30-year-old portable in an upstairs bedroom. (It gets three channels -- five if you hold the buttons down while you watch.) Our farmhouse has no clocks, and the coal scuttle by the sitting-room fireplace is full of ... coal! Big, black hunks of coal. Last night we spent a pleasant, 19th-century evening in the sitting room. Gary Van Sickle played pop tunes on an old and protesting upright piano. I played unrelated blues licks on a guitar. Steve Rushin, weary to the point of delirium after his long flight from New York, lounged on a sofa and played with a Pringles tin. "I must be the only writer at SI who doesn't play the piano," Steve said, giving the rest of us way too much credit. Despite its shortcomings, the farmhouse is a splendid base. It is walking distance from Muirfield, where a bunch of golfers have gathered this week for a contest. Better yet, it's right next to the three Gullane golf courses, which go out over a huge, treeless hill, wander down to the Firth of Forth, and then ramble back again to a downhill finish. Jack McCallum and I paid 28 pounds each to play Gullane No. 2 on Monday. Afterward, we were told that the pro at Gullane wouldn't mind if we slipped around the low stone wall and played a few holes in the gloaming. Gary and I found time to do that yesterday. We walked out of the farmhouse, up the drive under a canopy of tall beeches, along the stone wall, and around to the 18th tee of Gullane No. 3. As is almost always the case when Gary and I play, he made mincemeat of me for several holes. Then, when we played the par-3 fourth for the second time, he challenged me to a one-hole, sum-of-two-balls tournament. Predictably, his second tee shot found a bad lie to the right of the green. I won with a pair of threes. "When am I going to learn?" he asked. "A one-hole match plays to your strength, which is inconsistency." Indeed. Lately I've been hitting sweeping hooks with my 3-wood (I'm carrying four clubs on this trip), and that has me lurching between two swing tempos, which I characterize as "debonairly deliberate" and "untowardly fast." Playing with Gary, I hit several tee balls into the waist-high grass that lines the Gullane fairways. Tonight, however, I went out on my own at twilight and experimented with the usual variables of ball position, grip pressure and throat constriction. The hook disappeared when I weakened my right-hand grip, letting my right thumb ride the top of the shaft. Suddenly, I was ripping it again. Playing from the red tees on a driveable par-4, I lashed a perfect draw over the flagstick, 240 yards away, and wound up in the long grass behind the green. I whistled as I walked off the tee, delighted that the simple act of weakening my grip had cured my hook. Until I remembered that the stronger grip had recently cured my slice. Sunday, July 21 GULLANE, Scotland -- We were just digging in to our seven-course Chinese dinner late last night in North Berwick when the owner of the Lucky House restaurant leaned over my shoulder and said, "You know David Love? David Love, the golfer?" Yes, I said, we all were familiar with Davis Love III, the American golfer. "I'm very angry," he said. "I hold table for eight for David Love, and he not show up. Nobody sit at table for eight. You see David Love, you say he not welcome at Lucky House." Through some patient questioning, we learned that the reservation had actually been made by a woman, presumably Mrs. Love. And the owner allowed that the weather had been bad, and maybe the woman hadn't told Mr. Love about the reservation. "But she should call. Somebody should call and say, 'Mr. Love won't need table for eight.'" We agreed that Love, or somebody in Love's party, should have called. And since the owner -- Mr. Lucky? -- kept loading our table with delectable dishes, we promised to hunt Love down and give him the scolding he deserved. The owner smiled, mollified. A few minutes later he came back with a handwritten message on Lucky House note paper. "Davis Love III," it began. "You are not welcome from Lucky House Rest., North Berwick." The owner had then signed the note, adding, "131st British Open, Muirfield, July '02." The likelihood that I will actually deliver this message to Davis Love is very small. More likely, I'll frame it and hang it on the wall of my home office in Kansas City. It will look good next to my framed certificate of accomplishment from the Golf Digest Golf Schools. 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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