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A tuneup at the Lesson Tee Posted: Monday November 18, 2002 2:32 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. Monday, Nov. 4 LAS VEGAS -- I was cruising down the Strip in a rented Buick this morning when my cell phone rang. "John," an unfamiliar voice began, "this is Terry Carpenter calling from just down the road in St. Louis ..." My first thought was that my mobile number had finally fallen into the hands of telemarketers, and I was going to have to use one of the dodges I employ at home. ("Your offer sounds great, Dave, but can I interest you in four free trial issues of Sports Illustrated? If you act now ...") But Carpenter was not calling from some boiler room; he was calling from some place redolent of zoysia divots and locker-room popcorn. He dropped some names. He said Sports Illustrated senior writer Gary Van Sickle had given him my name. He said he worked with PGA teaching pro Gary Wiren, author of the PGA Teaching Manual. He said he coached sweet-swinging tour veteran Tom Purtzer. Carpenter then got to the point. He wanted to send me, for my journalistic evaluation, his most recent invention: some sort of custom-fit reflective mat that allows a golfer to perfect his posture and alignment. "Send it," I said. "The way it works --" "Send it." Because it's a mat, right? And what's it going to do, screw up my finely tuned swing? I played my first round of golf in two months yesterday, on a Pete Dye course in the desert north of Vegas, and I was hopeless. Topped two tee shots. Flew two more into impenetrable vegetation. Fatted a chip, thinned a pitch, and basically played the way I played a few years back, when I earned the nickname "Meltdown." So, yeah, I was willing to try Carpenter's alignment doohickey. I gave him my home address and promised to try it out next week -- if I haven't quit the game by then. Tuesday, Nov. 5 PALM DESERT, Calif. -- The drive from Las Vegas to Rancho Mirage, Calif., takes about four hours, and I didn't spot a good lie until I arrived at Mission Hills Country Club for a playing lesson with Rob Stanger, our Mats Only resident professional. "I played 18 holes on Sunday," I told him. "Total meltdown." "Well," he said cheerfully, "you know what they say about making steel: You have to melt it first." Reassured, I dove into the Stanger blast furnace. Actually, it only took a little warmup on the lesson-tee end of the Mission Hills range to get me back on track. Rob quickly spotted the problem: In my desire to create long, square divots I had been extending the clubhead end of the shaft too far down the target line, causing my arms to pull away from my body. "What about my backswing?" I asked. "What about it?" That's the thing about Rob. Other teachers worry about the backswing the way a mother worries about her babies, but Rob concentrates on that little-understood space between impact and follow-through. This is the golfer's "blind spot," the area where the club seems to move too quickly to be consciously manipulated. Rob's theory, however, is that this is the only part of the golf swing that directly affects ball flight, so you'd damn well better learn how to manipulate the club there. Anyway, he pointed out that the shaft of my club was aimed well right of the target by the time it was waist-high in the follow-through. "If the shaft was a rifle and you fired it, would the bullet hit the target?" I shook my head. "So where should the club be?" I rotated my upper body to the left, without moving my arms, and the club slipped into the proper plane. "Your arms should feel soft, not stretched out," he explained. "That's how you stay connected." The little lightbulb over my head went on, as it does about once a month. (For a more coherent explanation of the swing mechanics involved, see the current installment of Rob's Lesson Tee.) Rob had me hit a few more shots, gap wedge to driver, and then we went out on the Pete Dye course for the playing lesson. If I hit a good shot, I would play it. Otherwise, Rob would toss me another ball and tell me what to do with it. He'd say, "Launch it down the left side with 1 o'clock spin," or, "Try a four-grooves swing at 12 and 12." As always happens, he coaxed some good shots out of me and taught me some valuable lessons about course management. But I was mentally drained by the time the sun rested on the mountaintops. On the 17th hole, a 140-yard par-3 with a peninsula green, I overcooked the hook spin on an easy 8-iron and splashed a Pro V1 in the water left of the flagstick. Rob tossed me a black-striped range ball that he had found on the course and told me to try a 7-iron. "Throttle back on the power level," he said. "Launch it straight at the flag and give it 12:01 spin." "Yeah," I laughed, "like I'm that precise." I took a practice swing to rehearse the 12 o'clock swing path and 12:01 clubface position. I then made an easy, relaxed pass at the ball, keeping my arms soft on the follow-through. The ball shot for the flag, but I didn't pay much attention; I was monitoring my swing clarity. So I didn't catch Rob's drift when he laughed and said, "Nice 3!" I took another practice swing. "I think I got both the launch and the spin that time," I said. "Didn't catch it flush, though." "It went in the hole," he said. "It hit the flagstick. I know that sound." I was sure he was wrong -- I thought I had seen movement behind the pin in the dying light -- but when we got to the green, there it was, the range ball, wedged between the flagstick and the left side of the cup. "Well, that sucks," I said. "My first hole-in-one, and it's a 3." Rob got the last word. After I had removed the flagstick and pulled my ball out of the cup, he nonchalantly rolled in a 25-footer from behind the hole for birdie. "I didn't want to lose the hole to a mere par," he explained. Rob Stanger. Man of steel. 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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