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'Slumming' it in Maui Posted: Thursday January 09, 2003 12:07 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, Jan. 6 KAPALUA, Hawaii -- Got up this morning, skipped the shave, put on a pair of frayed Dockers and one of my $19 silk print shirts, scuffed up my shoes with a rotary sander, and slipped out the back door of the Ritz-Carlton Kapalua. My mission: to cruise the Valley Isle in search of a downscale driving range. Normally, I don't have to go looking for these déclassé practice pits; they come looking for me. But Dan Leonard of Springfield, Mo., pointed out in a recent e-mail that my list of top 10 driving ranges of 2002 veered uncomfortably close to Robin Leach territory. "Who can get on Hallbrook?" he asked, referring to the private club in Leawood, Kan. "Does my pro need to call their pro to set it up?" Leonard added that the golf magazines, when they rate courses, usually provide categories: Private, Resort and Public. "How about similar categories for your list? How about ranges that your readers can access?" My first reaction to this otherwise reasonable request was that Mr. Leonard had somehow mistaken my ratings for something that they weren't -- i.e., comprehensive, scientific, authoritative or, for that matter, sincere. In truth, I simply note the best and worst practice facilities I visit in a given year, taking as much pleasure in describing the latter as the former. On reflection, though, I have to concede that in 2002 I did a poor job of ferreting out punk practice ranges. When given a choice between freshly scrubbed Titleists piled in pyramids and freshly-painted pond balls in wire buckets, I usually picked the Titleists. It was guilt, then, that made me drive up the hill to the highway this afternoon, bypassing the glorious practice facilities at the Kapalua Village Golf Course and the Kapalua Golf Academy. Yes, that's a tear in the corner of my eye. And, no, I don't want you to wipe it away. Forty minutes later I turned off Highway 30, a couple of miles from the airport at Kahului, and parked behind a small white building. There was a sign: Maui Lani Golf College. Four or five golfers were hitting balls in a stiff, right-to-left crosswind, but the doors to the golf shop were locked. "Back in 10 minutes," read a hand-lettered sign. Walking around the building, I found a ball-dispensing machine. Before I could work out the cost, a cheerful man came to my side and said, "Need change?" He had apparently raced over in the ball-tractor, which was parked about 50 yards away. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, I gave him $6 and he handed me three tokens. That got me a plastic bucket and about 60 yellow range balls. Now, here's the part where I had planned to describe the insults and indignities associated with my slumming expedition: the threadbare mats, the crudely painted yardage signs, the poorly fed immigrant children picking up balls under the lash of the plantation manager. Imagine my disappointment when I walked out to the tee line. It was on the forward sweep of a full two acres of beautifully manicured turfgrass, and it was obscenely well-maintained. When I looked out at the target field, my heart sank. Where were the painted tires? Where were the weed-infested mounds and tattered flags? All I could see were seven elegantly designed green complexes guarded on all sides by sand bunkers. Shaking my head, I picked a spot at the near end of the tee line and began hitting balls. I tried not to notice that the backdrop for the range was the beautiful Iao Valley and the West Maui Mountains. I turned my back to that enticement ... and found myself staring up at the majestic volcano Haleakala. Overwhelmed, I took a break and strolled down the tee line. I passed a fellow making divots. I passed a woman working on her short game. I passed Clint Eastwood. Eastwood was the final clue. The chiseled profile, the silver hair, the driver with the polished black head. Maui Lani, whatever it was, was certainly not dŽclassŽ. Desperate for an explanation, I flagged down a man in a golf cart who had been talking with Eastwood. He turned out to be Dan Saito, head chef at The Dunes restaurant, which was across the parking lot at The Dunes of Maui Lani clubhouse. (Saito, I learned later, is a world-class chef; he gives pointers to Wolfgang Puck.) "Chef Dan," as he is known, told me that Eastwood is one of several celebrity investors in the restaurant . Saito then invited me to join him in his cart for a quick tour of the golf course. I don't have room here to critique the four-year-old Robin Nelson design, but Travel & Leisure Golf hailed The Dunes with a "Maui Wowie!" and both Golf Magazine and Golf Digest have rated it among the best new courses in America. "For Maui, it's a bargain," said Saito. "The resort courses are $200 and up, but you can play here for $96 [$47 after 2 p.m., shared cart included]. We get lots of locals who come again and again." Because of the dramatic elevation changes and the presence of thousands of kiawe trees, the Dunes resembles Valderrama in Spain, where the fairways are lined with cork trees. At the end of the tour, Saito dropped me off at the Maui Lani offices, which occupy a tree-shaded bungalow behind the driving range. There I met the course's general manager, Dave Gleason. "No one knew what we had here," Gleason said, referring to the sandy site in the lowland saddle between Maui's mountain regions. "Robin's eyes popped out when he saw it." Robin Leach? I almost blurted his name before realizing Gleason meant Robin Nelson. Just out of curiosity, I asked Gleason about the big arc of sidewalk on the range, behind the tee line and in front of the floodlights. "I put the cement in the back," he said, "because I thought we'd have to back up the tees when they were in recovery. But with two acres of grass, we haven't had to use the mats." So that's how it ended, my search for a shabby range in Maui. When I left, the sun had just dropped behind the mountains and the floodlights had come on. There were golfers at every station, including at least a dozen children. I just hope that reader Leonard will give me credit for finding a wonderful public range that anybody can enjoy for only six dollars a bucket. Anybody, that is, who can afford a round-trip ticket to Maui. 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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