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Going back to (writing) basics Posted: Tuesday May 27, 2003 3:06 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. Tuesday, May 27 KANSAS CITY, Mo. -- "John, wake up!" writes Russell Hubbard of Birmingham, Ala. "I apparently need to slap you on the side of your melon every year or so to bring you back to reality. You are spending way too much time with a corporate credit card at five-star golf courses. Now you are cooking? On a golf course? Have you run out of things to write?" The cause of Russell's alarm is the column I wrote a couple of weeks ago from the HP Classic of New Orleans, where I got a food-flipping lesson from chef Paul Prudhomme. The truth is, there was a mixup at the office. Instead of running my Mats Only column, they mistakenly posted the Placemats Only column I write for the Food Channel. But to answer Russell's other question: Yes, I have run out of things to write. It happened about 14 years ago. However, I can say with some measure of pride that having nothing to say has not held me back. When I get desperate, I simply print letters from my readers. Russell is unfair, though, when he accuses me of spending my time at five-star golf courses. I recently reviewed my calendar and discovered, to my surprise, that I have not played a full round of golf since last July. Rob Stanger has given me a couple of playing lessons at Rancho Mirage, and last fall I played nine holes at Kansas City's Hallbrook Country Club with the Tempo Titan, John Novosel. Otherwise, my golf has been restricted to late-afternoon, three-balls-in-play excursions at my home course, Milburn Country Club. My golf game, as you can imagine, has suffered. Last week, while working on a top-secret story in Fort Worth, Texas, I managed to get in only two short practice sessions. The first, at the Las Colinas Driving Range in Irving, was the more productive of the two. I picked Las Colinas out of the Yellow Pages because of its irresistible ad ("Look Behind 2 Irving Water Tanks"). Seven bucks got me a large bucket of range balls and full access to an amazing sward of zoysia. The grass was a little long for golf purposes, but it was so thick that the ball sat atop it like an ostrich egg on a button-tufted cushion. The target area was a spacious rectangle with a few flags to aim at. The only problem was the ordnance. The range balls were old and worn to the point that they slid and swooped, dimple-less, through the humid air currents. A few days later I slipped out of Fort Worth's Worthington Hotel long enough to look for the enticingly named Worm Burner Driving Range. I found it easily enough -- it's on NE 28th Street, an easy commute from the sprawling cemetery east of I-35W. Worm Burner reminded me of my recent trip to Savannah's Tin Cup range -- which is to say, it left a lot to be desired. (The tipoff was the misspelled sign behind the tee line: THIS SIDE, MATTS ONLY.) The balls were better than those at Las Colinas, but the grass tees were awful patches of thin, clumpy rye grass. Judging by the feel of the ground under my feet, Worm Burner's "turf" hadn't been rolled since the Johnson (Lyndon B., not Hootie) administration. I didn't hit the ball very well, possibly because of the sweat smearing my eyeglasses and soaking my glove. I'd say no more, but reader Hubbard reminds me of my duty. "Let's refocus," he writes. "Take us on your odyssey. Give us wild hooks and low, pushed bleeders. Give us metaphors, similes and hyperbole. Even throw in some of those onomatopoeia words that sound like the noise they describe." OK, Russell. My bad shots fizzled like discount fireworks. My wedges skied and dropped back to earth like falling sparks. My 3-wood fired sputtering tracers that went pffffft! and dove into the ground with a sickening thud. I sweated buckets and wound up with nothing to show for my effort but bloody hands and sun-scalded skin. There, I feel better. Thanks, Russell. I needed that. 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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