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Whiling away an afternoon in Chicago Posted: Thursday July 03, 2003 11:38 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. Tuesday, July 1 LEMONT, Ill. -- I went out this afternoon looking for the Zigfield Troy Driving Range and Par-3 Course -- mistakenly thinking that it would be operated by a couple of Vegas showmen with whips and leather pants -- and found not one, but two good practice facilities. I missed Zigfield Troy on my first pass, probably because I was talking to my wife on the cell phone while inching down West 75th Street in rush-hour traffic. (Chicago's radio stations tell you it will take 55 minutes to drive downtown on the Kennedy or an hour to get past the crashed ice-cream truck on the Dan Ryan; they never give you the drive-time between Cog Hill Golf & Country Club, site of this week's Western Open, and the Zigfield Troy Driving Range.) Making a U-turn somewhere near Davenport, Iowa, I drove back down 75th until I spotted a golf course on my right. This was not the driving range. It was the Village Greens of Woodridge, an 18-hole daily-fee course with an attractive clubhouse and lots of trees. I parked my rental car and went into the clubhouse intending to ask for directions. Instead, I paid $5 for a large bucket of scrubbed and shiny yellow range balls, which I carried out to a pleasant little grass range. A couple of pros were giving lessons -- a gray-haired man with an Australian accent and a tall young man with the good looks and confident bearing of a Swiss ski instructor. I poured my balls out on the grass and hit wedges to the 90- and 120-yard signs while eavesdropping on the lessons. One student, a senior citizen, was apparently "coming out of the shot," lifting his body before impact. The Australian swing coach put his hand on the old duffer's head and held it in place while he swung, the way Jack Grout once did to a boy named Jack Nicklaus. Behind me, meanwhile, the younger pro assured a young woman in shorts and T-shirt that the "kick point" on her clubs had a lot to do with her inability to get the ball airborne. He never used the word "shank." It was a lovely little range, surrounded by trees and running slightly uphill. Its only shortcoming was just that -- it was short. The last target before the end-fence was 220 yards, and signs on the tee read, "Irons Only." No problem. I left the 3-wood in my Caddie Carry-All and practiced contentedly with my other three clubs. When I finished, I filled my divots with a sand-and-seed mix and enjoyed a few cups of water from the water keg. The sun, a flaming ball, was still a few feet above the horizon when I pulled back onto 75th Street. I hadn't driven more than a few hundred yards when I spotted the sign I had been looking for earlier: ZIGFIELD TROY. I turned off the street, parked the car, and walked to the range, leaving my clubs in the trunk. I loved what I saw. A massive target field dotted with colored flags. An attractive clubhouse shaded by big trees. And lots of golfers, aged 10 to 80. There was a row of mats for inclement weather, but they weren't in use. The tee line was set up a good 40 yards out on the grass, and golfers stretched to the bordering woods. I counted about 60 tee stations. The par-3 course, beautifully maintained, was also busy. If the range had been lighted, I would have bought a bucket of balls and aired out my 3-wood. Instead, I bought a root beer from a vending machine and drank it while walking up and down the tee line. It was a happy tee line. There weren't many men frowning over their grips or laying golf clubs on the ground as alignment aids. It was mostly giggling girls and little boys yelling, "Look, Daddy!" These summer days, the longest of the year, are still too short. 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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