Whoa Nellie!

Geez, Louise...

One rain-soaked nine on Friday and a bit of range work this weekend – I’m beginning to fall into my old ways. It’s shameful what parenthood will do to your golf game. Shameful, I tell you. Not that I was any better back then – pre-life-engulfing responsibility. There has been, is now, and perhaps forever shall be a pre-determined mediocrity to my golf game, which follows along one of several paths. Let me outline them for you:

The steady descent into madness – This round usually begins well. A nice string of pars and bogeys, followed by what might be described as an “oops” hole. I’m fond of eights. There’s something about the snowman that speaks to the mediocre golfer. It says, “You will shit the bed on nearly every shot on this hole…”

Bad drive; perhaps a failed attempt at a heroic punch out from beneath the limbs of a snaring pine. The pro-forma topped shot. The angry eight iron that flies (with venom and adrenaline) the green. (Where is your target??) Bad chip. Three putt. Eight. Sign it, Roberto.

The train wreck – Have you ever gotten a double bogey and then couldn’t…stop… getting… double bogeys? I have, lotsa times. It can strike anytime, trust me.

The “what might have been” round – I’ve outlined here before my random glimpses of greatness. Pars in bunches, steady driving that makes opponents cry, miraculous chips, but for whatever reason I’ve never been able to sustain it for more than nine holes. Never had the nuts to put together two solid sub-40 rounds. I’ve probably shot below 85 less than a half dozen times in my life and only on the strength of some “out of mind’ putting. I wouldn’t necessarily call it choking but a simple un-athleticism. A failure perform the needed shot when needed. Ok, scratch that. I will call it choking.

Ah, well, the past.

The rain round on Friday, played with co-workers, started bogey, bogey, bogey. But it was one of those tri-bogey starts that could have been bogey, par, par, for lack of a decent approach here, or a passive chip there. Tap-in bogies, if there is such a thing. Three fine drives. That’s what I remember.

Then came the deluge. Pitter patter for 10 minutes and it opened up. A full soak. The four mid-round holes were basically lost and after you’re that wet it really doesn’t matter if it stopped and the sun shone down. We came to the eighth (545 yds, uphill par five) still in the downpour, just teeth-gritting and I said aloud, with some semblance of conviction, “I’m going to hit three three woods to get it on.” Well, sir, caromed by the force of the deluge, they were three rather awful three woods but they stayed in play, and not yet thirty feet from the green, I played my fourth with trusty 56-degree wedge – the Performer - as its sole describes. “Da, da...” On… short, but on. Twenty five feet. And I hit it for my sole par of the round. I don’t know the final tally but I’m playing hopeful golf, and I think that’s good.

At the range Saturday I saw hippie guy, whose swing seems to have accelerated a bit since we last nodded to each other. (We don’t talk on the range, just self-actualize each other’s pain through nods and grunts…) He was wilder than normal. Also there were two other classic range characters – “older guy teaching wife” and “let me steal your balls,” whose MO is all about waiting for the range to clear and then stepping out past the rope a few steps to grab the duffer’s drubs. He then in turn hits these balls, sits down on the bench and waits for it all to happen again. In between, he chain smokes Marlboro reds.

I was making good contact but seemingly pulling everything. Any suggestions, folks??

Da da

Chumping on the range again this past Labor Day weekend. Twice, actually, but one time was with the boys and, as I’ve mentioned before, I just get freaked out that they’re going to clock each other with their little clubs that I end up hitting maybe four balls in the bucket.

“Back up. Back up! Your brother’s gonna hit you! Wait, don’t swing yet. Wait. Wait!” Couple this with the fact that they’d rather use their little nine irons as bowstaffs rather than their intended purpose and we have paranoia non-conducive to the range mantra. Speaking of such, new theories abound in my golflogic mind, but the best is the “da da.” I will attempt to explain.

Several years ago, I began collecting books about golf. Betting wars on Ebay. All that crap. I stayed away from instructional tomes, because generally they’re all the same and I have enough running through my pre-shot mind as it is. I purposefully avoid “swing tips” - the insidious little brain worms. (Remember that scene in one of the Star Trek movies where Chekov gets the brain worm. Cool. I digress…)

While the physical manifestations of golf have always seemed plain, the same can not be said for its mental side. But past experiences with breathing exercises, visualization, etc. have led me on that late-70s path of golfmind consciousness. You can’t think you’re way to a better golf swing, but you can get out of your mind’s way. Plain.

In a nutshell that’s the thesis behind “The Inner Game of Golf,” by Timothy Gallwey, which, I guess, in certain circles is regarded as the breakthrough book on golf psychology. I started reading – all about how Self One, that bullying, regulating taskmaster part of you seems to be helping but is actually hindering your golf – all the way from the swing to how you think about the game in general.

Block out that inner chatter and you’ve won half the battle. You’ve allowed Self Two, the unhindered, to take over your swing. Well, in theory. But in practice, too! OK, I haven’t read the whole book but took the first tip (sorry, suggestion) to the range. Don’t think about your swing, no tips or inner thoughts - just say the phrase “da” when you reach the back of your back swing and then say it again when you make contact – “da… da.” The idea is a simple one – take all thought out of your swing. It’s ideal if you don’t care about where the ball is going because the idea is to free your mind of the chatter. It’s just da, da. It’s hard to stop the chatter. You do the da, da and hit some shots and then you hit a bad one and the inner mind motor starts revving again, “What did I do wrong there? Must have came over the top somehow….” STOP! Free your mind, grasshopper! Just da, da….

I found when I did this chipping I was making the smoothest contact imaginable. The woods and long irons were a bit more of a challenge, but when I stuck to the da, da, they were was measurably smoother. Although the range was pretty vacant, I kept my vocalizations relatively mild. I noticed one guy looking at me kinda strange, but I’m not sure if he heard me or was just checking my powerful six irons out to the 170 flag. Perhaps we can add the Monica Seles grunts later. Or one day see the entire range echo with a chorus of “da…Da!”