Practice Makes Perfect
Posted by 3 Dollar Suit on Friday, June 26, 2009
If ever there was a cliche based solely in truth, the title of this blog posting is quite fitting.
But before readers assume practice, in this case, is in reference to chords, scales and fingering, think again. It's about golf, and how the game manages to elude perfection from its throngs of participants.
Practicing golf is all I have time for now. Family, job, 3 Dollar Suit, etc. If you know the game, it can be dreadfully long. Most players suck, they all want to do what they saw on TV last weekend - even if it means lining up a four-footer for triple-bogey. It's a travesty. At what point did grown men lose all sanity and believe what they see on TV as simple or doable? Ugh. Back to my point - I practice, therefore I am.
Having not struck a golf ball in over a year, and having a free night at my disposal, I was off to the driving range. I chose a range with grass tees - not slivers of green carpet with what resembles an oversized straw sticking out for a tee - how is that arrangement supposed to help you? This range also had to have a bunker which bordered a green, since most golfers are complete hacks (bear with me for I'll repeat that fact throughout this blog) it seems necessary that each phase of the game can be practiced if you really want to improve - because if you suck - which you most likely do - that means you'll end up in the rough, or in the bunker and what better way to learn how to get up and down from those spots! What a concept.
With two, overpriced, large buckets of 'shag balls', ($20? the pro shop has firmly grasped the concept of 'charge what the market will bear') I trudged toward the range. The sun was setting, but the air was thick and still. With wedge in hand, I took a breath, took my stance and swung. I believe the word which best described the following sound was 'crisp' - for the ball, even in all it's rock-hardness, snapped off the face with a slight draw, landing about 90-yards from where I was standing - I gazed at the ball's flight, holding my finish like David Duvall, and thought, "I can still do this."
I went through every club in the bag with equal results. Sure, I squibbed a few, but overall, the range, as well as a healthy dose of muscle memory, was being vey kind to yours truly. In the tradition of the late, great Ben Hogan - I left a handful of balls in the bucket...............
With the sun now below the mountains, I went to the bunker. Speaking of which, I've come to learn 'bunker' is the ideal term for that particular type of hazzard. It has some European history. But as with many things 'Western", many refer to them as 'sand traps'. I'll go with history - so a bunker it will be.
I skull the first shot - that ball, from my own bag, will not be found on this day. But once I got the feel of the sand (which was actually a pretty poor excuse for sand - If I didn't know better, the bunker was full of sand used to coat roads on an icy day), pellets were dropping within 10-feet of the cup. The only thing left to do before the sun set was putting - arguably the most challenging detail of the game - for where else can it take as many shots to actually bury the hole in the cup as it took you to get the ball to the green? I missed more than I made, but felt the stroke was still there. Time to wrap it up, but not before I make a stab at 5 more putts.
Standing about 18-feet away, I stare at the cup, which is uphill, breaking left to right - or so it appeared. The first was short and left. The second short and right. The third long. Now the fourth was interesting. The ball left the putter on a good line - just like I envisioned it, moving slowly left to right, but six inches from hole, and to my surprise, it breaks left before it fell in! What devious plot was this? A practice green? With real undulation? With breaks? One more ball - "Cinderella story - 18th at Augusta - an 18 footer for the win - 18 feet away from history". The putt was away, started left, turned right, and with it's final rolls, turned left again, and dropped in. How sweet was that! Luck? I'm not a believer in luck - getting a break here and there? Well, that happens - but that dose of draino was flat out skill.
Until next year, Mr. Driving Range.........................
But before readers assume practice, in this case, is in reference to chords, scales and fingering, think again. It's about golf, and how the game manages to elude perfection from its throngs of participants.
Practicing golf is all I have time for now. Family, job, 3 Dollar Suit, etc. If you know the game, it can be dreadfully long. Most players suck, they all want to do what they saw on TV last weekend - even if it means lining up a four-footer for triple-bogey. It's a travesty. At what point did grown men lose all sanity and believe what they see on TV as simple or doable? Ugh. Back to my point - I practice, therefore I am.
Having not struck a golf ball in over a year, and having a free night at my disposal, I was off to the driving range. I chose a range with grass tees - not slivers of green carpet with what resembles an oversized straw sticking out for a tee - how is that arrangement supposed to help you? This range also had to have a bunker which bordered a green, since most golfers are complete hacks (bear with me for I'll repeat that fact throughout this blog) it seems necessary that each phase of the game can be practiced if you really want to improve - because if you suck - which you most likely do - that means you'll end up in the rough, or in the bunker and what better way to learn how to get up and down from those spots! What a concept.
With two, overpriced, large buckets of 'shag balls', ($20? the pro shop has firmly grasped the concept of 'charge what the market will bear') I trudged toward the range. The sun was setting, but the air was thick and still. With wedge in hand, I took a breath, took my stance and swung. I believe the word which best described the following sound was 'crisp' - for the ball, even in all it's rock-hardness, snapped off the face with a slight draw, landing about 90-yards from where I was standing - I gazed at the ball's flight, holding my finish like David Duvall, and thought, "I can still do this."
I went through every club in the bag with equal results. Sure, I squibbed a few, but overall, the range, as well as a healthy dose of muscle memory, was being vey kind to yours truly. In the tradition of the late, great Ben Hogan - I left a handful of balls in the bucket...............
With the sun now below the mountains, I went to the bunker. Speaking of which, I've come to learn 'bunker' is the ideal term for that particular type of hazzard. It has some European history. But as with many things 'Western", many refer to them as 'sand traps'. I'll go with history - so a bunker it will be.
I skull the first shot - that ball, from my own bag, will not be found on this day. But once I got the feel of the sand (which was actually a pretty poor excuse for sand - If I didn't know better, the bunker was full of sand used to coat roads on an icy day), pellets were dropping within 10-feet of the cup. The only thing left to do before the sun set was putting - arguably the most challenging detail of the game - for where else can it take as many shots to actually bury the hole in the cup as it took you to get the ball to the green? I missed more than I made, but felt the stroke was still there. Time to wrap it up, but not before I make a stab at 5 more putts.
Standing about 18-feet away, I stare at the cup, which is uphill, breaking left to right - or so it appeared. The first was short and left. The second short and right. The third long. Now the fourth was interesting. The ball left the putter on a good line - just like I envisioned it, moving slowly left to right, but six inches from hole, and to my surprise, it breaks left before it fell in! What devious plot was this? A practice green? With real undulation? With breaks? One more ball - "Cinderella story - 18th at Augusta - an 18 footer for the win - 18 feet away from history". The putt was away, started left, turned right, and with it's final rolls, turned left again, and dropped in. How sweet was that! Luck? I'm not a believer in luck - getting a break here and there? Well, that happens - but that dose of draino was flat out skill.
Until next year, Mr. Driving Range.........................
