Father-Son Golf Memories

My best golfing experience was a few years ago when my son and I drove to Myrtle Beach from New Jersey. It was the "Big Confrontation" and "Final Showdown" of father vs son. I was 15-handicap, he was 7. I played him straight-up because of the Dad Factor -- he traditionally choked when he played with me. I needled him a little about this, but not too much because I knew it bothered him--he really wanted to show me what he could really do. Plus, he wanted to kick my ass.

Anyway, the picture above is of one of the 54 holes we played. I honestly don't remember which course it was on. It was a short par-3 made tricky by the water, of course. We played it relatively early in our competition, but it was important because it was picturesque, a challenge, and we ribbed each other about not freezing up because of the water, etc. Time to tee it up.

I had the honor, and I landed my ball safely on the green somehow. I did a little dance. His shot skipped off the green and into the water, along with my glee. My heart ached as he slumped over to the drop area and flipped one up onto the green. I made par. He either bogied or doubled, I don't remember. All I know is that my heart reached out to my son. Our good time was suddenly infused with hurt. I had no idea how to fix it.

At the end of our glorious stay there, he played very well and I was proud of him. We never spoke of that hole and we had a great time on all the other wonderful courses we played. Ultimately, I rose above my game and beat his 54-hole score by one shot, by sinking a winding, downhill 15-footer on the very last hole.

That was in 2000 and I'm still not happy about it. I still wish he'd made that shot to the semi-island green when it seemed so important, when I knew he wanted to come through. Oh, I had my share of fat shots, skulls, and shanks, and I have no idea what he thinks of those. But I won. And although that was the best golfing experience of my life, it could have a been a bit better, for his loss hurt me more than it hurt him.

Dads. Go figure, huh?

Golf's ridiculous inventions

HAHAHA! Excuse me, but am I the only one who finds this RadarGolf Ball Positioning System not only highly ridiculous but insulting to one's intelligence? Yippie, now you can find your lost balls and save yourself $3.00! The only trouble is, you need the device at the left at a cost of $250.00 and the price of a dozen balls with embedded microchips. Can it save you a stroke every now and then? Perhaps...but if your ball is lost to begin with, you might want to instead apply the $250 to golf lessons. And its name...does it uses its mysterious "system" to "position" your ball for you? I wish! All it does is find your ball. Correction: it finds its own balls. Enough said.

Here's a link to this amazing lesson in how to spend a dollar to save a dime:
http://golf.about.com/od/equipmentreviews/gr/radargolf.htm.

I think I'll start to regularly look for these kind of shameless snake-oil-type there's-a-sucker-born-every-minute golf products, like those weird contraptions you strap yourself into or clamp around body parts. And I grew up thinking that plaid pants were the silliest things about golf. :)

I love Annika

I love Annika, and it's killing me seeing her so despondent over her less-than-goddess-like play. Does anyone else feel sorry for her? She's the best female player in decades and she's in a slump and it couldn't be more ill-timed, what with Michelle Wie stealing the airtime with her so-so play, and announcers bemoaning pouty Creamer's "slump." (Has Paula been playing long enough to have a slump??) And poor Ochoa has been virtually walking on water on the LPGA and she gets no press. Well, we'll see what happens Saturday. But I hope Annika plays better...it's killing me!

Quirks of the pros

Fuzzy's whistling, Duval's sunglasses, Phil's weird circular putting routine, Tiger's red Sunday shirt... the ridiculous "trademark" hats, attire, hairdos, waves, etc. And that's only the men's tour. As for me....

I want to know about David Toms. How many times does he lick his pinky per round, and how many hands does he shake afterward?

Do you have a quirk? Does anyone you know? Is Tom Kite the only one to wear a beach umbrella for a hat? Me, I used to have a habit like Toms, only I licked my girlfriend's pinky. Oh, wait...that's a fetish.

WIEeeve her alone? Pfft.

I said this on The Golf Blog and I’ll repeat it here because I am baffled by how some have bought into the image of innocent little Michelle battling the mean-old male pros, as if by some crafty undercover investigative journalism we suddenly discovered her doing this in private and broke the story before the worldwide press, thereby putting undue pressure on the kid that brought great emotional harm to her game, forcing her to fail and inflicting her with something even worse than the yips…the pose.

No, no, armchair commentators. She, Michelle, is the premeditating aggressor and media-hound, a young woman (or old girl) who is using the world of golf and golf media in new and revenue-generating ways before she achieves a darned thing amongst her peers.

And some say don’t upset her, don’t put her horrible failure as a young princess in the limelight…even though she brought her own limelight and can’t fail, no matter what she shoots.

If she was 30, we’d expect her to win. If she didn’t win she would be humiliated in the press, then forgotten. But hers is an invulnerable stunt, like holding your breath underwater for nine minutes. You just can’t lose for losing.

All this doesn’t mean I’m not “into it” or entertained. I am! I swear! I’m riveted and rooting for her, like I do for those families who have to dive through green slime and red Jell-O and be struck with whipped cream pies to win prizes.

What irritates me is how seriously some of the public…and golf “thinkers” out there…are taking all this. Michelle and her production company promote all this multimedia hoopla. She WANTS the attention, the buzz. This isn't "The Truman Show."

She knows what she’s doing. Which, by the way, doesn’t make it any less entertaining….until someone bursts my bubble of suspended disbelief. Then, I have to tell it like it is. Or was.

Will she…or another female pro…make the cut in a male tournament? Of course. Please. This isn’t an issue of golf. It is an issue of pertinence and meaning.

(wags finger) Tsk, tsk. I think for some of you, this is a very serious battle of the sexes, not a battle of the sticks. If so, this opens up a Pandora’s Box of political correctness and inappropriate stereotyping that doesn’t belong in this column. But don’t try me. :-D

Has a club ever given you the shaft?

I was talking with my seven-handicap son tonight. He was wrestling with the psycho-physio-emotiono conundrum of why a certain club will suddenly die and go cold. For him this night, it was his driver. His TM R7 9.0.

"Dad, I was so sweet with it the last two weeks. You know that sweet high draw of mine...Oh!...man I could drop that pebble anywhere between 250 and 275. Then, yesterday, and again today, the draw was gone. Even the sweet and high were gone. All-over-the-f-ng-place was there instead. Why? Is it...me?"

What do you say to your 32-year old son? "Of course it's you, dolt. You're doing the swinging, the club's just along for the ride." Naw, I couldn't tell him that. I told him: "It's a mystery. Some say the very first golf clubs crafted were forged by an evil wizard who implanted in them a contagious virus that...." You get the idea.

Well, like son like father. For me, it's my five-iron. My five-iron, the club that kept me walking the straight and narrow round after round, year after year, memory after memory...my trusted five-iron has given me the shaft.

I know, you’re saying “Get a grip!” But it’s gone. The touch I grew to love, to rely upon, to cherish...all gone. The feel of it nestled in my palms, entwined by my confident embrace...all gone. The effortless manner in which it lofted gleaming white orbs skyward...all gone, gone, gone.

Now, to my utter shock, my five-iron has abanoned not only the straight, but the narrow. Now, it goes both ways. It’s a hooker. A vicious slicer. A real wild swinger. I am hurt...and rather disgusted.

I’ve tried everything to win my five-iron back. I changed the way I hold it. I’ve given it a ride on different and fantastic planes. Slowly, quickly...it just doesn’t seem to matter. Nothing has worked. It has simply turned its head the other way.

So, what do I do? Give it one last chance to get in the groove? Cut it off and give it to a junior golfer? It took me weeks of anguish to reach a decision, but I did.

I decided that instead of my five-iron, I would take out my four-iron. I am hoping that my five-iron will get jealous enough to stop fooling around.

Oh, so what about my son's driver problems, you ask? He has decided to take it out on his three-wood. He'll just hit the three-wood exclusively off the tee until he drives it crazy.

Wie Wie Wie, all the way home!

It wasn't a total shocker, Michelle not cutting it at the Canoe Brook. We wanted her to succeed, though. It was, however, unlikely--which made us want it more. Someday, she or some other woman will up and do it. But today, Michelle couldn't. Today, she lacked the stuff of, say, The Little Engine Who Could. "I think I can, I think I can..." I'm not so sure that Michelle thought she could, putt that is. She squatted over those shorties for just a few beats too long for my angst. I could feel her missing the putts. I wasn't wishing it...just feeling the bad vibe, the engine failing, brakes squealing, temper rising.

I haven't seen the stats yet, but she must have crushed at least a few male egos today. That in itself is something the masculine professionals could use a bit more of. Michelle can go home proud as hell, head high, regretting a few putts, but making her mark among the men. Frankly, I don't know how David Duvall does it week in and week out.