When Yonex Liked Me

There is an element of greed in golf.


We all look for that edge or answer, combination or epiphany, that will elevate our game and earn us more skins: the ego of the longest drive, that seemingly obedient shot that skips to within a half inch or drops in the hole, the two-armed bandit that retains the same element of risk and hope as a one-armed bandit.

In that search for “better,” when improvement is made and becomes practice, we find ourselves complaining about “losing holes” by reframing it as, “I don’t stroke here,” said with regret. And yet, it is the ultimate goal: to lower one’s handicap! Yes, dammit, I want it both ways!


In the late ’70s (Check that, mid '80s) I owned a Yonex driver. I learned to drive it 225-250 yards without challenge. It became a “Yawn-ex” driver. The fellows I played with used Titleist and occasionally out-drove me by 10-15 yards—occasionally. Occasionally whispered to me more than occasionally, and I made the switch to eliminate those whispering yards.

If my retired Yonex could talk, I’m sure it would have said, shaking its head, “You’re trading shoes for skates, shithead!”


The New Driver was an enigma. The cost, my ego, and my handicap insisted that I use it until that Rosetta Stone appeared; it never did. When I finally admitted, understood, that consistency and trust were paramount, it was too late. My Yonex was no longer interested in returning to the good ol’ days. Hooks, slices, and tops abounded. All the cute, inane golfisms were offered in every failed effort off the tee.

“I hope you now know, Raggio, it ain’t the arrow, it’s the Indian.” The only reason these people are still alive today is because I left my off-duty in the car!


I have seen in our group nearly everyone bury themselves, only to rise like a phoenix. Sam of late, Coach not that long ago, certainly Fred next—and I could go on to every one of us. Okay, so it’s cyclical, and I know in time improvement will rear its overdue head and last week’s “fuckin’ ugly” will become a concert in time.


This all reminds me of the guy who is curious about what would happen if he licked his finger and inserted it in a light socket. He shrugs, he licks, he inserts. Eyelashes singe and smoke, his hair rockets his hat off his head, every nerve in his body is screaming at triple fortissimo, his muscles become rocks begging for release, he’s wet himself and something else is threatening, his entire life passes in flashes. He finally falls back away from the socket. He lies there, gasping, the smell of burned hair and flesh an acrid reminder of near death. He’s able to pull himself up on one elbow and he glares at the socket. He licks his finger again …


Golf: the ultimate self-abuse!