The Cap

Right overhead...!

Getting Fitted!

Frank measures my hands (notes they’re large for a man my size). I remind him of what that means, and he nods blankly and then measures my longest finger to my wrist, my hands to the floor, my shoe size, my hair color, my grades in college, and my ability to recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards.

On the range it gets much more technical. We experiment with lofts and angles, shafts and weights, swing speed and finally my Zodiac sign. I tell Frank I’m a Capricorn and he scolds me for not telling him right off, then says, “Forget everything I’ve said, hinted, or suggested; you Capricorns are like that one spike you can’t get out of your shoe. Stock Titleist will do fine, good luck with those …” He walks off the range talking to himself about his time being wasted and why God made Capricorns in the first place, especially left-handed ones—and that’ll be $900 and an extra $100 for a wasted fitting!

Still. I’m excited about the new sticks. I have no expectations that they will improve my game; improvements are things you do to your house and the way you feel after a haircut—or should. Fact is, living up to “better” new irons only makes me think of that Shakespeare quote: “He thinks a shank behind every swing”—or something like that. I am one of those people who believes that I need to hide my new purchase from my current Callaway irons, lest they conspire in resentment. Superstition runs in my genes, or so say my results from that DNA thing, “23 and Me.” 

I bit the bullet. My reasoning is that a falling Chinese space station might hit me when it “lands,” and my opportunity ever to make the purchase will be gone forever, or until my next life—though with my luck, I’ll come back as a divot!

Eagle Springs and its dormant fairways!

Stance and grip...

Not a golf ball...super moon!

Range Finders (or How I Learned my Limitations)

The following is all about destinations, and a fair amount of jealousy. For some (Fred and Coach), looking through their Range Finder is a portal to the future. X number of yards determines their choice of club. Verification comes with a nod if they’re playing together, or an announcement to those nearby about the distance that awaits the flight of their ball. “Fred says it’s 138 yards; I’ll use a 7 iron …” I nod, knowing that the odds of his orb hitting the green are at least four times as great as mine, even though we’re sharing the same distance. His fluid swing now spent, the ball is not only headed in the right direction but has what appears to be the right trajectory/distance. Now it’s my turn. I’m thinking, okay, 138 yards, downhill, wind coming from left to right, blue pin, and damn, the property taxes were dear this year! 

My “swing,” which even on the back portion is beginning to feel like a flail, pounds the fairway so hard a divot the size of Rhode Island goes further than the ball. I look down at the scraped earth and see a gathering of Lilliputians around it, mourning a passed resident. I look back over at Fred, who says, “A bit fast ...” Denny is looking down at his feet, not wanting to make eye contact. I suddenly feel like a Morlock from “The Time Machine.” I step off the 138 original distance to my ball and I’m left with 125 yards. I take a practice swing Couples would envy and actually hit the ball in the area of the green (area, not on). I think I can hear the collective sighs from my teammates. And the obligatory, “Chip and a putt” is recited to my right somewhere—I nod in agreement, not actually believing it for a second, though I have to admit it’s a nonfiction possibility.  

Christmas has brought me a Bush-something range finder; I’ve been practicing on the trees that once lined a fairway outside my back yard. It occurs to me I might very well be teaching this instrument that the distance to trees trumps anything green and flat, housing a flag. But I’m sure it’s just my vivid imagination. I was thinking that these range finders should be like alcohol: you have to be a certain age (handicap) to own, use, or make distance announcements. 

It also occurs to me that there is a certain amount of pure arrogance for someone of my dis-caliber even to suggest that knowing the distance will encourage any scintilla of a successful swing! I know, I’m sure, positive—the first time I use this … this thing on the course, I will look into the view finder only to read a line crossing the view saying, “Who the hell are you kidding, Raggio?” and then it will emit canned laughter so loud anyone within 200 yards will hear it!

Bush-this.

Life’s a guess and so are my irons!