The Wacky Side of Golf |
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19TH HOLE COMEDY • Today, the blog • Tomorrow, the book |
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Bombs Away This entry was posted on 5/30/2006 9:01 PM and is filed under uncategorized. Imagine this -- I found myself paired with a long drive champion. Brad is in his early thirties, stocky, maybe 5’9” on his tiptoes. But built like a bank vault. He weighs 220 pounds, most of it packed in a massive upper body -- his wide shoulders that can block a two lane highway taper down to a tiny waist. (Imagine a 5’9” letter V that can bench press a Brinks truck.) Surprisingly, (this may be more than you will believe) -- Brad drives par four holes. He said his longest drive in competition is 454 yards, and he thinks he will soon smack one 550 yards. For comparison, the current PGA Tour driving distance leader averages about 319 yards. If I get a running start and spin like a propeller I can smack one 210 yards, tops -- less than half the distance of Brad’s drives. My new playing partner was busy orbiting balls on the practice tee when we met. I felt like slinking away right after we shook hands. I didn't want him to see me warm up. How embarrassing would it be to pull out a space age Taylor Made driver and bunt one 210 yards? But I couldn’t leave. I had to watch him. Have you ever seen what a 450 yard drive looks like? Up close? I stayed put. The shaft on his driver is the same length as the pole on our patio umbrella and ideal for measuring two club-length drops. Give him two club-lengths and he's on the other side of the fairway. His biceps swell to the size of cantaloupes -- threatening to shred his sleeves when he takes the club back, and he takes it back s-l-o-w-l-y. At the top of his backswing, I instinctively put my fingers in my ears fearing an explosion. His clubhead fires through the ball at something like the speed of sound -- with the force of a fighter plane screaming off an aircraft carrier. The ball goes five miles, ten miles, over the Himalayas, off the globe, who knows? Without binoculars or a NASA tracking device, it’s hard to tell. Who wouldn’t kill to see him in action on the golf course? On the way to the first hole he told me he has to wait on the tee of par four holes until the group ahead clears the green. Really. I asked if he’d mind if I stood behind him. I wanted to watch the ball takeoff like a mortar shell. Maybe it leaves a vapor trail, who knows? Hey, you don’t go to the ballpark to see Barry Bonds bunt. The first hole is a 427 yard par four. Our group anxiously awaited blast-off like we were at the Cape sweating out the countdown of a shuttle launch. Brad teed-up the longest ball Titleist manufacturers. This drive would be for real, the dimpled little sphere was about to take a beating. My eyes began to saucer. I shaded them and leaned forward to get a perfect view. Brad’s face was flushed with bold determination, adrenaline surged through his veins as he took the club back. At the top, the muscles in his body ballooned until they seemed ready to explode. Then he let the big dog hunt. The massive clubhead became a blur as it ripped through the top eighth of the ball. . .the giant firing pin had missed the center of the bullet. The Titleist accelerated off the tee and shredded a path through six good size brittle bushes about 50 feet in front of us. Frankly, I thought it was an incredible display, I’ve never seen a ball go through shrubbery like a weed eater. I applauded. Brad wasn’t amused, he reloaded. Perhaps he had been too tense, maybe trying to out-Tiger Tiger on the first one. He fired again. The second ball climbed like an F-15. But it was an international flight -- destination: Belgium. Due east! Brad never lived up to expectations. Even so, I had a picnic watching him chase foul balls You can’t begin to imagine where his tee shots wound up. One ended up in a small pond in front of the green on a par-5 hole. He even had to cross a street to retrieve an “easy” lob wedge. Brad's next long drive competition is in Nevada. Attention, citizens of Utah: Red Alert! |
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