Only briefly do I try to imagine what it would be like to spend my final days on earth among 100,000 aging but feisty golf fanatics. Where in Dante’s elaborate infrastructure of Hell would such a place fit?
The Villages is so enormous that it sprawls across three counties, and has its own development district. The favorite mode of transportation is the private golf cart, and a special driver-safety course is available for inexperienced newcomers. Among the diversions are two fitness centers, a wood shop, a polo field, an archery range, two libraries and thirty recreation complexes, most with heated swimming pools.
Golf, though, is the foremost attraction; golf, golf and more golf. The development offers a boggling choice of twenty-eight courses, eight of which are full-length championship tracts. The rest are short executive layouts and, not surprisingly, the only ones that residents may play free forever.
The Villages surely is the place to be if your dream is to drop dead in your FootJoys. The youngest age allowed is fifty-five, so in less than two years I’ll be eligible to move in and tee up with the other grandpas, if my wife dumps me in the interim. Should my relationship with golf turn sour, I could always take up ashtray carving, the long bow or possibly the breaststroke.
Or I could just hang myself and get it over with.
Day 60
Piled up a 103 at Sandridge, just dreadful. I’m breaking down and ordering those Callaways tomorrow.
As if it’ll make a difference.
Emotional Rescue
Golf was supposed to be easier the second time around.
That’s what everybody told me. Because of the amazing new high-tech equipment, they said, your drives will launch higher and farther, your irons will fly straighter, your putts will roll truer.
It was a lovely world to hope for, but I remained wary. One thing I remembered too clearly from the old days: No matter what club was in my hands, a bad swing invariably produced a bad result.
The revolution in golf technology that occurred during my long sabbatical was driven by two corollary, and ultimately successful, missions. The first was to expand the popularity of the sport by convincing millions of nongolfers that, with properly tuned and fitted weapons, the game really wasn’t so difficult to conquer.
A second and equally lucrative target was those souls who already played the game but did so in a mode of perpetual discouragement, approximately 98 percent of the USGA membership. The industry correctly calculated that vast fortunes could be reaped if the average player could be persuaded that his or her score would be instantly improved by purchasing an expensive new set of sticks, a ritual ideally repeated every two or three years.
To shield the touchy egos of hackers, golf manufacturers perfected a lexicon of gentle euphemisms. “Forgiving” is now the favored buzzword used to promote clubs designed for the Neanderthal swing. “Tour models” are for good players, “game-improvement” selections are for weekend warriors, and the “maximum game-improvement” aisle is reserved for the congenitally hapless.
When researching which clubs would be best for a middle-aged recidivist nursing a banged-up knee, I was overwhelmed by the multitude of choices—and baffled by the specifications.
An advanced degree from MIT would have helped when I went shopping for a driver. The loft angles varied from 7.5 degrees to 15 degrees, and one particular Mizuno was available in twenty-nine different shafts. The innards of Ping’s G5 were supposedly computer-engineered with a process called “finite-element analysis,” a term that for all I know was stolen from an old Star Trek episode.
The promotional literature abounded with confusing references to “MOI,” or moment of inertia, which describes a clubhead’s tendency to twist when it strikes the ball. The greater the measured MOI, the more stable the clubface remains at impact, theoretically producing a straighter, longer shot.
Several brands of drivers allow players to experiment with the MOI by manually rearranging imbedded weights. The 460cc Cleveland Launcher touts a “beta-titanium insert” that is “robotically plasma-welded to expand the sweet spot.” Meanwhile TaylorMade heavily advertises a SuperQuad edition with “four movable weight screws” that may be adjusted to six different centers of gravity. Unfortunately, the $400 purchase price doesn’t include a Black & Decker drill kit.
The last thing I wanted was a driver that came with an instruction manual. I can’t assemble a toy train track without leaving blood on the floor, so I wasn’t about to tinker with high-priced golfing equipment. The only “moment of inertia” that affects me is the one that occurs every time I stand over the ball, frozen with trepidation.
Friends said that choosing that first set of modern clubs would be a midlife-altering experience, and they encouraged me to consult a professional fitter who could determine the head weights, shafts, lengths and lofts appropriate for my swing.
The problem was, I didn’t have one swing; I had many.
Every time I went to the practice range I was a different golfer—a male Sybil in spikes. (Speaking of which, FootJoy is now marketing a golf shoe with plastic knobs on the heels, for personalized adjusting in case your toes suddenly swell up in the middle of a round.)
Being inconsistently inconsistent, I was a club fitter’s nightmare. A driver, for example, was in my hands an instrument of infinite possibilities. Five consecutive swings might produce (and I’ve kept track): a monster slice, a snap hook, a push, a pull and a wormburner. There’s no single technological solution to such random dysfunction.
So I decided to go basic, ordering a full set of Callaway Big Berthas recommended by Bob Komarinetz at Sandridge. Having given me some lessons, he was familiar with my array of unpredictable though innovative swing flaws.
The Callaways were straight from the catalogue, the only modification being half-inch-longer shafts for the irons. The first time I used them wasn’t exactly an epiphany, since I had played with graphite loaners, but I hit enough decent shots to realize that I’d have no excuse for not improving.
In their appearance, feel and impact, the new lightweight clubs bore no comparison to what I remembered of my uncompromising old Hogans. The most startling difference was the length off the tee—I’d never knocked a golf ball that far when I was younger.
There’s a good reason why equipment companies hype distance more than any other feature; nothing inflates the vanity of a male hacker as much as bombing a huge drive. And no other facet of the sport has changed so radically since its beginnings. Golf Magazine recently asked a 6-handicapper to hit some Titleist Pro V1s with a new 460cc driver and a hickory-shafted model of the sort used a century ago. The average carry of the titanium driver was 220 yards, compared to 179 yards with the wooden club. When the test golfer switched to an old-style gutta-percha ball—a one-piece ball packed internally with dried gum—the modern driver outdistanced the antique even farther, 205 yards to 126 yards.
Most pros adore the new juiced balls and melon-shaped metalwoods, too. Today the average drive on the PGA tour goes 283 yards, compared to 255 yards back in 1968. While the hot new technology favors big hitters, the holes have become shorter for everyone. Consequently, many older courses have been redesigned to create more difficulties for the muscle-bound, and almost all the newer courses are longer and less hospitable to bombers.
As pleased as I was about the robust tee shots, I had no illusions that my game would be miraculously elevated. The extra length was meaningless—and sometimes catastrophic—if the ball was traveling on an errant line, which was a frequent problem.
Even hitting it straight didn’t guarantee more pars and birdies. A driver comes out of the bag only fourteen times per round, at the most. Lots of players can bang it plenty far but can’t score because they’re helpless with their irons, wedges and putter. That would be me.
My most productive experiment with twenty-first-century golf weaponry resulted from a round with Mike Leibick, soon after I’d started playing again. On the first hole, with his ball lying 170 yards from the s
tick, he unsheathed a club unlike anything I’d ever seen. Its shiny teardrop head resembled a dwarf fairway metal or possibly a pregnant putter, fixed on a stout graphite shaft.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A rescue club.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You definitely need to get yourself one of these,” Leibo said, and knocked the shot pin-high.
Also known as hybrids or utility clubs, they were first developed to replace long irons, which many average golfers find difficult to hit well consistently. Leibo, a very good player, told me that switching to hybrids had saved his fairway game.
“There’s a reason they’re called rescue clubs,” he said. “Anybody can hit one of these things. It’s impossible not to.”
My set of Callaways didn’t include a 3-iron, so—after asking around—I filled the gap with a two-toned 22 degree Cleveland Halo. As odd as it looked, the hybrid performed surprisingly well, and not just from the tight cut.
Because the heads of so-called utility models are smooth and roundish, they don’t grab or dig on mishits like a conventional blade can. That’s one reason that hybrids are much easier to launch from the rough, and even from fairway bunkers. Another nifty design feature is the exaggerated “face-to-back dimension,” which positions the center of gravity farther from the point of impact, generating a higher ball flight.
I was grateful to Leibo for introducing me to the wonders of rescue clubs, but he was dead wrong about one thing: It’s not impossible to hit them badly. Along with some very presentable shots, I’ve unleashed some memorable stinkers—corkscrews, pop flies, wounded jackrabbits; flight patterns that the best technicians at Cleveland Golf could never reproduce on a simulator.
This is another immutable truth about the sport: The equipment can’t save you from yourself. On a good day, a good golfer will shoot lights-out using any set of clubs. On a bad day, a bad golfer will butcher the easiest course in the county with $2,000 worth of plasma-welded hardware in his bag.
An old friend, Dan Goodgame, carries the same persimmon woods and bone-jarring Hogan blades that he was using more than thirty years ago, when we last teed off together—and he still plays well. Conversely, the golf club has not been invented that I can’t find a way to disgrace.
A hybrid might rescue a player from a bad lie, but there is no rescue from a bad swing. When you suck, you suck.
Day 98
I phone my wife to tell her that I birdied one of those nasty par-3s that always gives me fits. She congratulates me enthusiastically, but later confesses that she has no idea what a birdie is.
Day 102
From an e-mail to Leibo:
“I shot a 49 at Sandridge but I didn’t have any three-putts. How the fuck is that possible? Lost not one but two balls on a par-5, and got a 9 on the hole.”
Leibo responds: “I have a solution. Don’t play the par-5s.”
He might be serious.
Day 113
As a surprise, my wife buys me a 35-inch Scotty Cameron American Classic, a milled flange that looks like a work of modern art.
Even if the occasion calls for it, I’ll never have the heart to wrap this lovely putter around a pine tree.
Gimme Shelter
For the solitary, anxiety-ridden golfer, public links are slow torture. One solution is to have your own backyard golf course. In Bridgehampton, New York, somebody is selling a sixty-acre retreat with a twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion, fourteen gardens and a nine-hole layout complete with a pro shop. Price: $75 million.
A less extravagant option is to join a country club, then sneak out to play in off-hours or foul weather, when the course is nearly deserted.
The summer and early fall are prime in Florida, because that’s when the heat becomes so suffocating that most club players flee north. Those who remain venture out while the morning dew is still on the grass, and hurry to complete their rounds before the sun gets high. By mid-afternoon, most private courses are as barren as the bleachers at a Marlins game.
Soon after we moved to Vero Beach, my wife learned of a club called Quail Valley, which offers tennis, yoga, a fitness center, two good restaurants and a large swimming pool for the kids. It also features a golf course designed by Nick Price and Tom Fazio, which guarantees a degree of difficulty far beyond what’s advisable for an aging second-timer. The regulars call it “Gale Valley,” which, I would soon discover, was not hyperbole.
The course was carved from a flat 280-acre orange grove, sculpted with two million cubic yards of fill and elevated to heights of forty feet. The dirt was excavated on site, the ensuing craters converted to a daunting network of ball-eating lakes, ponds and sloughs.
Bill Becker, a friend and a first-rate player, gave me a tour of the layout on a breezy December day. I hadn’t seen so much water since Hurricane Donna swamped the state in 1960.
Noticing the dread in my eyes, Bill tried to calm me. “The fairways are actually pretty wide,” he kept saying.
Yet all I could think was: I must be out of my frigging mind.
From the blue tees at Quail, the USGA Course Rating is 71.4 and the Slope is 133. Not a cakewalk.
Still, the place was pretty and, more importantly, quiet. Bill promised I’d be able to play a quick and solo nine holes practically any afternoon, even during the winter season. It was an enticing pitch.
Later we visited the clubhouse, where taxidermied heads of elk, moose and other deceased ungulates gazed down from the walls. Upon entering the men’s locker area, I was startled to see a stuffed African lion, as well as an upright brown bear, its face locked in a somewhat befuddled snarl. Bill assured me that the mounts were only decorative, and that bagging large game was not a requirement for membership.
I liked that Quail Valley was freestanding and wide open, not pinched inside a residential development. Its rural, agriculturally zoned site had been selected specifically to minimize the possibility—or at least forestall the day—that it will be surrounded by houses and condos, a depressingly common fate.
In Florida it’s rare to find a new golf course that was built purely for the experience of the sport. Most courses are conceived as the centerpiece excuse for some mammoth high-end real-estate project, the mission being to wring every last dime of profit from every square foot.
Not far from Naples is an 868-acre “community” called West Bay, supposedly “dedicated to preserving the surrounding environment.” Indeed, developers have set aside about five hundred acres of woods and wetlands, and built an ecologically copacetic golf tract that earned a coveted “sanctuary” designation from Audubon International.
Yet within this setting are no fewer than eight subdivisions offering single-family houses, estate homes and compact crossbreeds called “carriage homes,” meaning they are small enough to be pulled by horses. None of the units are cheap, and the developers have gotten rich.
But not rich enough, as they’re now topping off two twenty-story towers on the shore of Estero Bay—just an elevator ride and a short stroll to the first tee.
I take the old-fashioned position that golf was not meant to be played in the shadow of a high-rise; that high-rises don’t belong on the banks of an estuary; and that whoever is responsible for such abominations should be pounded to a permanently infertile condition with a 60-degree lob wedge.
Some golfers don’t seem to care about the crimes committed against nature in the name of the game. They see nothing offensive about a two-hundred-foot wall of cold concrete and glass looming over the fairways. How better to shield a tee shot from those pesky Gulf breezes? And, really, who cares about blocking out the horizon? Seen one sunset, seen ’em all.
Welcome to paradise, suckers. Prices start in the mid-400s.
Many of the top names in course design—Nicklaus, Robert Trent Jones, the Fazios—shy away from vertical monoliths in most of their developments. However, there’s no escaping the fact that untold thousands of acres of wild habitat in this country have been sacri
ficed for the dubious cause of recreational golf. The one positive thing to be said about the proliferation of these projects is that, in fast-growing communities, the alternative can be worse.
Newer golf courses often use recycled water and less toxic fertilizers, and even the older layouts are relatively easy on the ecology compared to the waste and pollution generated by the average suburban housing development. Mapping eighteen or thirty-six holes requires large, contiguous expanses of open land. As a result, residential density levels in golf communities tend to be significantly lower than that of large-scale subdivisions. That’s beneficial in a place such as Florida, which is filling up at the absurdly self-destructive rate of almost one thousand new residents per day.
In a sane world, conscientious officeholders would have put a halt to this stampede by enforcing sensible growth-management laws. But in the corrupt, whore-hopping reality of Tallahassee politics, that hasn’t happened. Growth-for-growth’s-sake is the engine that drives the special interests controlling the legislature, and greed is the fuel. Except for the withering Everglades and a few state preserves, every last unspoiled acre of my home state is up for grabs.
Interestingly, the new-golf-course business isn’t thriving so well in the rest of the country. In 2006, more courses shut down than opened in the United States, the first time that’s happened in sixty years. The downturn hasn’t yet affected the Sunshine State.
Whenever I see another golf club under construction (and Florida must have more per capita than anyplace else on the planet), I have to remind myself that the fate of that lost land might otherwise be two thousand new “zero-lot-line” houses, with roads, sewers, a freeway exit and almost certainly a strip mall. In a sad but ironic way, the boom in golf courses is actually keeping greener what’s left of Florida. Loblolly pines and Bermuda grass are better than concrete and asphalt, and infinitely more hospitable to wildlife and humans alike.