Envy over golf clubs is a rite of spring

At this time of year, golf clubs come in two varieties.

No, I'm not talking about clubs having shafts made of shiny metal or sleek graphite.

Clubs are either involved in a solid relationship, lovingly hand polished by their owners and placed on a felt covered mini-altar in the garage, or, like mine, they sit on shaky ground, unloved and unwashed in the car's trunk, coated with the grass, turf, and Liberty Lake goose calling cards from last year's final rounds.

Even joint counseling from MeadowWood's head pro likely won't save these clubs from golf's version of divorce court - the online auction.

It isn't the groundhog that heralds the coming of spring for me. It's a call from my friend Eric.

Before you can say "shotgun start," we'll be in the local golf stores, shooting longing glances at putters with promises or graphite drivers with yellow stickers that read, "Warning! The green may be more reachable than you think."

It's such promises that lead to the inevitable alienation of affections between a golfer and his clubs after a purchase has been made.

The most expensive clubs are the nonconforming ones, deemed illegal for sanctioned play due to their use of something called a "trampoline effect" to send the ball rocketing great distances down the fairway while the golfer fights the illmannered urge to let out a Tarzan yell.

Even Callaway, the most hallowed name in golf, now makes one of these clubs. Discovering this was more shocking to me than if all of the Valley's churches had suddenly announced, "There are only seven commandments. We were just fooling about the other three."

Most golfers can't hit a golf ball straight while standing still. Add a trampoline and I sure wouldn't want to own property next to a course.

I stand pat, even after receiving that first club-making catalog in the mail. Memories of watching the business end of a newly made driver sailing out past the 50-yard marker at the Painted Hills driving range, and the hushed, eerie silence as its owner/ creator retrieved it, convinces me holding is still the right move. The next step for Eric and me is to join the throngs of pent-up golfers at the indoor golf dome.

I'm not totally sure about the science behind it, but the number of places where golfers can hit practice balls in the dead of winter is inversely proportional to the number of reported road rage incidents, especially those that involve golf carts.

At the dome, you put a token in a dispenser, and your bucket is filled with white doses of humility. You wait for a spot of ersatz grass in a wooden stall and then commence firing at the fabric targets hanging 65 yards away.

Everyone can hit the ball 65 yards, even if your club's shaft was made out of overcooked spaghetti. But here, the trick is to make a noticeable, cherry bomb pop when your ball collides with a target.

If your shot sounds like a humming bird bumping into a clothesline of wet Martha Stewart sheets, you pull the brim of that new golf hat down and slink on over to the practice putting green.

Due to the crowd, Eric and I share a stall and alternate shots. Encouragement is important here. Eric whacks a drive that looks like it wants to bore its way out of the building.

"Great hit, Eric!"

Challenged, I cross my eyes, swing from my heels, and produce a drive with the recent flight pattern of an Internet stock.

His reply - "Nice hit, Donna" - falls a little short of qualifying as actual support.

We move to the practice green, where golfers with putters carved to look like a mallard's head challenge on equal footing golfers with a cross-handed grip on a polar-balanced putter.

Here, it doesn't really matter how you read the break in the green, because we're all at the mercy of playing conditions. In this case, the putting green is a patch of commercial-grade carpeting and playing conditions are determined by how successfully the attendant picked up all the gravel on that last pass with the Hoover.

I hear that Valley courses are contemplating opening in a few weeks. I'm all for it. If the fairways remain in their current state of permafrost, every drive will be hitting a landing surface not unlike an airport runway. Ah distance, sweet distance!

The only practicing I'm going to do now involves my Tarzan yell.

Copyright 2001 Cowles Publishing Company
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved.