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On any given day, during any given lesson, a golf instructor is consistently forced to play with, bend, tweak, and generally ignore the truth. His or her main concern, after of course giving the student the benefit of his experience and knowledge about the swing and the game, is to offer support, reassurance, solace, and comfort to the weary, beaten-down student, for the simple reason that a teacher can’t help a student unless the student continues to take lessons. If the student gives up and never returns, the teacher can be of no further help and, regardless of whose fault it is, has basically failed. And if the teacher wants to make a living, he needs to have people wanting to come back. Often enough, at any given point the real truth may be a trifle too painful to disclose. I have a reputation for telling it more like it is than most teachers, but I also have the utmost faith in my ability to help anyone, even the most chronically inept, to improve. Thus, in my mind, there is no student who is truly hopeless, unless they refuse to do even the barest minimum of work toward improving, and when I tell them that there is always hope, I truly believe it.
After watching Jim Carrey as a lawyer suddenly compelled to speak only the truth in the movie comedy Liar, Liar, it occured to me that it would be equally as disastrous, and hilarious, if a golf instructor was afflicted in a similar fashion, especially an instructor who was in a bit over his head and on the verge of major burn-out. At this point I must issue a bit of a disclaimer as I promise I would never actually harbor such thoughts as you are about to read. And as for any of my students who recognize questions or statements you might have made, trust me, any resemblance is purely coincidental.
Let’s set the scene: Stan and Rita take their lessons as a couple, doubling the torture they inflict on our unfortunate instructor, Bob. Bob, incidentally, was never better than a 10 handicap in his own right, but with the magic of the “USGTF” (the United States Golf Teachers Federation) Bob took a week-long seminar for the low price of $1350 and became an “accredited Teacher”. Bob really had no idea what he was getting himself into when he landed this job at the Hackers on the Hill Driving Range, and after a number of long days in the hot sun he has been finding his demeanor becoming a somewhat testy.
Stan plays to about a 17, Rita has never broken 100. They’ve been to see Bob a few times, and Bob has nicknamed them “Mr. and Mrs. Dangerfield, as Stan reminds Bob of Rodney’s character in the Movie “Caddyshack”. As the lesson begins, Bob finds himself unable to hold his tongue. What he would normally say is now only thought (we’ll put it in parentheses), while the honest thoughts he would never have the nerve to utter are now what he says out loud. (In Liar,Liar, the 5 year old son of the protagonist wishes for his father to be unable to tell a lie for one whole day. In this case we’ll pretend that the Golf Gods have decided to have a bit of fun with Bob.)
Stan: Hey, Bob, how’s it going? You’re looking great. Nice hat. You know, Bob, last year I was knocking ‘em out 275 straight down the middle every time.
Bob: (At this point Bob would usually agree wholeheartedly with Stan, energetically offering something like “oh, yeah, absolutely. And you’ll be hitting them like that again in no time.” Instead, to Bob’s chagrin, what comes out is:) “275, eh? Where’s that, off a cliff? In a hurricane? I can fly the ball 260 max, and you’re going to hit it 275? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ll give you that yellow basket and drop trou in the grill room if you hit one over 250. And down the middle? Of what? You haven’t hit a fairway since last summer.
Stan: O.K., smart guy. Watch this. (Stan proceeds to make his usual horrendous, error-filled swing and hit a pull-slice that flies about 210, hitting the ground and dying like a lob shot). Hey, look at that! I got that one right on the screws! That was a much better swing, right?
Bob: (It sure was, Stan. That was awesome! You really smacked it. Now, hit another one.) If there were any screws on that club you certainly wouldn’t be scaring them. And, no, that wasn’t better, it was exactly the same pathetic swing you always make, reverse shift, over-the-top, out-to-in, open face pull-slice. Your grip is pitiful, even though I’ve fixed it 100 times, and you can’t aim within 40 yards of your target. You slump over the ball like you’re 100 years old and you have the flexibility of piano wire. Other than that, it was just great.
Stan: But the tempo was better, right? I’ve been working on that. I can’t think too much when I swing. I just want to think of the target, then let it happen, right? I want to feel like I have a natural swing, not too mechanical, right?
Bob: (Yes, that’s right Stan. We don’t want too think too much. No paralysis by analysis for you. We want you to feel totally natural. Just get that nice, smooth tempo again and hit another one.) Sure, Stan, That’s a great idea. Just don’t think about anything and make your natural swing and you’ll shoot 95 like you always do. And by the way, if you counted all the four and five footers you give yourself and didn’t take a double when you were on your way to double digits you wouldn’t even sniff a 17 handicap. But, hey, that’s all right, you just keep focusing on that target and don’t let those bothersome mechanics like grip, posture, alignment, plane, pivot, impact, picky stuff like that, bother you. And while you’re at it, swing a little faster. Let’s see if you can hit that whole yellow basket before the lesson is over.
Stan: You know, you’re right. I can’t stand thinking about that stuff. It’s way too much work. I just want to get better, not change everything. That’s why we think you’re such a good teacher. You understand us. Right Rita?
Rita: Oh, yes, Stanley.
Stan: Here, watch me hit a couple more. (Stan produces a series of pop-ups, slices, hooks, grounders, and cold whiffs.) Damn! You know, Bob, I just don’t seem to be getting this.
Bob: (C’mon, now Stan, you’ve got to hang in there. Everybody struggles at this game. Right now, you’re coming along just fine. You’ll get it. Just swing nice and smooth, and maybe loosen up that grip a little bit. There you go.) Well, gee, Stan, did you ever think of practicing? You know, when you go to the range and work on something you’ve learned? Oh, pardon me. That would presuppose that you had ever listened in the first place, or that you or your space-cadet of a wife could even hold a thought for 5 seconds. Can I let you in on a little secret? We teachers have a term for the most brain-dead of our students: it’s the All-Coma Team. You two are the captains of the men’s and ladies’ teams. I don’t know how you function in the real world, let alone make enough money to afford a golf lesson. Even picturing you driving a car is a scary thought. I mean, you can hold a knife and fork well enough to eat, right? Why is it that when you pick up a golf club your fingers knot up like you have some kind of advanced joint disease?
Stan: Hey, Bob, take it easy, O.K.? You’re getting too serious about this. We love taking lessons from you. Look at you. You got class. You dress nice and you’re a ball of laughs (rolls his eyes). Besides, Rita here thinks you’re cute. Right, Rita? Hey, Rita, wake up. Just kidding. C’mon, honey, show Bob what you got. I mean, hit one out there for him.
Rita: O.K. hon, if you say so. (Rita makes what could only be described as a grotesque attempt at a swing and dribbles one about 40 yards off to the right.)
Stan: No, no, hon, you’re doing it all wrong. You gotta keep your head down. Keep your eye on the ball and your left arm straight. And you’re always picking your left heel up off the ground. Plant that sucker on the ground and keep that weight inside your right foot and turn your shoulders. Then you gotta push those hips through with everything you got, really shift that weight! C’mon, it’s simple. Just knock the hell out of it. Now, do what I told you and hit another one.
Bob has walked over to Rita to adjust her grip and as soon as he touches her a strange feeling comes over her.
Rita: You know Stan, why don’t you just shut up and leave me alone. You always ruin it for me. It’s no fun with you yelling at me… “do this, do that”. Enough already. If you would just stop trying to teach me for a second I might even learn something. I dread going out with you to hit balls or play. Why don’t you just give it a rest? Let me do what I’m doing and you concentrate on what you’re doing. You’re almost as bad as I am, and you play a lot more. Where do you get off trying to tell me how to do it when you’re terrible yourself?
Stan: Rita, baby. I had no idea I was making you crazy like that. I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again.
Rita: You promise?
Stan: You bet I do. Man, am I glad we got that out in the open. Hey, Bob, great lesson. How much do I owe you?
Bob: (Looking at his watch with surprise) (Boy, time really flies when you’re having fun. You did great, Stan. You too, Rita. You guys are really on the right track. You can pay me here, then remember to book your next few lessons in the pro shop. We don’t want to lose our momentum now that we’ve got it going so well). You mean we’re already done? Thank God. It’s like time stands still when you two take a lesson. How much, did you say? How much do you think? The same as last time and the time before and every other time you’ve taken a lesson. Oh, I’m sorry. There I go again, taking for granted that either one of you is cognizant. I should charge you double for pain and anguish, with punitive damages on top of that. Now, go in and sign up, then try to forget to show up so I can charge you anyway. They say “hope springs eternal”, but I doubt if they ever met you two. Now go on and beat it, I need to practice.
Stan: (Grabs Bob around the shoulder and ruffles his hair) Bob-o, you’re such a character. We just love you. You’re saving me lots of cash, did you know that? Now I can stop seeing that shrink I’ve been going to. You’re better than any psychiatrist, and a bargain, at that. You’re going to be seeing a lot more of us. And we’re going to tell all of our friends. You just wait. You’ll be the busiest teacher out here. Just keep your hands off my wife, O.K.?
Bob: No problem, Stan.
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