This time is different

Plus a few words on the Irish Open

For the first time in my life, I know exactly how it feels to be a 25 year old girl in yoga pants. And I only have one thing to say: men are disgusting. I’m walking down Halsted and every guy I pass is looking me up and down. My sisters tell me it’s called “elevator eyes.” Didn’t know there was a name for it. It was flattering at first, but after a while it’s like, buddy, my eyes are up here.

They can’t help it, I guess. Nurture vs nature? After all, men only want one thing: the new forged T-series irons from Titleist. And there I was walking to the range carrying four of them in my hand. Grown men are straining their necks to get a glimpse at the brand new clubs. Girlfriends holding their boyfriend’s hand, following their line of sight only to roll their own eyes. Somehow would be less annoyed if they caught them gawking at the yoga pants. But like I said, they can’t help it when they see the sun glisten off that tungsten-steel face. So for that fifteen minute walk I got more side glances and blatant stares and covert ogles than the guys walking past Victoria’s Secret in the mall.

For those who have been around the Caddie Corner for a while, you know this day was a long time coming. I finally got fitted for new irons and just picked them up last week. I was down in Raleigh golfing over Labor Day, but the new clubs didn’t make it in time. One more round with the old unreliables. One more mid-80s round hitting it better than the head-pro I was paired with off the tee, only to make triples from the fairway while he shot a comfy 74. For years I have band-aided a swing together, trying everything I can to not hook the ball. Everything, except, for getting new irons. I’ve done the Matt Kuchar bent-over posture to make sure I compress; the Matt Wolff high-hands takeaway, the Cam Young pause to let the hips fire first. I’ve loosened the grip, tried hitting intentional slices, and in the last year resorted to just hitting Tommy-esque knock downs any time I have more than a wedge into a green. But no longer. A couple week’s wages later and I’m walking to the range on the lake feeling like a kid on Christmas creeping down the stairs to see what Santa schlepped on his sled. And oh boy, does the fat man have good taste.

I’ll save you all the unboxing video. First impressions, it’s impossible not to be in awe of the craftsmanship of these new irons. I studied mechanical engineering in college, and to this day, I occasionally refresh job openings at the major golf manufacturers. When I was a junior looking for a summer job, I applied to an opening in Carlsbad to intern at Calaway. It was (and still might be) my dream job working on their R&D team. I spent hours crafting my cover letter. Poured my 20 year-old soul into letting them know my 2014 Big Bertha driver is my most prized possession (still is). I had the engineering chops. I knew everything about their product line. And I was always a Calaway guy. But I didn’t get the job. Not even an interview. Probably because the clubs I’d been playing my whole life are spelled “Callaway.” Not “Calaway” as my cover letter so graciously said. Mom told me I needed to take more time proofreading. But gun to my head that’s how I thought they spelled it. Like misspelling your own name. Whoops.

Now I’m on the range hitting alternate shots between the four clubs I brought. I’m gassed. These clubs are heavy. Get to the top of the backswing and it feels like I’m holding an Olympic javelin over my head. But shot after shot the ball exits right and for the life of me, I can’t get them to turn over. The ball simply will not hook. The range is packed and people are waiting for my spot behind me and I’m giddy like a school kid whose crush asked him to copy their homework. Trying to play it cool but I’m smiling after every shot. Love at first sight? Lust after first pured 5-iron?

I tee off at 7 am the next morning. Clubs don’t feel as heavy. Muscle-memory already kicking in. The flex at transition starting to feel familiar. I hit I some good ones, some low-lefts that prove new clubs don’t cure all, and one shot that confirmed it: things are gonna be different. 190 to a back left pin. Down wind I pull 7-iron. Flushed off the face. Started at the middle and turning in. Looks to be all over it and it is. Things are gonna be different.

I spent the rest of the weekend taking practice swings in my apartment in front of the full-length mirror and 9 foot ceilings. Enough space for a net if I don’t mind being evicted for noise complaints. Checking hand positions. Trying to square the face. All pointless activities when all we want to do is get back out there but it’s Sunday afternoon and now football is on and Rory has an eagle putt to force a playoff.

For those that missed it, you probably still heard the roars from Dublin across the Atlantic when Rory poured in the 30 footer. Fathers hugging sons. Lads losing their minds. Announcer’s microphone cackling like New York subway’s intercom. Give it a watch:

He’d go on to win in a 3-hole playoff. Fans cheered when opponent Joaquin Lagergren dumped it in the water. Lads cheered again. Poor form from the fans? Or just call a spade a spade: their man just won his national open.

Busy work week ahead. Still making practice swings in my apartment. No tee time on the books for the foreseeable future. Peak fall golf has arrived. I’ve got the itch again. Reaching a fever pitch. Need another crack at it. Post work range sessions aren’t enough. So I struggle in silence, hopping on Teams calls doing my best to pay attention when out of the corner of my eye I can see the new irons staring at me, calling me to play. And now it’s me giving them the elevator eyes until my client says something that snaps my attention back to reality and I realize I haven’t heard anything for the last five minutes. But that’s life in the honeymoon phase. And this time, things are gonna be different.

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