We are so back
A few words from the mental hospital
We are so back.
And by back, I mean I have returned to the mental institution from which I briefly left. They didn’t even change the bed sheets. Must have been the wink I gave the security guard on the way out. A look that suggested I wouldn’t make it on my own out there.
This started last weekend. Before my heroic prison escape. The warning signs of insanity were there. I turned my bedroom into a scene from A Beautiful Mind. Drawings everywhere. Sticky notes and red tape. Hieroglyphics etched in my vintage plaster walls. If you looked closely, with a discerning eye and a Rosetta Stone, you could make out the meaning of the shapes. You’d see the start line of the par-four second scribbled on my ceiling. You’d trace the dogleg par-five on the back of my bathroom door. All fifty-four holes I was about to play that week depicted somewhere in my studio apartment. And I, in the middle of it all, ready to take on three of my favorite courses in a five day span.
The signs aren’t always clear. Gradual slope. Path to hell paved with good intentions. No one wakes up saying they want to be an addict. It started innocent—a simple desire to play better golf. A commitment to getting my head out of my own feces and stop triple bogeying par-fives. Especially on these courses. I bought a new notebook. Wrote “Course Directory” on the first page with a mechanical pencil. I pulled up Google Maps and plotted every start line, miss off the tee, and miss around the green.
Course number one: the home course. Well, the old home course, anyways. The course with more buried demons and scars that haven’t fully healed. Mistwood Golf Club was the high school home course. Here’s a secret: I wasn’t good at golf in high school. And everyone else, well, was. But there was one spot open on the varsity team. One spot that, if I played my best golf for 36 straight holes, I could fill. Shooting 89 the first day quickly put to bed any of those hopes. By the time I reached the 17th hole, a short par three, I knew it was over. That’s when the kid who would go on to take that final spot hit the pin from 160. He gave me a hug on the tee box. I mentally punched him in the face.
The poor round started on the second hole. My nemesis. My nightmare. The hole I think about the night before. It’s an innocent par-four. Dogleg left. Could hit hybrid off the tee if you want. The only thing is the pile of trees around a marsh eighty yards off the tee box. The one that is way left and not even close to being in play. Yet, I duck hooked my drive into that brush every day after school sophomore year. It became known as the “Daily Duckhook.” Not a nickname you want. A true puke and rally for a nine hole match.
I hadn’t played this course in years. I’m a different player now. Different person, really. So when we booked a tee time for Memorial Day Monday, I showed up ready to slay every demon I had left in this game.
Then I topped my drive one the second hole.
That’s the moment they started preparing my return at the hospital from which I write you. What followed was a driving exhibition—one that was more cruel than impressive as I sailed one green after another from 60 yards out. Total them all up and I shot 90. All the while, save from the drive on two, I was probably gaining strokes off the tee on a professional field. Put Russell Henley at my drives and he shoots 62 minimum.
The mentally stable would take a long look in the mirror. Assess what went wrong. Practice their wedges. Go to the range with a rangefinder and an hour to kill. Normal things. If I had done just one of those, I surely would not have wound up in this padded room wearing a strait jacket. Side note: thank you to the Swedish nurse, Henri, who is copiously writing down what I dictate to him.
No, instead of taking accountability for the egregious wedge play, I did something much worse. I went to PGA Superstore. Not to buy new wedges. To get my lofts and lies checked. Because, surely, the problem wasn’t me.
The wedges must be bent. Had to be. How else could a 60-degree sail a pin 110 yards away? I parked my car. Popped the trunk. Fished three of my five wedges out of my car. Suddenly, a thought crept in my mind. One of those insidious ideas that once they appear, their seed takes root and you can’t unthink them. The thought, that, what if the wedges aren’t bent?
The fitter handed me back a neon green sticky note after measuring the clubs. I could add it to my collection back at home. Good news: two wedges were bent. Bad news: the 60 wasn’t.
Cue the spiral.
Trying to rationalize. Is it the humidity? Turning too much? Am I…getting stronger? Anything to explain the sudden twenty yard increase in my most reliable club in the bag. YouTube rabbit hole. Mark Blackburn videos. Dustin Johnson from 2017 explaining his wedge approach. Grasping at straws and gasping for air.
Two more rounds to play that week.
Golf in Michigan is different. A good different. Courses twice as nice and half the price compared to the over-saturated Chicago market. Got to the course early enough to hit a bucket of balls. I hit fifty consecutive 60 degrees and rolled up to the first tee. Then topped my drive on one. Drove the green on two. Made bogey. That summed up the round. And the one after it.
Approach play the Achilles heel. All mental while simultaneously a breakdown in all things grip-and-posture. Squared the shoulders to the hips on the last hole of the trip and watched the nine-iron never leave the target. How it always seems to go.
I’ve since returned to this dreadful place. They keep a closer eye on me now. These days I walk around the island dressed up as a security guard myself. Turns out there’s a great golf course on Shutter Island. I play every day. And I swear, I’m close. I’m really really close.
How’s your game?
We’re full into the season. Rust is shaken off. No more excuses. Where’s your game at? What’s the current swing feel?
Notes from Henri
The Dustin Johnson wedge video is sick. Reminds you just how much of a golf sicko he is. There exists a world where DJ was actually the smartest guy in the room the whole time.
If anyone has advice for our patient, let me know. He keeps talking in his sleep about how the driver is his biggest weapon but what’s the point if he can’t hit those touchy wedges. Should he get a three wood to give him that full shot? Or practice his face off from 60 yards?
Anyone looking for the best Midwest golf trip that’s ridiculously affordable needs to go to Grand Rapids. Courses to play: Diamond Springs, Ravines, Beeches, Pilgrims Run, The Mines
