“If what you’re doing isn’t working, then try something else.”
Anthony Robbins
I had no intention of teaching golf as a career. Since I was 16, my goal was to pursue a career in clinical psychiatry (I know, I know, that explains a lot).
Having only played twice before entering university, I regarded the game as a silly pastime played (at the time) mostly by men who had nothing better to do than waste an afternoon trying to bury a ball in a hole.
My father played twice a month. He subscribed to Golf Digest, Golf Magazine and the local newspaper to read the weekly serial by Jack Nicklaus. My Dad could describe the technical flaws in any swing, yet he struggled for years to break 100.
Every year from age 12 to 16, he tried to convince me to caddy for him in the annual office tournament. Every year I refused. In the fourth year, after running out of excuses, I finally agreed.
Once beyond the scope of the pro shop, the casual atmosphere (and free beer) prompted my Dad’s colleagues to give me a club. With only a basic grip and no knowledge of proper technique, I hit a number three wood about 150 yards down the middle of the fairway.
My father’s typically stoic demeanor transformed to a look of sheer amazement! Upon completing the round, he immediately registered me for a series of lessons with the club professional.
Up until this point, I had played football, basketball and baseball reasonably well, but they held no particular attraction to develop my skills. Suddenly, hitting a golf ball now held a peculiar fascination. So far, the story is pretty much what you would expect, right?
Sit tight. It gets better.
During the summer, I spent six hours a day practicing the square to square method which was in vogue at the time. The paradigm focused on a flat wrist in the backswing and driving the knees in the downswing.
Obsessed with developing proper muscle memory, I built several devices which (in retrospect conjured up images of the Spanish Inquisition) would force my body to follow the requirements of sound technique.
In order to flatten the back of the left wrist at the top of the backswing, I constructed a brace consisting of two pieces of plywood about half an inch thick, 3 inches wide and 6 inches long. There were two bolts at either end to maintain a constant pressure and force the wrist to hinge properly. (I still have faint scars where the plywood was pressed so tightly it cut off the circulation.)I wore the brace every time I practiced.
After three months of practice, I could keep the wrist relatively straight by conscious effort. I was eager to play. Can you guess what happened?
Playing my first game in three months, I scored 102! Dejected doesn’t come close to describing the empty feeling in my gut. I was reasonably athletic and, heaven knows, analytical to a fault. Yet with all this practice, any natural ability I had to hit a golf ball had completely vanished!
Perplexed as to my next course of action, I booked another lesson with the pro. Perhaps I had ingrained some tragic flaw by hitting thousands of golf balls. After watching me for half an hour, he assured me that I was on the right track and that, sooner or later, all the hard work would pay off.
It never did.
I played four more games that season. My best score was 92. If I hadn’t been a decent putter, I would have been lucky to break 100. The clubs were banished to a dark corner of the basement and remained there for four years as I continued my education.
Having graduated with a degree in Psychology, I decided to take a year off to assess my vocational options. Daunted by the prospect of four more years of medical training plus an internship, I pondered the potential real-life applications for my current knowledge.
Teaching was a viable alternative, but I had had enough of four walls and lecture halls. I vividly recall the moment that changed my life forever.
Killing an afternoon by wandering through a local bookstore, my eye snagged on a picture of Jack Nicklaus on the cover of Golf Digest. The caption read: “The Deadly Flaw in Jack’s Swing.” The article went on to describe how this technical flaw had to be fixed in order for Jack to have any success on the PGA Tour. The so-called flaw (his flying right elbow) was never fixed. Nicklaus went on to win eighteen major tournaments. The apparent flaw was an endemic part of his swing. If he had given credence to the critics and tried to eliminate it, I seriously doubt that he would have become the oldest golfer in history to win the Masters tournament.
I scanned the magazine rack and discovered five more golf publications. The feature story in each one focused on the most common mistakes made by the average golfer. Lifting the head too soon, bending the left elbow and the reverse weight shift were the most popular deadly sins. The implication was that the golf swing was not a natural motion. The ultimate goal was technical perfection.
I spent the next 30 years searching for a method that would complement a golfer’s natural ability and gradually refine the technical aspects without sacrificing his/her unique form.
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