“The ball gets in the way of the swing.”
George Knudson
One of the most common delusions among the mid to high handicap golfer is the expectation that practice makes perfect. The number of practice shots you hit, good or bad, have absolutely no causal relationship to how you play. For years, I entertained the idea that the more I practiced, the better I would play.
Does this sound familiar?
This firmly entrenched belief was challenged on a golf vacation, when I was paired up with an older gentleman in his late fifties (I was thirty-two at the time, so I considered anyone over forty old) who shattered my belief in the value of practice. We met on the practice range twenty minutes before our tee time. My swing felt effortless. Every shot traced a perfect parabolic trajectory towards the target. I could hardly wait for the accolades from my partner.
I glanced over periodically and couldn’t help but notice Bob’s short, choppy backswing and abbreviated follow-through. His shots varied from fair to good to worm-burners and fat shots. I’m ashamed to admit that the prospect of spending four and half hours looking for lost balls, almost impelled me to feign a mysterious illness and ask for a raincheck.
If I had followed through with that impulse, today I would be spending countless hours lying on a therapist’s couch struggling to come to terms with the inequities of the game.
I played reasonably well that day and shot 77. My playing partner shot 75!
A gnawing voice somewhere in the back of my mind kept screaming that the score wasn’t a true reflection of our respective abilities. Was there no justice?
Tinged with frustration and burning with curiosity, I had to find out how Bob (not his real name) flipped a switch and went from a total duffer on the practice range to a very respectable player under pressure. There were no bets involved, so the thought that I was being hustled quickly dissolved.
Trying to assuage my guilt, I offered to buy the beer. We pulled up a small table in the clubhouse overlooking the practice range. Barely restraining my irritation, I blurted,
“How did you do that?” A wry smile played across Bob’s face as he tapped his temple with a forefinger.
“I’ve learned to keep practice and playing at a distance, like relatives. In separate rooms, everyone gets along, but put them all together and (pounding an open hand with a fist) look out!”
While I could relate to the analogy, my question remained unanswered. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Bob sipped his beer and placed his glass on the table. He rose, went to the bar and returned with two napkins. He lay them down on the table, smoothed them out and wrote Playing on the top of one and Practice on the other.
“Okay. Let’s do a little comparison. I’ll jot down your answers under the respective columns. Ready?”
I nodded.
“First question, how many balls do you play on the golf course?”
“One obviously”, I replied curtly.
“Right.” Ignoring my condescending tone, Bob jotted a number one under Playing then continued. “And how many balls do you hit on the practice range?”
I shrugged, “Well…anywhere from 40 to 80.”
“Let’s round it off at 60.” He scribbled 60 under Practice. “How about hazards - do you have any on the range?”
“No.”
“How about on the golf course?”
Recalling vividly the numerous rounds where I had paid homage to the sand god, I replied: “Average three sand traps per hole, so 54 traps plus three water hazards.”
“Okay then. Let’s say conservatively thirty-six.” The napkin was beginning to lose its shape as Bob’s pen scrawled halfway down the column.
“How wide is the average hole on your home course?”
“Maybe 40 yards I guess.”
“How about the practice range?”
I was sure the range was at least 100 yards wide, but I was beginning to feel like a suspect in a CSI investigation.
I replied smugly, “About 60 yards.”
Glancing down at my watch, I sighed audibly. “Is there a point to…?”
Bob eyed me askance then continued the interrogation, “Last question. Do you practice off artificial turf or grass?”
“Grass whenever possible” I replied indignantly, “I look for an area where the grass hasn’t been disturbed. The grass tee decks on most practice ranges look like the fallout from a groundhog convention. Sometimes it’s hard to find a perfect lie.”
In a tone tinged with sarcasm, Bob replied, “That makes sense. Why practice from bad lies on the range? You’ll get enough of them on the golf course.”
Momentarily offended, I grudgingly acknowledged,
“Alright, alright. I get your point.”
Shaking his head in mock despair, Bob continued.
“Why would you expect to play better or worse, based on your results on the practice range? In every other sport, you practice and play in the same arena, but most driving ranges don’t even remotely resemble the conditions you encounter on the golf course.”
I lifted my beer halfway to my mouth and stopped. “It sounds logical when you look at it that way” I replied “but what about pretending the two are the same? You’ve heard of visualization, practice like you play, that sort of thing.”
Bob smiled tolerantly. “Unless you’re a master at self-delusion, practice and playing will always be distant relatives.”
I took a mouthful of beer and placed the stein firmly on the table. The glass tabletop whined in protest.
At this point, I’m sure the frustration of hitting thousands of practice balls during the past twenty years, with only marginal improvement, was evident on my face.
Bob’s logic, though undeniable, was somewhat disturbing.
My voice was prickly as I struggled to remain calm, “So what’s the point of practice then, if not to correct your mistakes? Every time I glanced over, you were hitting a mixed bag of shots. After watching you on the range, I figured you’d be lucky to break one-hundred!”
Peering at me over the top of his beer glass, there was a mischievous twinkle in Bob’s eye.
“I used to practice religiously, constantly trying to correct all the flaws in my swing. After thirty years of beating myself up, I finally discovered a better way to practice.”
I leaned forward in anticipation. “And…”
He raised a forefinger as a warning. “You’re going to think that what I’m about to tell you is crazy.”
“Not after playing with you today I won’t!”
Bob slowly drifted forward in his chair, glanced from side to side and lowered his voice, as if fearing other patrons within earshot might pick up the phone and have the “white suits” come to take him away.
“The trick is using the poor shots to automatically trigger good ones. One poor shot won’t ruin a round, unless it leads to another. Every time I hit a poor shot, I never analyze the mistake. I’ve learned to resist the urge to dissect my swing. Whenever I hit a poor shot on the range, I do something to stop it from affecting the next shot. Once I discover the technique, then I apply it on the golf course.”
Left hand supporting my chin, I glanced sideways at Bob under raised eyebrows. Bob gestured, palms up, and dropped back into his chair.
“I told you. Sounds crazy right?”
Feeling as if I had just sucked a lemon, I responded testily. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that you don’t try to figure out your mistakes?”
Bob nodded almost imperceptibly in response.
“Every golfer hits at least one perfect shot a round. It’s the shot that you just know you couldn’t hit any better. The trick is discovering the recipe or ritual you used to create that shot. Trying to dissect the poor shots is self-defeating. The key is understanding how to re-create the good shots rather than focusing on why you hit the poor ones.”
I had to admit that, for the past twenty years, I spent more mental energy concentrating on the why questions rather than the how ones.
Trying to wrap my head around this assault on my whole philosophy of practice, I replied cautiously, “But how can you correct the faults if you don’t know what they are? I mean, what’s to prevent poor muscle memory from setting in. Surely you have to be aware of the flaws in your swing in order to fix them?”
Bob smiled and sighed softly.
“That’s the trap so many golfers fall into. Why do you think the vast majority of amateurs keep hitting the wall? Anybody who can hit the ball 100 yards can break 90. It’s not a lack of ability. It’s a lack of understanding about how our nervous system works.”
He paused, took a sip of beer, and continued as if revealing some arcane truth.
“The concept of muscle memory is just a term of convenience. It’s a logical excuse for a lack of improvement. Your nervous system has a memory but your muscles don’t. Muscles don’t know the difference between right and wrong. They simply respond to your strongest memory. If you keep thinking about your swing faults, then you’re letting the past determine the future.”
I tapped my fingers on the table with a rising staccato.
“Let me get this straight. Are you saying that trying to figure out my mistakes increases the likelihood of repeating them?
Bob made a twirling motion in the air with his right forefinger.
“It’s an endless loop. Are you familiar with the story of the boy and the dam? As soon as he plugged one leak, the water pressure built up and another leak appeared. Same thing when you try to repair leaks in your golf swing.”
Determined to preserve my hallowed belief in the sanctity of practice, I offered a rebuttal.
“Let’s pretend for now that what you’re saying actually makes sense. If I’m not supposed to think about mistakes, then how do I improve?”
Bob smiled wistfully, “Two steps. First, you have to interrupt or break the habit of automatically analyzing every poor shot. You’ve been watching too much CSI. It’s not a forensic investigation where you look for clues to a crime. The habit of dissecting your swing is the biggest roadblock to improvement.”
My right foot tapped reflexively. I pursed my lips.
Bob continued unabated. “Once you’ve broken the habit, then you fire off step two.”
“Which is?”
“Develop the habit of recalling your best shots; especially the feeling, both physical and mental, that you had right after the shot. You want to lock in that feeling so you can use it in the future. Reinforce the memories of your best shots regularly, and you begin to ingrain them into your nervous system. Eventually, it responds automatically under pressure. That’s the meaning of the phrase playing in the zone, or as I like to call it, subconscious golf.”
I emptied my beer with a gulp, carefully placing the empty glass on a coaster and leaned back in the chair. Bob must have sensed that I was at a tipping point. He capped his pen, slipped it into his shirt pocket then asked casually,
“Did you ever own a record player?”
Taken aback slightly, I replied. “Sure. I still have it somewhere in the attic. But what’s that have to do with…?”
“Stay with me for a minute and I think you’ll get the idea. Imagine your nervous system is like a record player. When you play a song repeatedly, the track gets worn deeper and deeper. Eventually, the needle tends to slip into that groove automatically. Follow me?”
“Yea…I guess.”
“When you keep playing the same Flaws In My Swing record over and over, year after year, the needle wears a conduit in your nervous system. I’m sure you’ve heard of a broken record? On the practice range, you can decide which record to play. Under pressure though, your nervous system overrides your conscious mind and automatically plays your favorite song.”
Bob glanced out the window towards the practice range. Several golfers were swinging back and forward in slow motion, checking their positions, hitting a few shots then repeating the routine.
Bob shook his head slowly and sighed. “It’s a shame. Those fellows will spend hours looking for the critical flaw in their swing, trying to figure out why they can’t hit two good shots in a row. No doubt they’ll hit a thousand practice balls during the season. I would bet one-hundred to one, their score is basically the same at the end of the season as it was at the beginning. All that wasted effort.”
Following his gaze, I could see myself in that group.
Reiterating Bob’s theory, I continued, “Let me see if I get the idea. You’re saying that focusing on swing faults year after year, is like playing the same song over and over again. Unless I record a new tune, my nervous system will keep playing the same refrain forever.”
A hissing sound, like a slowly deflating balloon, punctuated Bob’s reply “You got it.”
“So how do I play a new record?”
Bob leaned forward, perched on the edge of his chair, and rubbed his hands briskly, like a safe-cracker preparing to assault a hermetically sealed vault.
“It’s a two stop process. You have to stop playing the What’s’ Wrong With My Swing song and then record a new song.”
I gestured impatiently.
“First, you need to discover a simple way to shake up your nervous system long enough to interrupt your habit of replaying the poor shots.”
I considered a moment, and then replied, “Kind of like keeping the record needle suspended in mid-air?”
“Exactly!”
Feeling that I was about to uncover some magical formula, I snatched a pen and napkin from a nearby table. I held the pen poised, ready to record the details for posterity.
“What do you do?”
In response, Bob snapped his fingers vigorously. Startled momentarily, I snapped upright in my chair. Eyes wide, I waited for Bob’s explanation. Instead he simply leaned back and smiled.
Slightly irritated, I interjected: “Well…what do you do?”
Bob chuckled as he replied: “That’s it. Today I snap my fingers.”
Capping the pen with a click, I couldn’t fight the growing feeling that I had been duped into a free beer.
“Snapping your fingers is the key? Kind of childish isn’t it?”
Bob’s eyes widened. His dilating pupils conjured up an image of a hypnotist casting a trance. “Did you notice how you reacted just now?”
“I was expecting some revolutionary theory. Snapping your fingers is hardly worth recording for posterity.”
“Perhaps, but it did interrupt your train of thought. You’re looking for some technical, esoteric approach. It’s really not that complicated. You just need to do something that stops you in mid-stride; like a re-set button.”
My head was starting to hurt as the image of a giant record player hovered in my mind.
“So all I have to do is snap my fingers and poof! I start playing a new record?” I asked.
“Not quite. If it were that easy, everyone would be shooting par all the time. You have to constantly monitor the effect. With repetition, your nervous system adapts and the effect wears off.”
He paused for emphasis then continued softly,
“You have to discover the buttons that are going to work on any given day. That’s the real point of practicing before you play. Better players use the pre-game practice to find the triggers that will help them forget the mechanics of the swing.”
Bob lowered his head slightly then looked up at me under raised eyebrows. “Ever had the feeling that someone or something pushed one of your buttons, either verbally or physically, and you just reacted, without being aware of it until after?”
“Oh yeah…”
“Well, you have to discover the triggers or buttons that you control.”
Suddenly, it hit me!
Now I understood why certain holes always spelled disaster, no matter how well I was playing. The record player analogy was actually beginning to make sense.
I sat in silence for a moment.
“That does explain the blow-up holes that keep ruining my good rounds. But how can I override their influence when I don’t even know the triggers?”
Bob smiled. “Ah, that’s where the due diligence comes in. You have to start paying attention. Notice when you start to become tense. See if you can trace the source to something you did or thought. The first step is awareness. Sometimes awareness itself is enough to break the pattern. Once you understand the effects of certain events, then you can develop a method of cancelling those effects.”
Reflexively, I half rose from my chair and blurted out, “Yes, it all makes perfect sense!”
Unaware my voice had risen an octave, I was suddenly assaulted by a profound silence. Fearing to turn around, I could feel numerous eyes staring in our direction. I slowly sank back into the chair.
Bob asked softly, “You’ve heard of a pre-shot routine?”
Almost whispering, I replied, “Sure. It’s like a mental checklist.”
Bob waved an imperious finger, “That’s a misconception. Average players use it to review all the technical elements of the swing; keep your head down, left arm straight, transfer the weight, that sort of thing. Better players use it as a trigger to forget technique and just hit the damn ball!”
I must have drifted off momentarily, recalling my own desperate efforts to recall the most glaring swing faults to avoid during the six seconds before hitting a shot.
When I looked up, Bob was sitting patiently, hands crossed, wearing an expression somewhere between amusement and pity. I felt like I had been mystically transported to a sacred temple and granted an audience with the high priest of Golfdom.
He continued in a slightly didactic tone.
“Every top athlete has a habitual way of forgetting the poor shots and reinforcing the good ones. The announcers call it superstition, but in reality it’s the player’s recipe for re-creating their optimum state.”
Bob’s eyes glazed over as he seemed to be looking right through me into the horizon.
“The power of rituals is enormous. Look at Brandt Snedeker. He taps the clubhead on the ground twice before every shot. Phil Mickelson twirls the club. The top tennis players bounce the ball a specific number of times. Watch the best pitchers in baseball. They follow a fixed routine. Every top athlete has a unique method of trying to re-capture the conditions that produced their best performance in the past.”
I replied fervently, “So if I just try to reproduce everything that worked in the past, it will guarantee great results?”
Bob sighed and tilted his head slightly.
“There are no guarantees. The game cannot be reduced to a simple formula. The best hitters in baseball only reach base one third of the time. But, you have a better chance of accessing your best performance when you stop reinforcing the faults and start developing the memories of your best shots.”
I had the feeling that Bob had bottled up all this top secret knowledge for a long time, as he continued in rapid machine-gun style.
“Now that you have the needle on hold as it were, you need to play a new record, one that will help you re-create your best shots. You have to find something in the environment, something you can control, to hook onto as an anchor.”
“Mmm…you mean a reminder or some kind of memory trigger?”
“Exactly. Have you ever wondered why Tiger always wears a red shirt in the final round of a tournament?”
“I guess it’s his favorite color.”
Bob continued in a deliberate tone. “Tiger won his first major tournament wearing a red shirt. Since then, he always wears a red shirt in the final round when he’s in contention. The colour is an anchor that helps him get into the zone. It helps him to start automatically replaying the memories of his best performances.”
The glass tabletop trembled as Bob tapped it for emphasis.
“Make it a habit to replay your best shots over and over again in your mind. Make the picture as clear as possible. Do something that will replay it on demand. Snap your fingers, tie your shoes, play your favorite music, anything that will trigger the memory. Do it every day. Set an alarm to remind you if need be. As the link grows stronger, you’re re-programming your nervous system to use these memories under pressure. Once you develop the habit, you’ll discover how to practice less and play better.”
I sat back and rubbed my eyes.
Inwardly I thought, “This is really weird. If I hadn’t seen it in action during our game, I would have dismissed it as just another goofy theory. In any case, all the time I’ve spent hitting thousands of practice balls over the past five years hasn’t produced any significant improvement. So what the heck. This stuff might be worth a shot!”
“You said something about seeing improvement in just thirty days. You’re joking, right?”
Bob straightened up in his chair and continued in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Not at all, if you recall the memory of your best shots every day, and link it to something you enjoy, like that double tall cappuccino you have every morning, then you’ll start to develop the habit. Under pressure, you’ll begin to focus on where you want the ball to go instead of where you don’t want it to go.“
“It can’t be that easy.” I protested, “You’re implying that in just thirty days I can be playing the best golf of my life?”
Bob smiled wistfully, “If I could promise that, I would write a book. I can guarantee that you will be playing a more consistent game with less effort. Even more important, you will be on the path to constant improvement instead of doubting yourself on every shot. The game might actually be fun again.”
I had to admit that it had been awhile since I mentioned golf and fun in the same sentence.
“Fair enough”, I agreed, “But what happens after 3thirty days? When do I stop trying to record new songs?”
“That’s up to you. Just bear in mind that your natural tendency is to focus on mistakes. You will never totally eliminate it. You have to keep your guard up. Maintaining a constant vigil is the key.”
Now I understood why Bob lowered his voice. Most golfers would think this conversation was the ravings of a geriatric lunatic.
Actually, the record player analogy made more sense than some of the highly technical theories that I had heard in the past thirty years. The vibrancy of your memories determines which song will play. The song determines your state of mind and body. The trick is playing the right song at the right time.”
I was lost in thought when Bob took the conversation in a totally new direction.
“I assume you drove here?” Blinking several times, I stammered, “Yes, but I don’t see…”
Bob continued without pausing. “Do you think about every action you need to take in order to get safely from point A to point B? How much brake pressure to apply, how far to turn the steering wheel, how quickly to accelerate in order to pass…?”
Rolling my eyes, I replied, “Of course not. I’ve been driving for 14 years!”
Bob shrugged, “And what do you think would happen if you had to think about every single action?”
“Well, I guess I would have to slow down in order for my body to keep up with the commands in my head. In a way, I guess it’s kind of like being stuck in new driver mode.”
Bob clapped softly in response, “Bingo. Eventually you learn to let go and drive by instinct. If you don’t, you’re doomed to the slow lane forever.”
After what seemed like an eternity, he asked softly, “Does this driving analogy remind you of anything?”
An image of a golfer with a painfully slow backswing followed by a frenetic downswing popped into my head. My tone was mechanical as I responded, “paralysis by analysis.”
The clock over the bar struck 4:00 pm. We had been talking for nearly two hours. Bob’s eyes widened as he glanced at his watch.
“Whoa. I better run. It’s been a pleasure. You’re the first person in fifteen years that I’ve been able to share any of this stuff with. Thanks for listening. My wife’s waiting at the mall and I’m already twenty minutes late!”
Bob gulped the dregs of his beer and headed for the exit. I motioned feebly, hoping to get an e-mail address, but he was out the door faster than one of Tiger’s tee shots on a par five.
The creased napkins were still on the table. I began to crumple them, hesitated momentarily, then carefully folded them in half and slipped them in my pocket.
I walked absent-mindedly to the car, struggling to grasp the true significance of this accidental meeting.