april-2012

confused but emerge with a new- was around other golfers. Suddenly
found appreciation for the game.” I found myself at a casting call for
To test that theory I fl ew the J.Crew catalogue. It was as
to Jacksonville and drove to St. intimidating as it was wholesome.
Simons Island, off South Georgia’s Before my fi rst shot, I envisioned
coast. My destination was the Sea myself hitting an absurd slice that
Island Resort, a pristine playground fl ew horizontally off the club and
for Southerners who like their pea- into the head of one of the men
nuts “bald” and their tea sweet. The next to me. He would probably be
resort is spilt into two halves—The a high-powered lawyer and have
Cloister, for those looking to be me thrown in prison for being an
pampered in an idyllic coastal set- embarrassment to the male race.
ting, and The Lodge, for anyone Reality was much less climatic. My
who favors smacking little white drives and iron shots were decent
balls into little white cups.
half of the time. The rest of the
My fi rst stop was the Golf time, I failed to make solid contact.
Learning Center. I’m not com- I’d swing with all my might—not
pletely clueless about golf—I’ve really much might—and clip the
watched it on TV, played video top of the ball, sending it dribbling
game versions, aimlessly swung a out in front of me like it had fallen
wedge at balled up Taco Bell wrap- from my pocket. Any confi dence I
pers on a friends’ living room fl oor gained practicing the short stuff
and I’ve play so much miniature quickly dissipated. Even if I was ter-
golf I’ve often day dreamed about rible at driving the ball, I’d just have
designing my own course.
to imagine a giant clown to nail
I had a lot to learn. So much, my putts.
in fact, that when I mentioned my “So you’re really playing 54
mini-golf experience to Chrissy holes?” Chrissy asked when our
Felton, the fi ve-foot powerhouse of session ended. It was the third time
a golf teacher assigned to teach me she’d asked and around the sixth
the game, she said, “Good. Then we time I’d been asked since arriving.
can skip putting.”
Each time it came with a look that
We started with chipping said “You’re nuts.”
from about 20 yards out. “Get the
ball between your feet, draw back,
I
woke up the next day for a
and give me a half swing,” Chrissy
7:15am workout to precede
said. So I did. Then I did it again.
my 8:30am tee time and
And again. Remarkably, the results
learned something all new
weren’t horrible. Chrissy wasn’t
golfers should know: never
laughing, and I wasn’t crying. The
book a 7:15am workout
balls were generally falling where
before an 8:30am tee time.
I wanted and I felt comfortable.
Groggy and wearing my
We moved to pitch shots next and
best approximation of a
then bunker shots. With each new
golf outfi t—chinos, plaid
type of shot, Chrissy would ask me, button down and a long-sleeve
“Are you sure you haven’t played cotton shirt—I stumbled into the
before?” If her goal was to boost my fi tness room where I met Scott
confi dence, it worked. I was start- Fedisin, a golf fi tness specialist who
ing to think that this game that had spends his time training both PGA
never sustained my interest on TV players and rubes like me. As the
for more than 10 minutes could be self-proclaimed least fl exible man
a blast to play.
in the world, I feared the stretching
That feeling didn’t last. Our session more than the 36 holes I
next stop was the driving range, planned to play that day. The fear
and unlike the practice green, I was warranted. I felt like a piece
APRIL 2012 47
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