Three of four years ago - it seems like another lifetime - I played a rare round of "business golf" with a threesome of beer-guzzling produce guys, the best of which sported a swing eerily similar to Charles Barkley.
I chose a 1pm tee time on the Ocean Course at Olympic and judging by their shots on the range, our 7pm dinner reservations looked a long shot.
We were first off the tee during guest times, so I gently admonished them that we needed to stay well ahead of the group in front, promising strong drink in the clubhouse before dinner if we finished in less than four hours.
As a side note, I do not play "business golf" any longer.
Herding the group to the tee, I announced that I was not going to look at any yardage markers that day and just play by feel - suggesting that everyone do the same, "just like Ben Hogan did."
I figured that ought to save at least 30 minutes. There is nothing more annoying than watching some dork who cannot hit his ass with both hands, wandering aimlessly looking for a yardage marker from 225 yards out.
So, without thinking, I put a peg in the ground and drilled one down the center - roughly the distance of a Shivas 4-iron, which for me is quite a poke.
As promised, I never glanced at a marker (I know the course quite well), but just pulled a stick and whacked it. After a while, I pulled sticks for the other players, too.
Miraculously, we moved at flank speed and left the 2nd group of guests far behind. I called ahead to the halfway house so the beer would be ready to throw in our communal 4-bagger cart as we passed.
We were standing on the 16th tee at the 3-hour point when the designated scorekeeper blurted out that I was six-under par. I'd never given it a thought.
A par on 16 and 17 was followed by a tap-in birdie at the last for 65, without ever looking at a single yardage.
Wow. How did that happen?
So, the next weekend, armed with the secret to golf, Todd Hagen (for those of you who know our resident wine savant) and I went out on the Ocean again.
This time a 68, no fuss no muss.
Poplar Creek in San Mateo three days later. . . . . another 68.
"This is too easy," I thought. "It cannot be as simple as playing by feel, I must just be hitting it better."
So, the next time out, I peeked at a few markers. . . . .76.
A week later, I tried it again with no looking, but was so confused - second-guessing myself - I struggled to an 83.
Sadly, I discovered there was no going back. The magic was ephemeral - only because I doubted the gift and started to overthink the game. The inner, intuitive Gib knew how to go low, but a lifetime of self-doubt erased the mind-set.
My golf game has never been the same again. Even after virtually quitting the game for nearly three years, the residual poison still remains.
That horrible affliction of "Sergio's" has faded away, only to be replaced by the yips with every club in the bag from 50 yards in. I've no doubt that if I had just gone with it, the positive flow would have eventually ingrained into my psyche. . . . . . but I couldn't resist.
And like Lot's wife, my golf bag has turned to a pillar of salt.