In my early 40's I went through a period of quivering hands (unfortunate side effect of some medication) that made it necessary to pull the trigger between shakes - and it took some time to catch it at just the right moment. Mucci and Uncle Bob were both kind to me, but the embarrassment factor was so hideous I nearly gave up the game; truth be told, it took three years to get everything balanced and I literally hated myself after every round of golf because although I was a slowish putter, I previously never took a practice swing and marched with extreme dispatch between swats of the ball.
That stated, everyone needs to put aside the idea that all golf courses are created the same in terms of speed of play because the variables are nearly infinite. The Ocean Course at Olympic takes a very fast foursome of decent players three hours and 10 minutes to play. Period. The green-to-tee walks and long uphill trudges slow down the parade.
By contrast, despite two hill climbs, the Lake course will take the same group two hours and fifty minutes. Make whatever argument you like, but nobody can assert the Lake Course is less demanding than the Ocean - both are par-71.
The problem for fast players is that we must either awaken at "Please-God-Take-My-Life O'Clock," dodging sprinklers in wet socks, trudging through an arduous game of 'hit splat,' hit splat' - or tee off at a rational hour and move at the pace of an Arab Caravan behind foursomes of plodding neanderthals and their hit & giggle wives, waddling along in too-tight blouses and ill-fitting plaid skirts.
Having been through the meat grinder, I have so thoroughly abandoned any interest in total score these days, that I barely look at distance markers - and certainly don't hump the putting surface like Camilo Villegas - which I firmly believe is more intended to moisten the panties of the midriff's in the gallery than figure out which way the ball breaks.
Time has raced by, but many years ago I was on a committee that ended up overseeing the redesign of Poplar Creek (aka San Mateo Muni). A series of angry public meetings ensued the minute it was announced that the city was considering remodeling what had for years been known as "Disgusta National."
Tiny green fee increases for the seniors was met with the sort of hysteria usually reserved for the suggestion that the government was going to eliminate health benefits and confiscate their Social Security checks for the benefit of illegal aliens.
The local county golf scribe asked why none of the seniors seemed to be the least bit concerned with the plight of juniors and their high school teams - under the theory that there is no constitutional requirement that retirees be provided super-cheap public golf on the backs of the next generations.
I see above that someone in the Treehouse read my mind. One of our initiatives was to implement a series of ideas to make our target round on the weekend at four hours. This is not an impossible dream for a 6200 yard, dead-flat golf course. One meeting, I interrupted yet another seething filibuster from the ringleader of the opposition. After he completed his rant that I wanted to "turn the golf course into a race track," I asked him a simple question: "If you have that much time on your hands, why don't you just go play 36 holes?"
That writer is a jerk, but the death threats are less credible these days as most of them are on the south side of the divot.
The final word comes from my dear departed friend Rich Short - the older brother I never had but sorely needed. We had reached the 15th green on the Lake Course on a particularly sluggish afternoon, only to find two groups camped on the tee waiting for a cadre of banana slugs to clear the landing area.
Rick, whose name rhymes with prick, knocked in his birdie on #15, picked up his bag and strode for the clubhouse.
"Where are you going?," I asked, surprised since his birdie had put our match dormie.
Never turning around or breaking stride, he called back: "Sorry my friend, I only have a four hour attention span."
Over the years, I've noticed that neither do I. If you can concentrate for five straight hours without getting bored, I suggest Q-School.
I found Rick after our round in the steam room muttering to himself, wearing nothing but a golf shirt from Old Town and a vodka martini in a short glass, but that is a story for another day. I still play at dawn and still hate it . . . . but not as much as a five hour round.
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Here is the original of the third column I ever wrote. By some strange happenstance, a reader sent it to Michael Bonnallack - then head of the R&A - who wrote me a wonderfully clever letter that I have kept to this day. I think this is posted somewhere on the GCA site, but it seems as true today as 1995. I've tried to find Clara in subsequent trips, but nobody could ever recall such a person. It is almost as if she existed only in my imagination, but I swear she was real . . . . .
A Lesson from a Lady in Scotland
by Gib Papazian
‘What is it, exactly, that you Americans are doing on a golf course for four hours?’'
The query had come from my new-found Scottish friend as we were sharing a pint in a modest hotel bar in East Lothian, Scotland. We had been discussing the cultural differences between the American and Scottish attitudes towards golf. He was a member of the Royal and Ancient on a weekend golf outing with some of his fellow members. My companions and I were a foursome of traveling pilgrims who had journeyed to Mecca in search of the true roots of golf – and a sad example of the inherent danger in reading ‘Golf in the Kingdom’ too many times.
Naturally, our conversation turned to the most glaring and sensitive difference in our two golfing cultures, the pace of play. Sensing and international incident in the making, my American companions bravely excused themselves off to bed, leaving me to fend for myself.
I explained that, while four hours seems like an eternity to a Scotsman to play a round of golf, in the United States we have been conditioned to consider that acceptable.
Unfortunately, I then made the mistake of revealing that it is hardly unusual to suffer through five or even six-hour rounds on our public courses at home.
THE ROOM fell silent . . . an astonished silence. In a less civilized age, I would have been convicted of heresy and burned at the stake.
You see, there are very few private clubs in Scotland. The local public course is a source of great pride in the community, and the idea of a golfer being so thoughtless and rude as to take up that much time is unthinkable.
Golf in Scotland is played in 3 ½ hours maximum. Period. Players holding up the parade are firmly admonished by marshals that they must keep up – and everyone does.
In our country, marshals are often so worried about offending somebody that they hesitate to push slow groups along. They ought to worry far more about not offending the players stacked up behind them. We should take a lesson from the Scots, and empower our marshals with the authority to crack the whip on the donkeys, or toss them off the track.
Give the worst offenders the hook and the word would get around quickly that slugs are not tolerated. Any course with the guts to follow through with this policy would soon find itself a haven for fast players. It also doesn’t take a mathematician to calculate the increase in revenue from the additional green fees.
Golf’s popularity grows every day all over the world. We need to educate the new crop of converts that a five-hour death march is not normal.
Tournament play is one thing, and it is understandable how in pressure situations golf can take slightly longer. What is not understandable is how a guy can plumb-bob an 18-inch putt for quadruple-bogey while the rest of humanity are pitching tents waiting.
PEOPLE WHO watch and emulate professionals on the PGA Tour should remember that there is a huge difference between playing your brother-in-law for a two-dollar Nassau, and playing for a Green Jacket with 20 million people watching.
I though of my Scottish friend several days later at St. Andrews, when in the shadow of the Royal and Ancient, we stumbled upon the true roots of golf. Her name was Clara McInnes, and she was 78 years old.
We were seated on the steps behind the 18th green of the Old Course watching groups come in.
She came marching down the fairway with a canvass golf bag slung over her shoulder.
Stopping only to swat the ball with her old brassie, her much younger playing partners – and their caddies toting enormous golf bags – struggled to keep up.
Clara wisely played a perfect bump and run shot up the front of the green through the ‘Valley of Sin,’ the ball coming to rest 10 feet from the pin.
While the rest of the group was busy chili-dipping their pitch shots, Clara pulled her ancient putter out of the bag and walked briskly onto the green directly behind her ball. She read the line as she did.
When it was her turn to putt, she barely hesitated and rammed that 10-footer into the back of the cup.
Naturally we all began clapping. Looking back, maybe it wasn’t just her putt we were applauding. Maybe it was that Clara McInnes represents golf as it was meant to be played, or perhaps we were clapping for Scotland, and the game we love so much.
There is a lesson here for all of us.
She acknowledged us with a curtsy and a wink, picked up her bag and set off for home.
What is it then, that we Americans are doing on a golf course?