IN THE course of my on-going quest for a driver to replace the one which perished in the Great Purge, that dreadful time when agents of the R & A ravaged the land hounding golfers who happened to be in possession of clubs with questionable coefficien
ts of restitution, I have been obliged to fall back on an old faithful – one of the early Callaway Big Bertha War Birds. According to my extensive research, this club is now at least 13 years old. It's amazing how quickly time passes when you're going quietly mad.
The driver has a 10-degree loft which results in a lower trajectory than I ever achieved with the nine-degree lofts of two previous trialists, both of which were comparatively split-new. Why this should be, I'm at a loss to explain, but then I am a broken man who has wearied o' the gowff, as they used to say, and can no longer be bothered tackling such mysteries. It could be that these days I'm simply unable to get a drive any higher than I do, but I'm not quite broken enough to admit a thing like that just yet.
The main difference between the ancient and modern is the size of the head. It is like comparing a teaspoon to a soup ladle. When I first reintroduced the old club to the light, the main impression was that there was little or nothing at the end of the shaft. Of course, the truth is that the head is of what used to be considered decent proportions. It might seem small when set against the massive gongs which set up their deafening racket on the links today, but aesthetically, it is infinitely more pleasing.
Once the mental adjustment has been made, the smaller clubhead does the job quite adequately. It wouldn't do for Tiger Woods, but it does for me. I can't hit any club much further than I can hit this one when I catch the shot properly.
Another positive attribute of the club is that because the face is somewhat shallower than the cliffs featured on the newer models, the old "standard" peg tees can be used – sensible, sturdy jobs which don't break in two at the first time of asking, which is the case with the long, slim-line affairs.
While on the subject of tees, a potential hazard which has to be guarded against with the older driver is the tendency to sky the odd shot. This trouble stems from the present method of teeing the ball at a height which sets the ball in line with the area wherein lies the "meat" of the larger modern clubhead. This height is not required for the old, shallower head and, indeed, the height offered by the long tees makes taking the ball cleanly with the small head something of a trick shot.
With the old head, a "normal" tee can be inserted firmly in the ground and there will still be plenty of room to bring the head in behind the ball at impact – always given that there is an impact. This point should be borne in mind by any Luddites who might be tempted to get back to proper golf clubs, for even new habits die hard and it took me some time to stop teeing up high, a habit which had crept in without me even noticing. The saving in broken tees has been considerable.
During my most recent round with the old club, I checked diligently on how much I was losing in length and for the most part, it wasn't much. There wasn't a lot of hang-time on display, but then there never has been. My hang-time has always been brief. This fault, coupled with the low trajectory, means that the ball tends to roll rather than fly and as a result, on holes where there is any sort of carry to be made, my drives often get hung up in tongues of rough where, with a touch more hang-time, they might just about make it. However, as we were playing foursomes and I didn't have to play the next shot, this was of little moment to me, though my partner looked a bit strained by the end of it all.
Foursomes, though, is not the ideal form of golf for anyone struggling to come to terms with a change of club. You can't really give things your full attention when you're having to attend to more trivial matters, such as keeping an eye on where your partner's shots are going. This can be a wearing business, and a good example occurred at a short hole where, with my man on the tee, I had moved up towards the green to be in a handy position to play the next shot.
He played, but from my place amid the gorse, I saw nothing. Breaking cover, I looked for a sign. His arm rose before him in a Nazi-style salute and he gave a series of downward thrusts with his fingers. I took this to mean the ball had gone through the green. As it turned out, however, it had found a bunker, from which there would be no escape. That, presumably, explained the Nazi salute.
The full article contains 893 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
