DURING one of the Alfred Dunhill Cup tournaments, when all the play took place over the Old Course at St Andrews, I watched the Australian, Ian Baker-Finch, having a few swings with a wedge before hitting an approach to the 12th green. The 1991 Open
champion hadn't yet run into the brick wall which was to end his playing career and was at the peak of his powers. He is a tall man and was taking full, easy swings. When the clubhead made contact with the ground, it did so with a firm smack and when the time came to execute the actual shot, nothing changed apart from the smack being accompanied by the click of the ball being taken a split second before the turf. As the ball settled gently beside the flag, I felt weary and defeated, for I knew that such precision was quite beyond me.
That hadn't always been the case. Well, it had, really, but there had been a time when, as a young lad, I could hit shots with lofted clubs – wedges hadn't arrived yet – with fair regularity. It wasn't precision of the Baker-Finch variety, but, as far as my simple needs were concerned, it filled the bill. I was confident with the shot and unafraid of the club. When bunkers or bushes intervened between me and the green, I relished the challenge and squared up to the task with never a doubt in mind. As I approached such shots, I would toy with the various methods I might bring to bear, variations such as "cutting the feet from it," a firm and dependable favourite.
Changed days. I'd no more attempt to cut the feet from it now than fly in the air. The very thought curdles the blood. I don't know when it happened – this crisis, this loss of confidence – but it did and nothing in the lofted club department has been the same since. There are days when things go relatively smoothly, but even then sullen clouds lurk and I know that in a twinkling I could be running for cover. I am constantly reminded of this grim state of affairs, not only on the golf course, but in the dark crypt to which I consign failed clubs.
I was in there recently, rooting around among the old bones, when I suddenly realised I have in my possession, and not counting my current set, four lob-type wedges and three sand-irons. It's a sad collection, made even sadder when I recall the desperate hope with which I acquired them, the vaulting eagerness with which I rushed to try them out and the sickening disappointment which set in when the tell-tale hollow snick proclaimed the first disaster.
The professional who sold me most of these clubs is aware of the situation and did his best to let me down lightly. For instance, when I was walking out of the shop with one of the lob wedges, a club of great beauty and limitless promise, he said: "Don't use it too often." I remember thinking at the time that it was a strange thing to say to someone who had just bought a club and it was only later – not much later – that I realised what he was getting at. What he'd really meant was: "Don't use it at all."
That club turned out to be a particularly virulent specimen and after it had had its awful way with me, I lent it to a friend who liked the look of it. As he went off with it, skipping lightly, I recognised the signs of misplaced euphoria. If I hadn't been beside myself with grief after my own trauma and incapable of constructive thought, I'd have done something – called after him, perhaps, to warn him that this was not a club to be used without careful consideration and heavy insurance.
Some weeks later, I encountered this man in the car park. He was carrying the club and he had about him the air of someone in shock. He looked like a man who had peered into the abyss and didn't much fancy what he'd seen down there. There was a distant, glazed look in his eyes as he handed me the wedge and said: "Thanks, but I don't think it's for me." I pressed him for an explanation, but it was obvious he didn't want to talk about it. As he headed off, I thought I saw his lower lip tremble.
I wasn't surprised. There is something eerie about that club. Though I spent most of my short time with it hitting appalling shots, it beguiled me momentarily by allowing me to produce one of the few moments of genuine quality I've ever experienced with a wedge – a short-range chip from fringe grass. The ball, after describing a pleasing parabola, touched down on the green, checked, and sizzled back about six feet.
Until that shot, I can't recall ever having managed to make a ball spin back to any significant degree, though on red-letter days, I've managed to stop one smartly on a waterlogged green. This evil wedge gave me my moment then put me through the mangle. May it rot in peace.
The full article contains 886 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
