I’ve been thinking about golf clubs a lot this week.
Not so much the buildings or the people that make up golfing communities, although there has been a bit of that, and today will be the fourth Club car park I’ve been since Monday, so I will be eyes open swinging in there, gravel inspection in progress.
No, this rare thinking phase has mostly been around the tools of the trade for us golfers, the bundle of sticks that we carry around, obediently following that ball from one place to the next. The Bunker at Urban Golf was a revelation on Monday, not just because there were so many examples of clubs I would have salivated over in the 80’s, when the extent of my pocket money would mean I would have had to wait weeks to pick up any of them, but because each set, each club seemed to have its own story, or perhaps history is a better word.
These days, the fashion for club-fitting is a powerful trend, and with club professionals hardly ever stocking sets in their shops, hampered by the lower margins that online competition has created, and trained to keep a certain ratio of stock-turn and inventory, if you want new clubs it is a rational choice to seek such a process. After all, you’d be a fool to buy a suit without checking the measurements or trying it on, and if you did, and got it wrong, it would soon show at the annual Club dinner.
I was fitted for irons a year or two back, after many years of using either inherited or second hand sets, and it was an interesting exercise, if a little costly. The data made a clear case for a certain style and brand, and I felt like I made an informed decision as a result. But, perhaps not surprisingly for someone in their 40’s, whose children already run rings around them with regard to phone set-ups, etc., the whole tech side of the fitting, and the precision mindset around lofts and distances, etc., seemed a bit too exact for my preferred way of living.
I use technology, of course, but I seem to end up irritated by it more often than it brings me joy, and as golf seems to slip towards more and more reliance on data, I feel a growing pull to leave that behind, and perhaps not have a different type of wedge for every possible distance (or even to know the length of the shot in the first place) but to go back to how I learned the game, adjusting my swing and the way I hit the ball to suit the next shot, always engaged, creative. Like Seve, but without the talent.
So this perfectly matched set rarely gets to head out together, and I can instead be found carrying a selection of what I felt like using that morning, based not on metrics but on prioritising fun over some meaningless (to me at least; another minority report I realise!) score.
A new bag arrived in the post yesterday (in fact, an old bag, finally sourced on eBay - a Sun Mountain “Back Nine” pencil bag, perfect for three balls, three tees and not many more actual sticks), and as I start to think about working my way around the magnificent Worplesdon later, with an old friend and the chilly winter air for company, I am leaning towards a more retro selection from which to perform each joyous task.
It seems the right thing to do to me, to give things like clubs and bags a second life, and in these days where the cost of manufacturing - both physical and environmental - are significant, and where the supply chain has apparently ground to a halt through the effects of the pandemic and Brexit, even those addicted to a perpetual cycle of throwing money at the latest panacea for their golfing woes are stymied for a while.
My new/old bag is very simple in style, and considering I paid not much more than the price of a decent cup of coffee for it, I couldn’t be happier, and am looking for the same level of satisfaction as I start to fill it with today’s selection. [The comparison with the coffee purchase is of course based on a non-Club transaction; free or very cheap coffee in a Club is apparently a basic human right, remember, although the coffee is often not of the decent variety…]
I actually first played with hickories at Worpy, as part of a stag do outing, and while much of the experience got a little blurry as these things tend to, I can remember being enchanted by the feel of these natural sticks and grips in my hands. The course is still a great and charming test for modern equipment, but as is the case with such Golden Age designs, they remain fabulous to play with the ground game that hickory clubs require. There is space to run the ball in if you are careful, and without the modern grooves or lofted wedges, the hazards in Abercromby’s gorgeous design are just that - hazardous.
I will see a lot of the newly lined bunkers, no doubt, and check the health of the heather in more detail that anyone else is likely to enjoy - apart from my opponent, I guess - and I may even inspect the property boundaries here and there. And there. But I bet by the time the sun goes down on this latest, privileged loop - playing a great golf course with a great mate - I will once again feel replenished by this game and my choice of weapons for the day.
So the shiny things will stay in the shed, and I will perform my own club fitting this morning. I will select a few that have nothing to do with my swing speed or launch angle, and instead head out with the ones that fit my personality. That’s what I mean by club-fitting. The ones that nod at the game’s roots, and feel comfortable in my hands. The ones that are as great a joy to be with for these few sacred hours as my partner out there, and the course itself.
But I will be using a “normal” golf ball, though. I’m not a maniac.
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“Like Seve, but without the talent”
Perfectly describes twilight golf alone or with a mate, each coming up with a challenge to outdo the other