“Why fight for a flag, when you can buy one for a nickel?”
Ezra Pound
Once upon a time, a simple pitch shot was something to welcome, even relish. I had an innocent confidence, borne of hard work and a distinct lack of failure at that stage. But anyone who’s seen the sheer terror in my expression as I consider, for example, a bunker between my ball and the green would struggle to believe that this is the same body that once would have effortlessly flicked a shot over to settle calmly beside the flag, and they might dismiss this particular display of nostalgia as delusional. That could well be the case.
The finely raked sand would once have been a delicious challenge, but today it represents an unimaginable leap, and the only real question is how my ball, torturous beast that it is, will come to rest in the hazard. Often, there will be some involuntary spasm of panic, these arms will make that urethane cover and the grooves of my weapon strangers, and the leading edge will thin it into the face. And I will quietly direct abuse at myself, the kind of insults I would never inflict on another being.
Other times, my fear of the outcome is such that the downswing almost grinds to a halt, or I seem to collapse over the ball so that the only thing the clubhead can do is dig violently into the turf, and an unfathomably deep divot will float off, occasionally landing beside the ball in the trap, once even on top of it. And in that version of my inevitable failure, there will emerge a despondency like no other. I feel naked, exposed, pitiful even. It is a horror that makes the shanks seem like a warm bath.
But it wasn’t always this way…I used to be lethal with a wedge in hand. My matchplay foes would routinely complain, for I chipped in most rounds, sometimes more than once, like some junior Trevino…hacking it round, missing greens with a supreme consistency, but usually walking off with a par, or sometimes better.
I recall, though one such opponent will be happy to have forgotten, a specific episode beside the eighth. As usual, a beautiful, flowing slice left me down that vast bank on the right, and the blind second was from there a Herculean task with a long iron. But somehow I got near, while he effortlessly split the fairway and flew his trusty Domino sand iron right over the flag, to within a few feet. Advantage him.
Naturally, I pitched it on, and it checked beside the hole and decided to topple in, leaving him to miss for a half the shot that, by rights, ought to have won him the hole. He cursed his luck, and from thereon has bitched about my spawny short game, but golf has a way of bringing each of us to justice in the long run, and I have since paid for this outrage a million times over, in waves of humiliation over a few decades.
Spawn was not the only constituent, though he felt sure it must be. Looking back, I realise that while youthful self-assurance was helpful, I also spent a lot of time practising the short game, though it never felt like a chore. In the garden, over the park. Up and down the carpet after dark; always a wedge in hand like an extension of my body and soul. And as my long game was temperamental, I would log plenty of reps on the course, often from the strangest of places.
In that era, as Seve’s brooding charisma started to wane and Greg’s naked aggression took hold, there was plenty of romance in this notion of adventure. They would miss and make amends, attack and explore, and always look as if they were having fun, striding round the course and wielding their tools like wands. Casting spells across the links, and on their poor opponents.
And, armed with the knowledge that I’d put almost anything stiff with a lob wedge, I also walked a little taller, felt a half-smile happier. Perhaps I was never quite as good as my memory insists, but I knew as I approached that deviant ball, lying unapologetically in some crevasse or other, I stood half a chance. I had hope. And now and then, the ball would approach its destiny with the same confident bounce, and I would stand breathless, waiting to see whether this one would drop, or perhaps spin out but lie stone dead. What fun it was.
And then it suddenly went away, this gift. Like a love neglected, the magic evaporated. And it wasn’t even a duffed pitch that did it, as far as I can remember. But one day, I could no longer get the ball over the bunker without throwing it, and a darker phase began. Naturally, the only sensible option was to throw a little money at the problem. I would flood eBay with searches for the mystical niblicks of my youth, as if therein lay the problem, when all this did was deepen the misery and diminish the bank balance.
A copper RAM 58 degree, replete with Watson’s signature. A variety of Vokeys, intentionally a little rusty from the factory but now unrecognisable after a prolonged spell in a damp shed. Custom-fit Mizunos, though my mood matched their black heads after a pitch or two with each. Cleveland Tour Actions, Eye 2’s in steel and copper, with grooves both legal and otherwise. As many variations in loft and bounce as there are grains of sand in this bunker I can’t clear, but who needs such measurements when the ball only makes contact with the leading edge or the grass it sits on?
Every now and then, the suffering would become unbearable, and I would seek Professional help. But an early ear I paid to listen had a similar tale of their own, and we spent most of the lesson working through instances of his own despair, rather than addressing mine. I sensed he felt better afterwards, and perhaps I learned that there are others for whom pitching has become a fundamental sickness, but it doesn’t feel like a community - rather a random collection of golf’s outcasts, afflicted by a plague that extracts the pleasure from life one awful flinch at a time.
But the other day, after one of those feeble efforts left a thick clay divot rolled over my ball, I decided enough was enough. This was pitching class rock bottom, though I’d been stuck in a bewildering maze nearby for years on end. As I carefully peeled back and repaired that awful gouge in the fairway, I vowed to start the arduous climb back up the mountain of confidence, to commit to the hard work required to walk onto the course with the same carefree stride these legs offered before all this started.
For while I feel at address a toxic dread, I realised there’s no other place to go. It could hardly get any worse than this, so to fear starting a process of rehabilitation from this illness of mine makes no sense. And in the occasional recovery from a spot I’d prefer to have never seen, there might be lessons to learn along the way.
So I have found a new tool with which to start this fresh romance, free from the baggage that lies between my brain and the hoard of other discarded wedges around the place. She is beautiful, and light, and for the next few weeks we will spend at least fifteen minutes each day - one percent of every day - ironing out our issues, climbing out of this pit together. Building trust in harmony, and sharing the views on this difficult but essential journey.
She is a PING ISI lob wedge, with a black carbon shaft, and the brushed nickel of her gorgeous head gleams in the morning light, golden lettering shining like our own star above. I’ve not hit a single shot with her yet, but for the first time in years, I am handling a lob wedge around the house as if I know what to do with it. I will call her Grace, and together we will create a little trickle of hope in this heart of mine.
Because from here, the only way is up…I just hope the ball is listening…
Pretty much everything you've shared here strikes a resonant chord. The short game of my youth was effortless and mindless, likely because I spent at least 2-3 years chipping balls around our garden (much to my father's disdain) before setting foot on a real golf course. Unlike you, though, the descent into chipping/pitching hell can be traced to my first trip across the pond from the States to Scotland and my introduction tightly mowed firm links turf. Suddenly, there was no margin for error on the strike and insidious doubt crept into my mind and made a home for itself. I am happy to report that this season, after seven previous spent living full time in Scotland, my short game seems to have arisen from the ashes. Still a long way to go to get back to where I once was. But I pitch over a greenside bunker no longer cause me to break out in a cold sweat. Bonding with the new lob wedge is key. I've done the same with my sand wedge this year and it's proving to be quality time well spent. Now if I can just sort out my ball striking. :( Keep the faith, Richard!