My left arm’s doing something odd ...

My left arm’s started to do something odd. No, correction – my arm’s started to feel odd. I think, actually, that it may have just started to do something right.

It’s sort of changed direction. Just after impact. It used to chicken-wing, the elbow bending towards the target. Now it’s not.

Did I say just after impact? That’s a ridiculous thing to say. How do I know when it started? All the evidence, indeed, suggests it happened before impact. Hence my cuts and slices.

Now my elbow seems to be staying straight. Two feet beyond impact, my arms are still in their ‘inverted triangle’ shape. Before, the left arm always tugged the triangle out of shape.

And as it did its chicken-winging, my whole left side, from the hip to the shoulder, used to stand up. Now my left side…

… oops, sorry about this. Nothing more boring than the analysis of someone else’s swing (and, of course, nothing more fascinating than the analysis of one’s own).

It’s interesting though (is it really though, Tony?!?) that all this seems to be happening while I’ve been editing the chapter on chipping for the ‘Golden Rule’. My chipping seems to be realigning itself. And realigning my long game too.

All very odd. And, I’m 99 percent convinced, all very right.

When is a chip not a chip? And when is a golfer actually a glofer?

I used to obsess about the long game. Chipping and putting just didn’t do it for me. I know, I know – “scoring is all about the short game”. In which case I wasn’t interested in scoring. Just striking.

Fundamentally, though, I thought I was already a pretty good chipper. I just needed to put in the hours, that’s all. I could do it already. I was just a bit rusty.

How wrong can you be?

Since my last visit to Knightsbridge Golf School (KGS) – and what with the rain and wind and dark evenings - I’ve spent the last few weeks on my chipping.

Not practising. I always think that word suggests just doing more of the same, while hoping for better results (that’s Einstein’s definition of insanity, isn’t it – doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result?).

No, I try not to practise. I try to change, or refine (in my case, still a lot more changing than refining). Trying to chip differently. Or, more exactly, trying to hit the ball properly.

It’s been a revelation. Until spending an hour on the short game with Dave Lamplough at Knightsbridge recently, I used to chip using my arms and hands. There was no body turn, just a bit of body slide. And it worked. Sort of. Some days. Some holes. 

Basically, I could not chip. It was more a chop, or a chap, or a chep. As in I still don't play golf, I play glof. An approximation of what I am supposed to be doing.

Now I’m basing my chipping on a body turn, no independent arm or hand compensations and a small downward press of the right hand to compress the ball. It feels better and it sounds better.

And, of course, this does not merely apply to chipping either. It applies to the impact zone in my full swing as well.

So a chip is not a chip after all. It’s also part of the full swing.

PS Oddly, learning to chip is affecting my long game as well. It’s making me want to be more precise. And by turning through and beyond impact, rather than sliding, my left arm feels as if it is doing something completely different. It feels as if my left arm is not chicken-winging through impact any more. Instead, it’s staying straight and helping to retain the inverted triangle shape of the arms and shoulders.

According to the new KGS book, provisionally entitled “Golf’s Golden Rule”, this is good. It should be more accurate as well as powerful. I’ll let you know the results when I next get the time to play a round. When it stops raining.

On dishonesty, excuses, self-pity, unfairness and shock

Okay, okay, it’s true. I haven’t been totally honest – that’s with me, let alone you. I’ve not told the whole story of what happened the other day. I suppose I haven’t come to terms with it yet.

Basically, I had a shocker. I’m still in shock, in fact. I’m bewildered. I’m still trying to grasp what happened. After three months of consistent improvement, I crashed and burnt.

I went round my home course in 17 over.

And that after parring the 1^st, 2^nd, 7^th and 14^th – four of the six toughest holes on the course and where I’d readily accept a bogey.

I can find excuses, of course.

It was brass-monkey cold, for instance. The greens began frozen hard, then began to thaw wet and soft. Their pace seemed impossible to read. But I still began with three pars and was three over after seven.

So I’m still in shock. I mean, I’m sure my ball striking is better than it’s ever been. I feel as if I’m a better player all round than I was a few months back. I’m confident I’m on an upward trend. But 17 over is 17 over.

More excuses? Well, my new chipping method, as I last posted, was wonderful in terms of technique, yet poor in terms of distance control. I also missed a bunch of short putts. And on the 6th I hit my drive about 80 yards along the ground after forgetting to smash off the layer of ice encasing the bottom of my shoes.  

Worst of all, I unforgivably lapsed into self-pity on the 18^th when was seemed an okay-ish drive ended up out of bounds – unannounced, the OB markers had been shifted 20 yards further in on that particular day. “Unfair!” I grumbled, on my way to a bitter, frankly-I-don’t-give-a-damn  quadruple bogey (of course golf is unfair, Tony, it’s how you deal with it that counts, surely you’ve learnt that by now?)

But I’m still shocked. I mean, I know so much more about my swing now since teaming up with Dave and Steve at Knightsbridge. I understand my faults and foibles. I’m tightening up my technique by the day. I should be threatening to hit a 75. How could I possibly shoot an 87?

Adam, my 8-handicap partner, must be asking himself the same thing. He just couldn’t handle the greens, then, on the par-four 10^th, he hit both his first ball, then his provisional out of bounds on the way to a 10. I shouldn’t think he’s scored so badly on a single hole for the past decade.

Oh well. Last night my overtired daughter burst into tears after struggling with Maths homework. I heard myself tell her: “You’re good at Maths. You’re doing fine. It’s how you deal with setbacks that matters.”

It won’t be easy, but I’ll try to take my own advice. No tears yet. Stilll shocked, though.

Why I plan to give my golf coach a good kicking

Last week Dave Lamplough taught me 1) that my chipping action was horrible and 2) that it was pretty easy to sort out.

So today I went out into the early morning frost for 18 holes and chipped wonderfully, chipped fantastically, chipped out of this world and out of any other worlds that also exist out there. Lovely, gorgeous, to-die-for contacts that you could hear. Mini little impact zones, mini little compressions. And not just one, either, or the odd one – all of them.

But…

(and why is it there always seems to be a ‘but’ with my golf at the moment?)

… I intend to give Dave a good kicking when I next get up to Knightsbridge.

For, apart from one chip-in, I sent most of my chips way past the hole. On the 6^th, for instance, I chipped gloriously with a 9 iron, just as I intended, just as I wanted… and the ball rolled – albeit wonderfully - off the other side of the green.

You see, I used to squidge, smudge, nurdle and nudge, I’d fat and I‘d thin. Somehow, by hook and crook and despite my hand roll, my bad ball position and my lack of turn, I’d smuggle the ball up towards the hole. I got used to squidging and smudging and nurdling. I got quite good at it, in a horrible sort of way.

Today, I hit everything purely and right out of the middle. And everything went futher and straighter and truer as it used to. And - for the most part - too far.

Hitting the ball better, it turns out, it not the same as scoring better.

Secretly, of course, I’m delighted with my new chipping. It’s just a matter of getting used to hitting the ball properly, that’s all, after years of doing the opposite.

But don’t tell Dave that. It’s a basic principle - never be too nice to your golf coaches, they’ll just charge you more. Better to keep them keen. Better to give them a good kicking.

Are golf balls bad for your game?

I may be wrong, but I think I may be getting better at golf because I’m writing a book about trying to get better at golf.

I think the secret’s in the chapters. And the lack of balls.

Every few weeks I go up to Knightsbridge to interview Dave and Steve. Then I return home and listen to what they said and write it into a chapter. In other words, I get two or three weeks to think about a particular action or segment of the swing.

I’m not sure I’ve ever done that before – really think long and hard about one specific part. Normally, I think for about half an hour and then go to the range and try and practise it.

And what happens? Soon I’m ‘ball-watching’. The balls starts, say, fading, so I respond. I forget what I was meant to be practising and think new things, and then more new things. I fidget and tamper and experiment. And every now and again the ball goes straight again and I think: “Cracked it!”

Only by then I’ve long stopped doing what I was trying to do.

Now though, at home, in front of the computer, I type away and I think. Then I go and get a coffee. There, in the kitchen, is my training club. I swing away while waiting for the kettle to catch up. I concentrate on the move Dave and Steve have described. There’s no distractions. There’s no balls.

And this goes on for weeks. I stick to one part of the swing. One chapter. No balls.

I’m beginning to think this is why I am improving…

Disappointment and delight

I’m disappointed not to be playing in my monthly medal today. I had to pull out late. Sadly, there was just too much to fit into the proverbial pint pot, what with daughter going here, wife going there. That the trouble with owning only one car and living only one life.

But I’m delighted with the way things are going with the Knightsbridge Golf School book. We’re getting towards the end of the planned text and I’ll hopefully squeeze in a couple of hours of writing this afternoon.  

I shall be going over the interview with Dave Wilkinson again, the one where he explains how to inject more power into your swing. Without going into too much detail – I’m only on my first coffee of the day, after all – it’s all about the core, pressure, connection, leverage and sequence. Which, of course, makes no sense unless it’s explained.

But, the more I listen to Dave, the more it makes total sense. Having got this far, four months in, I feel my swing has been largely re-aligned. Now it needs refining, and tightening, and stabilising, so that it will stand up to having more power fuelled through it. I tried it the other day, with good results, but I'm still only doing things half right and three-quarters wrong.

The other chapter I need to write up is the short-game session with Dave Lamplough. Which has nothing to do about power. Oddly, though, the two are inter-related. By looking hard at my chipping technique, Dave has highlighted faults (I never knew it was possible to pack in so many errors into such a short swing!) which, once corrected, will feed into me hitting the ball better in the long game as well.

Refining, tightening, stabilising. So that’s my Saturday sorted. Along with driving my daughter here and my wife there.

(Mis)understanding connection – 864,991 times in a row

I have heard and read about the importance of connection in the golf swing, say, about, at a rough guess, 864,992 times.

I have understood what connection means, say, there or thereabouts, give or take… 1 time.

That one time came at the end of last week, while interviewing Dave Wilkinson and Steve Gould at Knightsbridge Golf School. Actually, strictly speaking, it came after interviewing them. While interviewing them was the 864,991^st time I had heard-or-read about connection.

We were discussing how to add power to the structure of your golf swing. Today, re-reading my notes, I think I get it. I get the fact that my swing has always – bar the odd fluke – been disconnected. Particularly when I am trying to hit long.

Simply put, my chest has hurtled through impact but left my arms behind. That comfortable pressure between the biceps and the chest wall? Never happens, especially when I’m trying to hit the cover off the ball. I abandon any sense of connection somewhere during my distance-crazed downswing.

Now I don’t think I’m a particularly foolish man. Why is it, then, that, after listening and watching Dave’s demonstration, I suddenly sense the importance of this bicep-chest wall pressure? Why is it that the penny has never dropped before? Perhaps it was something to do with the way they explained it.

I’m heading out to the range this afternoon, come hell or high water, to see if this works.

The Big Gym Decision

I decided to go to the gym today. It's all part of my plan to get down to a single handicap.

I didn't actually go. I found a last-minute reason not to. But at least I did decide to go. I really intended to go. For at least an hour Until I didn't.

That has got to be progress. Of sorts (until it wasn't).

Happy magpies and blown fuses...

Information is power, they say. You can never have enough of it.

Not unless, that is, it blows your fuses.

When it comes to the short game, my fuses have long gone. Blown to smithereens. I love golf information, always will. The trouble is, most of what I have collected is contradictory. Some say do it this way, some say that.

I’ve no doubt all can be made to work. Unfortunately, I’ve never really made my mind up what’s right for me. It all depends on whose book I last read. I’m a happy magpie. But imagine trying to chip while still thinking: “Mickelson, Utley, Seve or Golf Monthly? Which method this time?”

It doesn’t work.

So there I was on Friday, listening to yet another way of doing things.

Dave Lamplugh, of the Knightsbridge Golf School, spends about an hour with me. It's all part of the KGS's new book, provisionally entitled "The Golfen Rule". During that time, I discover that, despite my best endeavours, I chip like a dork. A well-informed dork, but a dork all the same.

My hands roll, my arms twist and my shoulders don’t turn. I fan my club open, then come back from the inside, with the heel pointing at the ball. Usually I push the ball to the right. The contact is always a bit iffy - good, bad, indifferent and shank.

Dave says a lot of fascinating things, but two points stand out.

“Why not make it as simple as it can be?” he asks. “Surely chips and pitches are just miniature swings?”

Are they?

Yes they are, he says. All I have to do is to isolate the impact zone and transplant it from my long game and into my short game. There is nothing new to learn, no new way of standing, no new ball position, no new grip or movement.  “Using this method,” says Dave, “will give you 90 percent of all the short-game shots you will ever need... unless you play regularly at Muirfield or Augusta. It’s simple and it makes sense.”

I watch Dave for an hour. All his chips and pitches go straight. They all fly in the air. They all come out of the centre of the club, accompanied by that wonderful ‘click’ produced by proper shots. Oh, and his hands don’t roll.

I get home, phone Adam and say he can have his Mickelson short game back. And he can borrow my Stan Utely and Pelz books too, if he wants...

Where have all the kangaroos gone?

Most of my golf life has been all about don’ts. ‘Don’t do this’, ‘don’t do that’. On bad days, it’s even got to ‘don’t play golf’.

It’s never been about ‘dos’.

Until recently. Now it’s all about ‘do hinge my wrists correctly’, ‘do follow the hand arc’, ‘do release’, ‘do compress’, ‘do swing to a three-quarter finish’.

It like the old adage: ‘Don’t think of a kangaroo’. My golf’s been full of hopping kangaroos in recent years. West Sussex has been plagued by them. Kangas everywhere you look.

No more kangaroos for me now. I like this ‘doing’ lark.

Off to Knightsbridge Golf School and the court of D&S tomorrow. To do things.

A 3 ½ month recap - and a bold (cold?) prediction

It’s cold and dreary and wet and a perfect day for navel gazing. Or golf recapping, at least. So how far have I come since agreeing to help write Dave Wilkinson and Steve Gould’s latest Knighstbridge instruction book?

A long old way, I’d say.

My handicap is currently down to 10.9 – it was about 12.8 when I began the book in early August – and my winter campaign saw me reach the semi-finals of the men’s scratch knockout competition at Lindfield Golf Club (unprecedented – lost on 18^th hole), I won the final of the men’s handicap knockout (unprecedented – won on 18^th hole) and lost in the final of the foursomes (lost on first extra hole).

It doesn’t get much better.

All of which is irrelevant.

What really matters is that, in just three-and-a-half months, I’ve turned a loose, slappy, sliding, cutting, over-the-top golf swing – my constant companion since taking up the game proper in 2006 - into a tighter, much more compact, almost in-to-square-to-in action. Almost. An action which includes, probably for the first time in my life, 1) a controlled transition, 2) correct hand release and 3) real ball compression.

Even more importantly, I’m enjoying the game like never before. Hitting it properly – and expecting to hit straight - does that for you.

I began the year as a 14 handicapper, so I was already improving when I started interviewing Dave and Steve. But  the chance to tap their thoughts in such depth and at such length – I’ve written 9 chapters of the book to date, and each has followed a three-hour interview session with them – has been, well, a privilege.

What they don’t know about the golf swing could be written on the back of a stamp.

Equally exciting has been the attempt to strip out the jargon - and to focus on how impact really works. It's been a revelation.

Looking back at my notes, I find that my game is changing. I used to get round nicely with my long game – six fairways out of 13 would be about right for me – then hope for some short-game inspiration.

At times it worked. I went round in a for-me extraordinary 76, for instance, to beat 7-handicap Nick in the men’s scratch singles by doing just that – hitting 8 fairways, 6 GIRs, getting up and down 5 times out of 7 and throwing in two miraculous 25ft putts.

On my last outing, meanwhile, I hit 11 fairways out of 13. The chipping, though, was lukewarm and the putter cold. But I still scored 78. If I can improve the short game and retain the my D&S swing, who knows how low I could go?

I’ll stick my neck out and predict I’ll reach single figures for the first time in my life before the book is published next year.

The good thing about bad shots, the odd thing about learning…

The good thing about hitting a bad shot is that it makes you think. In this regard, I may have picked up something valuable in defeat last week.

I think I still lift (and pull round) my left shoulder a tad as I come into impact occasionally, thus changing the angle of my spine and ultimately leading to me imparting a cut to the ball.

Sadly, I did just that with my drive on the 15^th during the Foursomes final on Friday. Not the hole to do it. Into the lateral hazard it flew. "You don't like this hole, do you?" said Partner Adam. He may be right. I certainly didn't like the swing.

Must get back to Knightsbridge soon and get an expert opinion on this DIY diagnosis. But I think I’m right. And if I am, was it worth losing the game to uncover the fault? Arguably, yes (Adam, I expect, would not agree). By pulling out of the shot in this way, I can’t stay on the hard arc after impact.

Dave swears by the hand arc (the line the hands follow during a good swing – a bit like an imaginary Explanar, if you’ve ever seen one of those, but for the hands rather than the club head).

I didn’t know what he was talking about when it came up during our first interview for the new book.

Now I swear by it too. Funny how learning works, though. If I tell my left shoulder not to lift and pull, it ignores me. But if I tell my hands to stay on the arc beyond impact, both my hands and shoulder behave.

Which feels like treating the symptom to cure the cause. Very odd. One for the psychologists.

One yard short… and very bruised

It doesn’t matter a jot what I think. The scorecard does not lie. Adam and I lost to Steve and Steve in the 2011 Lindfield Foursomes Final on Friday.

Bruised, bruised, bruised…

It doesn’t matter a jot that Adam (8 handicap) and I (11) went round in 6 over. Somehow that was not good enough.

But I still feel like we have been mugged by the matchplay format. And Adam has gone and lost two finals this year, which is bordering on the cruel.

Steve 1 and Steve 2, basically, pull off the perfect matchplay game. They go round in 15 over, off handicaps of 16 and 17. Which may not seem remarkable. But it’s the way that they do it that matters.

After seven holes they are a phenomenal 2 over par and leading – effectively, they are combining to play like single handiappers. Adam and I play the first seven holes, meanwhile, in 1 over and we’re hanging on for dear life.

Steve 1 and Steve 2 then play the next three holes like complete beginners. They pick up their ball twice before holing out but probably play them in 10 over.

They then return to their admirable impersonation of single handicappers to score 3 over for the last 8 holes. The match goes to the 19^th where they par the difficult first for victory, not even needing the extra shot they are allowed on this hole.

In terms of matchplay, this is the ideal way for higher handicappers to construct a winning round. You could not script it better.

Steve 2 makes a smiling admission in the bar afterwards that “I like playing off 17”. He used to play off 9, he confides. But that was 10 years ago. Hats off to him and his namesake. They’re true gents, and played wonderful golf.

   

And Adam and I played really well too. Ultimately, it all comes down to small margins.

On the 18^th and leading by one hole, I had a 160-yard approach. Having lost my 6-iron weeks ago, I opted for a knock-down 5. I thought I had caught it perfectly, but I flirted with the hazard in front of the green. The ball caught the back edge, jumped up and fell back in. Another yard and it would have been on the putting surface, all but guaranteeing a half on the final hole, and the match.

That missing yard cost us the match.

It was a wonderful afternoon, played in the best of spirit. Loved every minute of it. My bad swing only re-surfaced once.

I’m really chuffed with my Knightsbridge long game. My short one? That’s next on the agenda – I’ll be pestering Dave and Steve shortly on that score. But, having slept on it, the overwhelming feeling remains.

I can’t quite work out how we lost, whatever the scorecard says. We played great, I suppose, and Steve 1 and 2 played greater. Winning competitions is hard work. Bruised, bruised, bruised….

Foursomes final

Friday foursomes final with Rock Solid Adam.

Expectation: Tricky match, we’re giving shots to a couple of higher handicappers. You never know.

Physical state: Pathetic, as usual. Yet another cold coming on?

Mental state: Fuzzy.

Match preparation: At least two beers too many last night. Asprin. Porridge. 90 minutes on the range, if I get the Dysoning done.

Wish: That I hit a bunch of very good shots and that my old swing stays at home. That I don't leave it all to Adam, like I did last year. That we get called Bandits early in the round (always a good sign). That, it it has to be a cold, then it's a Man's one.

Swing thought: Rotate around the spine, impact zone. Try not to chip like a baboon (oops, that's a negative, delete that... damn, it's too late, already in my head now... do baboons chip, though?)

Spinning plates and weeping clowns

I’ve often likened my attempts to learn the golf swing with a circus act – the one, that is, with the spinning plates, not the weeping clowns.

The problem has always been, though, that I seem to have to deal with far more spinning plates than you ever see inside a Big Top.

I learn how to deal with one fault and happily move onto the next, then the next. Soon, I’ve got a whole row of spinning plates. But, having taken my eye off the first one, I find it’s no longer in remission. Indeed, it’s grinding to a halt and about crash to the ground.

So I run back to sort it out again. From then on, it’s like one long frantic fire-fight as I run up and down the line. Sometimes I forget about a particular plate altogether - that’s when, against the long-term trend, I go round in 18 over, to the sound of smashing crockery.

So, this morning, a day before my final club competition match of the year – after this, I’ll go back to kitchen swinging, supplemented by Knightsbridge visits – I determine to give all my plates an extra spin before my foursomes match with Dependable Adam.

That also means walking back to the very first plate of them all. The one that invariably lies at the root of my problems. The one where I roll my hands in the takeaway rather than hinge them.

Picture the scene this morning. It is 6.50am and I am standing in my daughter’s room, practising my non-rolling takeaway in front of her mirror while gently trying to coax her out from her duvet and into her school uniform.

I suppose there will always be spinning plates. Perhaps the likes of Luke Donald, Martin Kaymer and Rory McIlroy have their plates to spin too.

The good news keeps on coming, though. I think my plates are spinning much longer nowadays. In time, there should be fewer of them as well. Hopefully Adam and I will not be weeping down our face paint tomorrow...

Oh, I get it…!

I may be getting carried away here, but, having spent the past few days feeling dangerously smug (see previous posts), I think I’ve at last got it!

That is, I’ve defined the point that’s been on the tip of my tantalised tongue. The idea that’s been slipping through my fingers like a wet bath soap, the notion evading my grasp like a thief in a fog-bound night.

I think I truly understand why hitting a golf ball well is such a wonderful thing. And there’s more to it than I imagined.

Previously, as a range junkie, I’d presumed it was just the impact sensation I liked. I feel such elation when I compress a ball perfectly – so perfectly that people comment on the sound rather than the result of your shots. I love watching the ball fly straight and high. And, of course, that all comes with – usually – a better score.

But there’s more. Hitting straight gives you post-shot joy. But expecting to hit straight also delivers pre-shot joy while taking all anxiety and stress out of the game.

Let’s put it another way. On Saturday, coming down the long par-4 18^th, I was 1-up in my club competition final. Armed with my Dave-Steve swing, I was striking beautifully.

Tim pulled his drive left but still appeared to have a shot to the green. I hit a good drive but down the left side of the fairway. That left a screen of high trees and a water hazard blocking out the flag. No chance of going over the trees without over-flying the green. Too far for me, in any case. I’d have to hit a 5-iron from the left side of the fairway to the right, laying up short of the green, then rely on a  pitch and putt.

And guess what? For the first time in my life, no stress. Before, with my slightly slappy fade-slice, this would have been a daunting shot, especially with the match result hanging on it. I mean, where should I aim?

At the hazard, expecting the ball to fade the right amount? But what about the odd (1/10) shot I hit straight – it might end up in the water. So aim just to the right of the hazard? But what if my fade was more of a slice this time (3/10)? I’d end up in the bushes and thick wet rough to the right of the fairway. Equally horrible prospect.

But there I was on Saturday, fully – and I mean fully - expecting for the first time in my life to hit it straight. There was growing evidence, after all, that I would. Just two right-sliding slaps in the entire round up until then.

So – even if it’s still very obviously possible to hit a bad shot – there’s no anxiety to the decision.

And so I aimed to the right, hit the 5 iron dead straight 30yards short of the green, pitched to 8ft and… missed the putt. Only Tim’s approach landed short and he also took a five. So I’d won.

And I’d won without worrying over each and every decision. Two new experiences for me – winning and not worrying. All down to a technically better swing.

Secret of golfing happiness – sort out your swing, and expect to hit straight.

 

The price of a great long game? A bleeding tongue…

Can’t help it. Still glowing about Saturday. Biting my tongue, trying not to mention it. I know nobody wants to hear, nobody wants to hear, nobody wants to hear (well, certainly my wife and daughter, anyway)… my tongue’s bleeding from the biting.

So here goes. Still glowing over the weekend’s golf. And still trying to understand why it was a 78 when, hitting almost as nicely a few days earlier, it was an 88.

And a 78 when nothing really went that well for me (apart from my long game, that is). A triple bogey at the second, for instance, due to two incompetent chips and a 2ft missed putt (I still blame the green for that one, mind you – one of those that you go to pick the ball out of the hole only for it to suddenly veer offline, making you look doubly stupid).

My opponent Tim, in contrast, hit some extraordinary shots, the pick a 230-yard three wood out of the rough to the front of the 10^th. Then a full pitch through the trees to two feet on the 11^th. Three lovely long putts right into the middle of the jar, and two or three seriously good chips from nasty lies. I couldn’t have carried any of those off.

But I hit that little bit straighter, thanks to my new Dave&Steve/Knightsbridge/Lesley King (that’s Lesley, not Ledley) swing. Which meant being allowed to clean the mud off my ball almost as a matter of course, making the shots into the green so much easier.

Sure, I had one good putt, on the 15^th – a 12ft uphill putt clincher broke three inches, as the AimPoint system forewarned me – and one admittedly extraordinary chip to two feet on the 12^th which, let’s be honest, I couldn’t repeat in two months of Sundays.

But it was a score founded on my long game, and solid putting. It leaves open the delicious possibility that, if I can hold onto my new technique while sharpening up my short game, I can go even lower. Which is a lovely thought for an 11-handicapper.

I think I shall spend the rest of today drinking coffee. And glowing.

The best day of my life?

The best day of my life was when my daughter was born – no argument. By a mile.

Mind you - and this may sound clichéd - my wedding day was a real blast as well.

But today was the best day of my golfing life. No argument.

It wasn’t so much that I won the Lindfield men’s handicap knock-out, scraping past Tim 1-up. Though that was very nice, of course. The main thing was that I barely hit a bad (long-game) shot. Two errant drives and a crowned 4-wood that went 170 yards instead of 210.

I got round in 78 and boy, did my swing work! It hit 11 out of 13 fairways, a personal best on my home course! I compressed my irons and, without exception, hit them straight and true. Not a duff to speak of.

I have more than a sneaking suspicion that Tim is a better player than me. But he was hugely sporting as I snuck past him in the closing holes. The very best thing about it all, now I think about it, is that he noticed that my swing had changed for the better. More compact, he said. You can hear the quality of the striking, he said. A huge compliment.

I am now off to drink copious jars of wine. Then I’m going to ask Dave and Steve how to chip and pitch. Their book has transformed my long game but my short game is pants.

Which is absurd, now I think of it. I’m sure they’ll just tell me to replicate the impact zone from my shiny new full swing and, hey presto, you can chip and pitch.

I wonder if it really is that simple? But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight is deciding between the Pinot Noir and the Shiraz… Or just drinking them both.

How to get better and score worse?

I’ve just gone over in 18 over, my worse score for about a year, and I’m absolutely delighted. If still bemused.

It doesn’t seem to make sense. I’m striking the ball much, much better, and scoring much worse. Make sense of that if you can.

I was playing with Brother Roger and, in blissfully perfect conditions and on my own, easy, straightforward club course. Afterwards, I did not know how to feel – it was not good, but it felt great. After all, thanks to my new Knightsbridge swing, I’m clearly hitting straighter and with much more compression. But I’m gaining nothing.

My theories, for what they are worth:

a)     Previously, I cut-sliced the ball from left to right. So I aimed down the left and it worked – I hit a lot of fairways sliding back round. Now, for about 70% of the time, I hit straight. So I aim straight. Then, though, the ugly cut-slice returns and my ball flies off into the right rough, or worse. I used to be consistently mediocre as a ball striker. I’m now inconsistently good. Which means I’m less sure where the ball’s going. I OBd twice yesterday, the first time for ages. Result?  Dropped shots.

b)      Before, I knew my distances. Now, sporadically, I hit a much longer ball. Yesterday, that translated into missing four greens through the back. Again, dropped shots. So I panic, I cut back, and I started falling short. Dropped shots.

c)      Because I’m hitting straighter and longer, the greenside bunkers are coming into play for the first time. And I’m hopeless at bunkers.

d)     Having not played much recently, my chipping and pitching is not great. I practise a bit, but never from bad lies. I’ve been bumping and running all summer. Now that’s no longer working.

So there you have it – I’ve got better and I’m scoring worse.

Which feels very odd indeed. It’s a new sensation. But boy, I’m enjoying my long game, enjoying it more than ever! At my best, I’m hitting the ball square at impact, rather than giving it a glancing blow.

If I'm right about all this, rather than just trying to find a new way of excusing my 18-over, then it just may mean I’m going to score badly for a while, until I get used to the new way of things. Which does not bode too well for Saturday.

Bemused from Haywards Heath

Okay, okay, I was wrong. I thought I’d made a swing breakthrough but my scorecard yesterday – circa 16 over par, on a glorious day and in perfect conditions with Horseracing James at Drift Golf Club course, East Horsley – suggests otherwise.

Still got that stick I gave you?

But wait a minute, before you start laying in. At least hear the case for the defence:

a)     the course, while magnificent, was in my estimation a good 5-6 shots harder than my club, with much tighter fairways and bigger penalties for going astray. So I played to my handicap… sort of.

b)     I had one of those days when the chipping was cold and the putts just wouldn’t drop

c)      there wasn’t time for a warm-up

d)     I lost my 8 iron less than halfway through the round

e)     Eight of my dropped shots came on just two holes, so it would have been quite a nice matchplay round.

f)        I completely lost my new swing for three holes on the back nine

g)     I realised one major thing I was doing wrong on… while coming down the 17^th.

No, you’re right, I’m clutching at straws - a) is fair enough, b) is true but I must be the one to blame for that, and, well, c), d), e), f) and g) smack of desperation and excuse-mongering as I head for my club final on Saturday.

But here’s the odd thing. I hit more than my fair share of really, really, really good shots. My ball striking was, for the most part, excellent. Honest. Really. It just didn’t really translate into a great score. At times – seriously – I looked pretty damn good. I loved the day, but the card was a tad deflating.

So I’m  bemused. My swing felt 60 percent better. Apart from my 24-handicapper blow-outs and the lost-swing bit. Delighted and bemused.

There was another unexpected highlight. I quoted a bit of Dave and Steve’s “Golf’s Golden Rule” at James – he’s athletic, strong and gives the ball a solid crack (I guess his 8 iron goes about 155yards) but he was rushing his transition a bit and coming into the impact zone at an angle.

And guess what? He slows up his transition and starts nailing it. He starts looking darn good. A bit too darn good, indeed, for my liking, especially when he proceeds to hit a 9 iron 155 yards to six feet of the hole.

Never, ever do this

You should never, ever do what I am about to do. I’m about to give you a stick to beat me with. A very, very big stick indeed.

So here goes…(but please be gentle).

“I feel a lot better at golf than a month ago. Despite the fact I haven’t played since then.”

I know. Laughable. But I suddenly feel, swinging away in my kitchen, that my left arm is behaving (coming back down on the 45 degree angle), my hips are behaving (turning tighter rather than slide-turning), my release is okay. I’m taking good divots out of the carpet. It suddenly feels like it is easier – admittedly in my kitchen – to swing well than to swing badly.

Did I really just say that? That it is easier to swing well than to swing badly?

Risible. I can already hear waves of laughter coming up the street, about to engulf my whole house.

But I’m back to my central thesis. I think I am getting much better at golf not because I’m playing, not because I’m practising but because I’ve been asked to help write an instruction book (Knightsbridge Golf School). Because I’m spending hours of time talking to Dave and Steve, asking questions and beginning to understand things I never understood before.

Laughable? Risible? Or perhaps I’ll have the last laugh?

Gawd, that's a big stick you've got there...

It’s still there, down in the kitchen!

I went down to the kitchen this morning and my golf swing was still there, just where I left it last night!

It normally takes me days to find it again!

This must be good...

It’s hard to win, without a downswing...

The final of the Lindfield men’s handicap singles competition will be played at 9.30am on Saturday, Nov 12. And if Tony Lawrence fails to turn up again, citing his daughter’s heavy cold and previous sleepless night as an excuse, then, well, tough. His opponent – Tim – will be declared the winner and his name painted on the board in the club bar.

Do I want to win? As I’ve said before, not hugely bothered, though I won’t say that on the day of the match  because it annoys Openly CompetitiveTim (actually, perhaps I should say it… over and over again).

But I do want to score, say, 77 or better. That would be magical – and mean another handicap cut! Likely? No. But certainly possible. I’m told the course is a quagmire after the downpours of the last few days. Still, at least that should make it easy to hold the greens.

Then there’s the foursomes final next week with Adam. I’d like to win that one, funnily enough. Can’t get a handicap cut in a foursomes game, after all.

I haven’t played much outside my own imagination in the last month but I intend to squeeze in a few ‘business-meeting’ matches this week.

If we’d played a few weeks back, as intended, I would have gone into the game not yet having learnt the transition or the downswing with Dave and Steve.

It wouldn’t have been easy, winning without a transition or a downswing…

It feels horrible… and I love it!

It’s the most used phrase at golf ranges all over the land. Used by incompetents and addressed to experts.

“It doesn’t feel right.”

Of course it doesn’t feel right, you numpkin. You’re a 28 handicapper. It should feel totally different, it should feel horrible, it should feel like you’re playing upside down and inside out. If what you’re currently doing feels normal, then, Mr High Handicapper, you want to be feeling as un-right as possible.

So here I am, having just done chapter 8 on the downswing with Knightsbridge Dave and Knightsbridge Steve, and things feel awful.

They sketch out the move between the transition and the release into the impact zone. And – hey presto – it doesn’t feel right. So I’ve spent the past week swinging away in the kitchen as it pours outside, trying to retain that feeling – that feeling of not feeling right.

I don’t want to get too technical here – you probably need pictures to understand what I’m getting at – but it’s all to do with my left arm. Stand behind me on the ball-to-target line, looking at my right shoulder. The left arm should go up and come down on the same angle, 45 degrees between the horizontal and vertical. My left arm, though, tends to get thrown over the top and come down almost horizontally before breaking at the elbow to make way for a cricket cover-drive.

Make sense? Oh well, You may need to wait for the book, and the pictures.

The point I’m making is that it feels awful. It’s a lovely feeling. I just hope I can hold onto it for another week. Who knows? By then, it might just start to feel right.

Embracing change, grasping nettles and Gordian knots

 I’m not sure it’s that hard to learn a good golf swing. The problem is unlearning a bad one first.

My golf swing is like a Gordian knot of bad habits. My limbs have been wonderfully trained to go in all the wrong directions. And, despite my entreaties, they remain surprisingly reluctant to accept a new way of doing things.

I say that, but actually I think I’m progressing. My handicap this year confirms the trend, And the more I write of Dave and Steve’s book, the more I find myself saying: “Oh, so that’s what I’m meant to be doing!”

Comprehension, surely, must be half – well alright, a third then – of the battle.

And at least I’m embracing change mentally. I may not be able to do so physically yet, but I’m committed - mentally. I’m trying. I’m grasping nettles. Even if I keep getting stung.

Most players I see at the range seem to have a different philosophy. They’re not trying to change their golf swings. No nettles for them. Rather, they’re trying to force the ball, through constant repetition, to agree that their original method is the right one and that it – the ball – should drop its opposition once and for all and start flying straight and true.

It reminds me of Einstein’s definition of insanity – ‘doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result’.

I think Einstein is right. A lot of bad golfers, let’s face it, are absolutely crackers. It’s they who should be committed. To a mental institution.

On Dented Kitchens, Scowling Cats and Threadbare Carpets

The trouble with not having enough time to play golf is that you have to practise indoors.

I use the kitchen - because of the high ceiling and the French windows (great as a mirror) - and the adjoining room - because my wife thinks it’s the cats that have been scratching holes in the carpet there.

I continue to get away with blaming the cats for my divots but she doesn’t believe me when I suggest they could also be responsible for the dents in the side of our standing fridge. A cat could dent a fridge, couldn’t it? If it were absolutely determined?

Still. 50% of the blame is better than 100%. Missie and Flash (cats) scowl at me as aforementioned wife, scandalised by the worsening state of the carpet, throws them out of aforementioned French windows and into the rain. I grin conspiratorially at them as they fly through the air.

Memo to self. Stand further away from fridge while studying top of the backswing…

Neanderthal Golf and Gore

I head for Knightsbridge and we discuss the chapter on transition. Dave and Steve think it’s all pretty self-explanatory. They don’t seem to understand the issue I have, moving from the backswing to the downswing.

As soon as I get to the top, I change. I change into a crazed Neanderthal. Armed with my club, I throw myself at the ball, I spin my shoulders and lash wildly. It’s a battle not to scream “Kill! Kill! Kill!” And that's just with my putter.

I discuss this with Dave at Knightsbridge and he suggests an exercise. I get to the top, then simply drop my arms back down the path they came up while keeping my hips solidly in position and my chest fully turned.

“Repeat that three times, then swing to the finish. The acceleration comes later, as you release the club into the impact zone,” he says. "And stop shouting 'kill, kill' all the time, it's putting our other students off."

It all feels very controlled, and balanced, and sensible, as it should be.

Dave goes for a coffee and I revert immediately. I don’t see a golf ball. I see a mammoth for breakfast.

I leave for home, a tusk under my arm and blood and gore dripping from my teeth.

A Winner and A Winner!

Oh sweet success! I am in the final of the club singles handicap competition after beating Kelly 3&1 in the semis. Better still, I declared a supplementary card and went round in... 76! I am now a 10.8 handicapper, down from 14 at the start of the year!

Apologies for all the self-congratulatory exclamation marks. But when you begin with a par-birdie at Lindfield, you know you’re in for a good day; 1 and 2 are tricky holes, I’ve never done that before (!). The secret of the round? I’m hitting much straighter, now that I'm concentrating on what is going on in the impact zone. It’s all much more controlled. And when I do miss a green, it’s a nearer miss than before, so I’m chipping rather than pitching. And today I chipped really well.

Kelly is a good 10 years younger and 40 yards longer and I had to give him two shots. Conversely, he hasn’t been playing much recently, to be fair, after a bout of ill health. But I played as well as I can, which is all I can control.

And I was remarkably intelligent - for me, anyway. When I was out of range of the green on the 8th after a mediocre drive, I accepted it and put my faith in hitting a 7 iron short and then getting up and down rather than risking a once-in-a-lifetime three wood out of the thick stuff. Which is a first. I parred the hole. Adam, my tactical mentor, would be proud.

Could I play better? Well, yes, but only when Dave and Steve tell me some more things I’m doing wrong. I’m definitely rolling my hands less and I’m definitely less violent during the transition but clearly there is loads more to correct. My ball flight is still left to right, so I must still be delivering a glancing blow across the ball.

Can I score better? Well, perhaps, but 76 is just fine by me. In fact, it’s hard to believe that the day could come where I’d be disappointed with a 76…

A loser and a winner

According to the rules, I’m a loser. It’s just that I don’t feel like one. Which is, at one and the same time, very pleasant but rather confusing.

I’ve just missed out on a place in the final of my club singles scratch competition, losing my match against James down the 18^th. No doubt I’ll be deemed a choker. I was two up with three to play, after all. But no, I didn’t choke. I parred the 16^th and the 17^th, only for James to go brilliant birdie, brilliant birdie. Can’t argue with that (I did, of course, drive behind a tree on the 18^th to gift him the match… perhaps I’ll keep that to myself).

But I still feel like a winner. I went round in 78, while James went round in 79. That’s matchplay for you. Annoyingly, I forgot to declare my card for my handicap, so there’ll be no cut. But I hit the ball nicely for most of the round. Sadly, there were two misses from 4ft, but that’s how it goes.

Better still, I’d warmed up with a six-over-par round at Poult Wood, in Kent. I was a loser and winner there as well. That match, with some Reuters former colleagues, is an annual event in memory of our late friend Graham Griffiths, one of the worst golfers ever to grace the sport. By definition therefore, the annual trophy is presented to the worst golfer. So I lost by a mile. But it felt rather grand. Again, I hit the ball beyond my abilities.

The fact is, I’m playing better than I should be at the moment.

I remain hugely confident that writing the Knightsbridge book is having a huge effect on my game. And we’ve not even written half of it… there must be more to come!

Wow!

Not often I use that word about myself but I think I deserve it. Wow. I am the only golfer left in all three of my club’s summer competitions.

Adam – he of the willowy and surprisingly dependable swing – and I – the 1970 shoulder spinner - have just reached the final of the handicap foursomes. Nothing flashy. A 3&2 win against Dave and Kevin.

So this is virgin territory. I’m already in the semi-finals of the scratch singles competition and the semi-finals of the handicap singles.

True, Adam and I won the foursomes last year – all Adam’s work, I have to admit, I was heavily subsidised - but I’ve never got this far in the singles. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever won a singles match before.

Mind you, I’d happily pass on all this very localised glory – Lindfield golf club, after all, is not exactly St Andrews or Augusta - in return for another handicap cut. I don’t want a trophy. I want a swing worthy of single figures.

Wow? Who am I kidding? I’m still a suspect golfer, somehow scrambling around in a slightly better score than other suspect golfers. Instead of a range session this afternoon I’ll re-read the early chapters of Dave and Steve’s prospective book…