The Sand Trap (25 page)

Gord was getting a little nervous with this
talk of big change.

“Come on Bruce, get on with it; I’m paying
you by the hour remember!”

“Right,” Bruce sighed and took in a breath
as if he was beginning to run a marathon. Bruce proceeded to show
Gord the first of the three full swing changes that his research
had come up with. He also had a strategy for Gord for the short
game but that could wait. Right now he wanted to focus on the
swing.

“First is your grip. You were probably
taught, and I actually still teach it, that you more or less pinch
the club between the thumb and forefinger of your right hand. Show
me your grip.”

Gord took the club and using the overlap
grip popular today, he gripped it in a perfect classic fashion,
club across the palms with a relatively neutral grip with the vee
formed by the thumb and pointer finger of each hand pointed at his
right shoulder. Some golfers twist their right hand a little more
to the right on the club, creating a ‘strong’ grip that supposedly
gives more distance and certainly promotes a draw. Gord had been
taught a neutral, in the middle so to speak, grip and it had served
him well.

“Now, take the right hand thumb and move it
towards the right hand pointer finger so that you close the
vee.”

This had the effect of putting the thumb
more on top of the grip rather than on the side like the pinch
did.

“That’s your lesson for today,” Bruce
concluded. “Hit five hundred 7-irons today using that grip and from
this point forward that is the grip you will use. I’ll give you the
other two changes when you have ingrained that grip into your swing
thoughts.”

Gord looked at him a little
incredulously.

“I just paid $50 for that?”

Bruce ignored him and started to walk back
to his car. He needed another coffee.

“See you tomorrow.”

Gord was left standing on the indoor outdoor
carpet mat at the public municipal golf course range holding a
7-iron still gripped in the new way he had just been taught. “This
is nuts” he said to himself. But after Bruce left, Gord stayed at
the range hitting and hitting and hitting again with his new grip
and his 7-iron. This didn’t bother Gord too much since he was
obsessive by nature. His diet and habits were witness to that. By
now he had become obsessive with the idea he could get better at
his golf game and make the senior tour.

The rest of his day followed the same
repetitive routine. Up at five. Hundred push-ups. Hundred sit-ups.
Oatmeal and green tea. Tai Chi. Drive his Civic to the range. Hit
balls all morning. Lunch at his favourite Thai restaurant. Various
life maintaining functions in the afternoon such as seeing his
lawyer (divorce was proceeding fine), doing banking (pension money
was starting to flow as was his Agency pay to his Anguilla
account), visiting the liquor store (Bushmills sixteen-year old
malt; he decided to buy a case), and seeing to laundry (he needed
several changes of golf clothes). Microwave a takeout meal of some
sort from the store in the strip mall down the street. A few or
more Bushmills and a blues karaoke session. Asleep by 9:30 or
so.

The most dreaded and easily put off of his
chores was the sorting out of his possessions still at the house
and preparing for the day when the house was sold and he would have
to move out. It wasn’t that there was much to sort out. His clothes
consisted of a closet of Tip Top suits and Costco dress shirts and
another closet full of casual, mostly golf, clothes. The suits and
shirts he would donate to the Salvation Army clothes bin when he
got around to it. He still wore most of the latter, but realized it
would all need replacing when he started to compete. What would
take some effort to sort out and move was his music centre in the
basement; his “man cave” as Gail used to derisively call it.
Thousands of dollars worth of high-end amplifiers, mixers, special
effects generators and recorders – even one old reel-to-reel –
covered one whole wall of a secure and sound proofed room in the
basement. Several mostly bass guitars, earphones and several
microphones were mysteriously umbilicalled to this morass of
electronic hardware. An old leather chesterfield was positioned
across from the wall in a perfectly researched position to get the
full effect of a set of six-foot speakers that framed the whole
concoction. It had taken Gord thirty years and a custom built house
to put together the pieces of this miniature studio and he had no
idea how he would either move it or find another place where he
could recreate it.

However the biggest problem was not the mass
of equipment, but what was behind it. When the house was being
built twenty-five years ago, Gail left the design of his little man
cave to him and the architect and contractor. Gord had them
construct a two-foot gap between the outer windowless wall and the
inner wall and to put the inner wall …nine feet by ten feet… on a
very expensive roller bearing set of hinges so that it would swing
open and latch like a large door. He told them it was for a future
wine storage unit and while they looked at him strangely, he was
paying the bills so they did what he said. After they were finished
and the basement and his music room were done, he built shelves in
this two feet space so that when the whole wall was opened it
displayed the shelves and their contents. This was not an easy
thing to do since the equipment was attached to a built in case on
the wall and he had to move his equipment off the floor and to the
back of the room so the full wall would swing. It was in this
secret place that Gord kept his killing powders and concoctions;
the things he had gathered and used during his career with the
Agency. He had not opened the wall since he put things away after
the last job, and he wondered now that he had retired how he was
going to get rid of this stuff and explain this hidden space to
some new owners.

And there was the golf. After a week of five
hundred 7-irons each morning even Gord’s level of obsessiveness was
weakening, but to his surprise he had seen an improvement in both
his swing and the result. A weekend golfer might not have noticed
the difference, but with the sheer volume of shots he was hitting
he could definitely see an increase in shot accuracy. It appeared
to him that his shots were clustering much closer together out on
the range than they were when he started and when he told this to
Bruce, he smiled knowingly.

“Ok, ready for lesson two?”

“For sure. I can hardly wait. The last one
was so revolutionary.”

Bruce ignored him.

“Line up for a shot.”

Gord complied, and took a perfect shot
readiness position. With knees slightly bent like he was in a
wrestling or basketball defense position. His bum stuck out a
little and spine straight. Chin out. Eyes on the ball. Hands
hanging directly below the shoulders; holding the club in his new
grip.

“Looks good. I think I should take a photo
for the club newsletter. The ladies would all make you a pin up for
their mirrors.”

In actual fact, Bruce was impressed. There
were few fifty-eight-year olds at the club, or anywhere else that
Bruce knew for that matter, who looked as fit and were as flexible
as Gord. His stance was picture perfect and his flexibility gave
him the full swing of an eighteen-year old. He figured he would
have to find out one day what Gord did to keep in such good shape.
“Ok. Now move the club head so that you are starting your swing
with the club head a foot from the ball rather than right behind
the ball.”

Gord looked at him with a wrinkled eyebrow
but did as he said.

“Now hit. We'll spend the rest of the week
on this change added to last week’s.”

They repeated the routine of the previous
week for the week of the new club head position. It took Gord a day
or two to get used to this change after fifty years of starting the
club head from a position directly behind the ball. By the end of
the week he was sure there was a noticeable difference in his
consistency and accuracy. He simply put this off to more practice
at first, but he had been playing and practicing for over fifty
years so a little more practice in the scheme of things shouldn’t
make a difference. By the Sunday night he was starting to have
shots land on top of other shots from over 180 yards. For fun he
was trying to hit the large 175-yard marker and he did it more than
he thought possible. By Monday he was anxiously waiting for lesson
number three, but he was curious. He had done a little research of
his own over the week and could not find anyone teaching this
way.

“Bruce, tell me. Where did you pick this
stuff up? Why doesn’t every pro teach these things? Why do they
work?”

“Whoa guy! Too many questions. You don’t
have to know anything other than each of the three swing techniques
I am teaching you have a very sound theoretical base and are
somethings that some very successful golfers have used in their
career. I have chosen these for you and where you are with your
swing. I don’t know if they would be suitable for the high
handicapper. I’ll have to do some more work on that. So just have
some faith for now OK?”

Gord nodded.

“Alright, it seems to be working so far.
Let’s get on with three!”

“Fine. Put your 7-iron away and grab your
driver.”

Gord was all smiles. “Alright! I was getting
tired of hitting 7-irons all day!”

Bruce looked at him with a devilish smile.
“And put the rest of your clubs in your car and come with me in
mine.”

“Where are we going? Can I practice at the
club now? These indoor outdoor carpets leave green stains on my new
clubs.”

“Buckle up,” he told Gord as they settled
themselves into Bruce’s ten-year old Volvo. “You’ll see.”

Twenty minutes later they pulled up to the
Kanata arena on the outskirts of Ottawa. Gord was clearly confused.
“What the hell is this?”

“Hurry up and follow me. I have the ice
booked, or I should say you have the ice booked, for two hours each
day.”

“Ice? Two hours?”

When they entered the arena Bruce pulled out
an old motorcycle helmet, a warm sweater and a pair of shiny-soled
leather moccasin slippers, the fur lined kind they sell at the
genuine Indian handicraft store at the entrance to Algonquin Park.
He told Gord to put on the helmet, sweater and slippers and go
stand thirty meters in front of the net. By this time Gord was
laughing hysterically as he gingerly made his way across the ice in
slippers. Bruce followed him in sure-footed runners and placed a
large bucket of practice balls at Gord’s feet.

And he explained. “Gord I know you were a
hot shot hockey player when you were young so I know you know how
to do a slapshot.”

Gord cautiously nodded.

“Right. Well I want you to take slapshots
with your driver towards the net with these balls. One bucket to
the middle of the net. One bucket to the top right corner. One
bucket to the top left. Keep repeating that for the two hours you
have booked the ice. You have the ice booked for the next week at
the same time. You can keep this bucket of balls to bring with
you.”

Gord stopped laughing.

“You’re serious aren’t you! I’m standing
here in a motorcycle helmet, bedroom slippers, in your
grandfather’s moth eaten wool sweater, in a cold, arena smelling of
pubescent boys’ sweat, holding a golf club and you want me to score
goals all day with golf balls?” Gord paused to sputter for effect.
“Are you nuts? Because if anyone comes into this arena they will
know that I am!”

“Try it,” was all that Bruce responded.

“Ok asshole – sensei – great master,
whatever you say.”

Gord reached down carefully so as not to
slip and placed a ball on the ice. He had to put a little snow
around it so it wouldn’t roll away. He took his stance.

“New grip, new starting position.” Bruce
lectured.

Gord complied. And he swung. The crack that
the helmet made on the ice as Gord lost his footing and fell hard
to the ice resounded in the empty arena.

“Shit!” was all he could sputter as he
struggled to get back to his feet. “Hold on. I’ll do that
again.”

“Not the same thing I hope?” Bruce was
laughing this time.

Gord was never one to give up and it took a
while. After an hour of falling and slipping he was able to
actually hit the ball and by the end of the second hour actually
hit the net several times. It just became another challenge for
Gord to take on. He had indeed been a very good hockey player when
he was young, good enough to have some pro prospects. A blown out
knee at fourteen had ruined a hardly started hockey career. But he
certainly knew how to do a slapshot and by the third day he was
rifling balls into the net and by the end of the week could hit the
corners at will. His body was taking a toll though, and he went
home that first week with a headache from hitting the ice so much.
He wondered if he was getting a concussion, but when a little of
the Irish each evening made the pain go away he dismissed that. The
strain of keeping his lower body so balanced over two hours was
evident. He thought his exercise and Tai Chi routine gave him a
strong core, but he went to bed with an ache in some inside muscles
and the exercises in the morning were an effort. And there was the
cold. He soon left Gord’s old sweater in the car and wore his down
vest instead and used his thermal ski socks in the slippers.
Despite the exercise he was still shivering when he came out of the
arena into the late May sun and a humid Ottawa summer. He was
relieved when Bruce said it was time to go back to the range.

For all of June they worked together from
seven to eight and Gord hit balls for the rest of the morning.
Bruce had added the driver to the 7-iron and all he did was
reinforce three things over and over again to Gord: new grip, new
ball position and envision standing on ice making a slapshot.
Sometimes the three things didn’t work together but when they did,
Gord was amazed at the result. The combination of accuracy and
distance was beyond anything he had ever achieved and he was now
confident enough that when Bruce announced he could go in the club
championship the first weekend in July, Gord was pumped. He could
hardly wait to show off what he could now do.