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I bought my set of golf clubs for $154 at Target during my second year of law school. They're made by Wilson. Everyone who sees my clubs is astounded that Wilson makes something other than tennis rackets and volleyballs. My golf clubs are a popular variety of clubs called "Power Chambers." This is all the more surprising considering they have no power. And not just because I wield them.
For $154 I received a full set of clubs and a golf bag. One size fits all. I broke the cardboard box down and started playing immediately. In the ensuing six years I've only had to replace one club, a putter. Yep, someone stole the power chamber putter. I still can't figure out what the thief was thinking. Perhaps the thief believed, mistakenly of course, that because he'd seen so few of them, Wilson golf clubs were particularly prized. Truth be told, I sort of feel sorry for anyone who's this bad of a thief.
I'm telling y'all this because I'm fairly confident that I'm the first person in Wilson's power chamber history to use their clubs at The Player's Championship Sawgrass course. Also because I think it demonstrates what type of golfer I am; namely, bad. Probably many of you who are also bad golfers have wondered how you might fare on a professional course. Well, you're about to find out.
In honor of The Player's Championship beginning this Thursday, ClayNation column Monday and Wednesday will focus on my round of 18, DDT style. Here's a printable scorecard so you can follow along.
I played with my good friend Tardio. Tardio is the kind of golfer who believes he's much better than he actually is. He has all the skill that a good golfer would need but these skills never operate in concert. One day he'll crush the ball long and straight off the tee and airmail his approaches from the center of the fairway. Other days his irons are spot-on but he's attempting an approach shot with a ball wedged against a tree trunk. Tardio always believes that he gets bad bounces and everyone else gets great bounces. Plus, he can't putt. Ever.
But to Tardio's credit he's a much better golfer than I am and we're playing the Sawgrass Course because he told me to call them and tell them that I'd written a book. In Tardio's words, "Once you've written a book people let you do stuff that other people don't get to do." Amazingly, he's correct. So on the Sunday after the Cocktail Party in Jacksonville, we arrive to golf.
Our round costs $365 each (when I booked it I thought they meant total) and we're immediately led out to the driving range where we take turns rifling shots into Florida clouds -- it's overcast and we're both afraid it's going to rain. To protect against this Tardio is wearing his golfing rubbers. Every time he swings on the practice tees he squeaks like an old man walking in mud. I hit a few shots with my pitching wedge to get loose and Tardio watches me.
"You not breaking out the power chambers, yet?" he asks.
Our playing partners arrive. We're in a foursome with two vice-presidents of large American companies, a husband and a wife. One of them sells pet food, Purina or one of their competitors, and the other sells something that's not pet food -- clothing of some form or fashion. And by sells, I mean fires people.
They are very excited to meet us. After attending the Georgia-Florida game the day before, we smell like whiskey bottles with legs. Tardio tells the vice-presidents we're lawyers and they nod skeptically.
Craig, the vice-president of Purina, steps up and begins sending majestically arcing drives off into the distant horizon. These drives may or may not have actually landed in St. Augustine. I take a swing, bring up a large divot, and my ball careens sideways along the length of practice players. I turn and look behind me as if another golfer had also narrowly missed me.
"Power chambers," Tardio says derisively to no one in particular.
Just then our caddy arrives. Our caddy is an average-sized man with a deep tan and really white teeth. His name is Harry and we spend about five minutes meeting him. Mostly we talk about the weather. Then we return to our warm-up shots. My hands are shaking. Harry works his way down through our bags, wiping off our club heads and occasionally pulling out a club and looking down the barrel of the club as if he's sighting a gun. My clubs are the last ones for him to reach.
