Coach's Corner
By Andy "Coach" Cotton, Fri., Feb. 6, 1998
I don't know, maybe it's because I came to golf late in life and thus don't appreciate some of its hoary traditions, but in all the world of sport, there's no game governed by such an arcane and often just stupid set of rules - thought up between witch burnings by a small assembly of puritanical Scotsmen. In what other sport is a player automatically disqualified if he signs his scorecard incorrectly? Even more astounding, pros will, as a matter of course, turn themselves in for this violation, often costing themselves hundreds of thousands of dollars. This happens more often than you'd think. A golf purist sees something fine and gentlemanly in this. To me, it's far on the other side of stupid.
The massive plethora of strictly held golf customs a new player must come to grips with would overwhelm Miss Manners. For example, while on the green, never, ever, ever walk in the line of another player's putt. This will earn you, at the very least, hostile glares everywhere from Morris Williams to Augusta. The theory is, your foot indention or spike mark will cause the player to miss his putt. Never mind that the greens are ripped to shreds by the thousands of duffers who shuffle over it every week. Let's ignore the fact that your average hacker - under the most pristine of conditions - will miss 50% of his putts from three feet. Don't walk in a golfer's line! If the wind moves your ball a millimeter as you're about to hit, that's a stroke penalty, dude. Golf and anal-compulsiveness are synonymous.
So it is that Casey Martin, a handicapped golfer who asks to use a forbidden cart because he suffers a birth defect (making walking 18 holes every day impossible), is forced into court to make the PGA allow him to compete in the game he loves. He's not riding because he's lazy. He's not riding because he's too fat. He's not riding because he smokes too much. He's not running a sting for Kenneth Starr. He was born with a bad leg. He can't walk. The pros gripe about how tough it is for them to promenade down the center of a lovely course, a man-servant toting their bag, handing the master his 7-iron when bidden.
The old codgers talk about tradition. Give me a mulligan!! Let the man play golf. He should be admired for his determination to overcome a crippling handicap and still be able to play this impossible game at a professional level, not harassed and stymied at every juncture.
High-level golfers and officials are a most fastidious gang of fuss-budgets. Each blade of grass must be just so. If the card says 152 yards to the flag, it damn well better not be 151. Change is not greeted with enthusiasm. Nevertheless, regulations shouldn't exist in a vacuum. Maybe, one hundred years before the invention of the automobile, Ian McTavish, a prosperous sheepherder in the Scottish Highlands, decided that having a cow carry you and your bags was dirty pool. Indeed. No doubt the cow made a mess of the greens and fairways. Does this mean, in 1998, that no one questions the modern relevancy of Mr. McTavish's edict? Well, in golf it certainly does.
Because the game can become so obsessively addictive, it survives and flourishes in spite of itself. On the fun end are the amazing things that are possible for average people. A few weeks ago, a most remarkable thing happened on the par 4, 15th hole at the Bluebonnet Hills Golf Club. The 15th is a short 315 yards, with a dogleg left. It's designed to be played with your tee shot straight ahead to the start of the dog-leg, where a golfer looking hopefully at the heavily bunkered, raised and multi-tiered green 150 yards away, thinks he has a decent shot at a birdie. However, it's possible to drive the green if you're: a) long enough to cut the triangle and drive the ball 295 yards, and b) brave enough to fly the ball over 250 yards of wild bush and the traps protecting the green.
Bluebonnet opened in 1991. Since then, about 400,000 golfers have teed off on 15. Until recently, a single hole-in-one had been recorded on this hole. At a local tavern, I stumbled into the second person to accomplish this remarkable feat.
John Backhaus is a big, burly fellow. His face was somewhat flushed from beer and an afternoon of golf. As is common with golfers, he kinda aw-shucksed this miracle. He told me about the helpful following wind and how, when he didn't see his ball, everyone assumed it was lost in the deep gorse. His playing partner's shock upon finding the ball in the hole was considerable. 99.9% of all hole-in-ones, maybe a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence for a regular golfer, come on reachable par 3s. An ace on a par 4 is most rare.
Big John - who I'm sure has no problem with Casey Martin riding - this one's for you.
