NEVER WEAR BOOTS WHEN PICKING OUT A PUTTER!
John Haines
The other day, playing golf with my friend and best ball partner Tom Halla, I posed the age-old question among gentlemen: “How many putters would you say you’ve had as an adult?”
He said “Maybe six.” Tom, Mr. Long-term Relationship.
I thought, “hmm…I’ve had maybe 66.” Me, Mr. Worldly.
Willfully recalling my past putters invites many a story. And while I’ve won twelve titles with 10 different putters, it’s those useless lamp stands that never won a thing that have played the greatest role in my growth as a person. What’s the saying? “Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” True, no putter actually ever threatened to kill me, though my putting over the years has not proven to be above torture.
It was 1988 – if memory serves - my second year of
competitive amateur golf after 10 years of competitive amateur/semi-pro
baseball. I had earmarked my next commission check for
covering a new putter because the one I was using had become nothing but a
recalcitrant 8802 wanna-be. That Friday, payday, was a day I had looked forward
to for a while. I would be going to see one of my favorite
bands, The Rainmakers from
I was single at the time, so I was dressed casually but exceedingly presentable in a come-hither kind of way. I had on my cowboy-ish ankle boots which made me taller - and pretty much irresistible to women. That evening, before heading to the show, I entered B & G Golf and told the sales Cling-Ons to take me to their putters. After touching every damn one of them in a way that was, on some level I’m sure, rewarding for both parties, I decided on a pricey, black and gold Slotline. I was certain it would become my personal savior. I enjoyed the process of the purchase and placed it under a blanket in the back of my company issued Oldsmobile. I was going into the city, one could never be too careful with cars containing Alpine stereos or Slotline putters. Such was life on the streets.
I met some friends at the concert and was having a great time until an unfortunate incident occurred. A lovely young woman had apparently found me and my cowboy-ish ankle boots pretty much irresistible, which was to be expected, but some guy, “just a friend”- begged to differ. The lass had already told me she had nothing going with the tall geeky “just-a-friend,” but nonetheless he came barreling into my personal space at the concert. I looked at the tall barreler with amusement until he reached out to, apparently, attempt something in the push or shove family of activities. The kid was maybe 6’ 6” and perhaps 166. I grabbed his boney wrist which contained a half dozen or so metal bracelets. My grab was perfect. The bracelets bunched together and pinched his skin in a manner that explained the puppy-like helium squeals he emitted. The dude nearly went down, giraffe-like; and his eyes were blinking and watering as I gave him my uneven eyebrow look. Then, I twisted his wrist like I was capable of juggling three or four of the middle planets - and their moons.
That was when the bouncers came swarming onto the scene. One went with the tall, “just-a-friend” helium squealing puppy, and the other was responsible for the now completely irresistible me. I explained that I only use my powers for good, never evil, and so when bouncer walked me to the side door he said, “If you want to come back, come to this door, I’ll let you in.” I said, “No thank you, I just purchased a Slotline, I’m going home to putt in my living room.” Like that would explain everything. I think the bouncer thought I was referring to some suburban form of self-gratification.
After a brief stop at Taco Bell for a ten-pack to go, five soft, five hard, I made it home, rife with anticipation to roll some putts in my living room while watching a tape of - I think it might have been - The Colonial. I kicked off my boots and ate maybe eight or nine tacos- so as to not feel like a pig. But…now the Slotline felt like a completely different putter. It seemed long and unwieldy. I shook it off and planned on a visit to Silver Spring Golf Course to practice with it the next day.
The next day, the Slotline again felt long and unwieldy. When out of my cowboy-ish boots, the putter was seemed enormously long- and flat. It seemed hockey stick long. Weird. I was edgy.
When I went to
I worked with it for maybe 45 minutes when along came a short, older gentleman and a young boy of maybe 8 or 9. From a distance, I could see that the Grandpa had a light step and a radiant way about him. The kid was cute and basking in the generosity of the old mans radiance. Made me sick, they would be taking up 50% of the little putting green, where I was in turmoil. I prefer my turmoil in private.
I didn’t even look at them when they came onto the green. Then, I heard the old man explaining the finer points of putting to the kid. It was all about loose arms and not thinking and some “aim and fire” BS. He did this while banging in putt after putt. Non-stop yakking from the old guy as the kid laughed and clapped while I was stewing over 5 footers and being encouraged by my lip-outs.
Then the boy started draining putts as the Grandpa encouraged him with the mellifluous voice of a holy man. I kept my ass pointed in their direction as the smoke came pouring from my ears. I took a peek and I could see the old man bending over and helping the kid. From behind, I could only see one helluva big nose coming from the front of the radiant, showboat holy man.
Then, the Grandpa-man turned and looked at me. It was Lou Warabick, the legendary one; great player, great teacher, great person, and apparently, a great putter with some old beat up putter that looked like a sawed-off one iron. I wanted to tell him how I had just beaten his long and powerful son, Randy, in the State long-drive competition at Western Lakes the year before so he might know I was someone to reckon with, but my humility, as usual, won out. The young boy it turned out, was Randy’s son Brad, in fact he’s remains to this day, Randy’s son Brad.
I had met Lou the year before and I was shocked and flattered when he recalled that we had indeed met. He brought his big nose over to my side of the green and was all twinkly and warm and, well…direct.
He looked at my putter, knew exactly what it was, “a Slotline, hey,” and had me scuff a few five footers. Then he smiled and told me to “loosen my arms and not think so much and just “aim and fire.” I was nervous in his presence and I may have double hit one. Then he took my new putter into his Hogan-like hands and said “whoa, she’s a long one isn’t she?” Lou, maybe 5’ 7”, choked way up on it and actually had to turn his face so his nose wouldn’t get boxed around by the handle. He made a couple, but they were sneaking in, not your proverbial “center-cut” variety.
So the great man looked at my space-age putter, holding it up to the sky and said, “She’s bent.” He kept nodding. “I hate to say it, but I think she’s bent. You better get that checked out Johnny.” Lou had a way of saying your name that made you care about him too.
I looked over at little Brad holding Lou’s battered old piece of crap putter. It was nicked and discolored and prehistoric. I said, “Yeah, okay, I just bought it yesterday.”
Lou said “Maybe cut it down a bit, too.”
“Sure…uh…” I almost went with my long drive story, but didn’t.
#
I took the putter back to B&G and they said they did some back room magic to it. My next round I must have put some bad strokes on some misreads because everything went in. And that, my friends, was what made me hang on to my shiny Slotline longer than I should have. I do, however, remember when I just knew that it would have to go – The ’88 State Amateur at Ozaukee Country Club.
I was playing with Pat Boyle and Jerry Strege. 16th hole, par three, wet green, Boyle backs one into the jar for an ace. I backed one up 10 feet below the hole. Strege makes a 40 footer for a deuce. I want to make a 2 so we might have 212 – a tribute to Boyle, if you will. Nope. I don’t come close, but shake the next one in from 5 feet. It was just so pathetic, though everyone liked the 123 component. But, I knew I would never use my too long, too flat, black and gold Slotline in another round ever again.
On the 18th hole, I somehow slashed my ball out of the long rough to the very back left of the green. The hole, of course, was front right, probably 65 mogul-filled feet or more away. Three breaks later, on a putt that took forever to get to the cup – it dropped in for birdie.
I felt like a guy meeting with his girlfriend to break up – but then before you can say a word, she gives you a watch.
I never even put that thing back into my bag as I headed to the parking lot. There, I ran into Tom Halla and told him, “This putter is history.”
He took it, looked at it, then looked at me and said, “You know, this thing is like…bent.”
“Obviously,” I said as I threw it into the deepest recess of my trunk. No blanket, no head cover, no golf bag. I discovered it again just before turning in my company car for a new one. But it was like three company cars later. I just kept dumping it in the trunk of my next car every couple years. Like a photograph of an old girlfriend, I had mixed emotions.
Finally, I eventually used it as a fire poker and the head fell off. It had never handled the heat too well anyway.