So, What's Your Excuse?

By John Haines

Earlier this year, Dr. Jeffrey Ausen, aka The Driller, decided that the reason he had been uncharacteristically missing fairways was because he had somehow relapsed into using imprinted tees. Imprinted tees are contraband in his view. He told this to me straight faced. It is, of course, a preposterous notion.

Having heard this, Bill Linneman, Director of rules and competition for the WSGA, decided that it was indeed preposterous, “Dude, no way can you see the printing on a tee- especially with a ball on it!” He laughed until he coughed. Thinking it has anything to do with some form of visual distraction is, of course, just as preposterous.

“It’s just knowing that the printing is there, tiny letters facing a splintering death in a futile attempt at selling something.” said The Driller, going into his wind-up.

“A crashed car at NASCAR, huh?” I said, trying to fit in.

“Not an accurate analogy.” The Driller, coming with the delivery, “Because with imprinted tees…”

I walked away, yodeling to myself to drown out hearing anymore until I had escaped. I didn’t need a recap of one of Driller’s pet neuroses. I had plenty of my own.

Simply stated, this is nothing more than the time honored act of refusing to accept responsibility for something going awry in ones golf game. “It’s not me, it’s those imprinted tees.” Or spike marks, or an ill fitting bra, or perhaps an ex-girlfriends best friend’s agoraphobic mom. I’ll get to that later.



In golf, no one is immune from making a scapegoat of most any person, place or thing (or combination there of) that the human mind can imagine. And what the human mind can imagine is where it all begins and sometimes never ends for most golfers. Inevitably, everyone will assume a brief or recurring role as the golf equivalent of Pontius Pilate, since, at some point, even the owner of the most callused hands will seek to have them washed of all blame. Often times it is the work of the Devil, or his minions.
Everybody Does It

Everyone knows some guy who blames bad shots on grass-hoppers doing step-aerobics in the heather. Or the gal who just can’t play well if her nemesis in the foursome is too friendly and complimentary (“…such a bitch, she knows exactly what she’s doing.”)

It happens from the get-go in golf. When I was single, different women would want to be taken to the range or a small course. Might be their first time golfing, but they’d get the excuses down pronto. “I can’t hit it if you’re going to stand there and watch!” Then they squirt one off the tee marker, the ball washer and finally my good knee. Should’ve looked away while levitating I guess. Or, “I’m wearing the wrong kind of bra for swinging.” Yeah, who’da thought you’d be swinging a club when golfing?

But as Johnnie Cochrane would surely say “If you’ve got a good excuse, put it too use.”

Tour players can occasionally elevate placing blame to performance art. Take the phantom spike mark for example. Generally, spike marks deflect putts only if there is a viewing audience. Some pros will make sure everyone knows what made them miss a makeable putt- often times with a trained, dramatic flair. Joe Pro becomes Van Helsing, raising his putter like a medieval weapon and coming down hard to crush the ruthless uprising of the non-conforming chlorophyll. A Cavezialian (the Bobby Jesus) act of sacrifice- so others wouldn’t have to suffer from the sin of another - one that caused a lip-out from five feet.
Inner Demons or Personal Challenges?

Another classic is blaming the Devil. As in, the Devil made me do it. Otherwise known as, “inner demons,” I would argue that the single greatest reason for poor golf performance- outside of what can be reasonably predicted through the statistical representation of player’s skill-level (handicap), and its relationship with the cold hard fact that golf is a damn hard game – is due in some way, to the exploding birth-rate and incredible diversity among those sons of bitches known as inner demons.

Inner demons are the manifestation of an individual’s thoughts and emotions as he or she deals with his or her ability to focus when dealing with the assorted curve balls that real life pitches at all of us daily. Kind of a “something happens/ I think/ what now?” phenomenon. The problem is compounded when one accumulates an inventory of these “demons” Or, the same demon gets too much exercise and becomes too fit to be exorcized easily. It’s all from thinking, and in golf there is way too much time to think. I think, therefore I am……a quivering bowl of Jello.

The golfer’s memory is where they live. Remembering bad stuff is really all it is. The missed short putts create the Yip demon, the closing hole screw ups pump up the Choke demon, and sometimes an ex-wife or girlfriend’s general bizarreness might drop the Freak-show demon right into your head in the middle of an easy chip that becomes skulled.

My advice is to understand that “inner demon” is really a colorful way of saying “personal challenge.” You see, it’s practically a law and certainly a cliché that one battles “inner demons.” You only have to meet a challenge. So do you want to “meet” someone or something, or “battle” them? Shake hands, or throw fists? Already you’re on your way to saving a great deal of energy that could be used for, say, smashing the life out of phantom spike marks.

But whatever the reason we make excuses and/or place blame as golfers, there is one particular go-to technique for excuse usage that once served me well. Maybe more than once, but once it helped me win a tournament.
The Beauty of the On-Deck Excuse – The Hainer’s Experience

About ten years ago and recently divorced, I was on the way back to my apartment after practicing putting at what was then Country Club of Wisconsin, now Fire Ridge. I had stopped at the Highland House to pick up some take out (cheese quesadillas) I had ordered by phone. In the corner of the saloon area was a very opinionated gal I had dated a couple times, she was attacking her Margarita like she couldn’t wait for the next one. Let’s call her…..Screechy. I pretended not to see her by fixating on a meaningless televised Braves game. Turns out she saw me.

It was Saturday night and I had the lead after 18 holes in the Milwaukee County Public Links Championship despite some wild tee shots that, thankfully, Dretzka Park GC was generous in containing. I knew the bartender, a bright, good natured college guy; he said my food would be right up and then asked about my golf game.

I said it was “going okay but by the way I’m hitting my tee shots you’d think I was agoraphobic.” (A person with fear or anxiety in open spaces.)

He laughed enthusiastically and said, “Afraid you’ll freak out if you hit a fairway, huh?”

My food came and I went home.

That night, long after I had gone to bed, Screechy called. My answering machine was turned up to maximum volume so I could hear it in my bedroom. Screechy was drunk. She was going on and on about something so I put on the headphones, listened to some music and splayed out in beddy bye peace. I drifted off quickly but was awakened not long after, the music had ended and through the headphones I could hear pounding on my door – and, amazingly, Screechy was still screeching. She knew from experience that my machine could handle up to 45 minutes in a single message. She was taking her time.

I crawled out of bed and opened my apartment door. No one was there. I started to walk back to the phone to turn off Screechy because she was lecturing me about being insensitive to people with anxiety problems.

From what I could gather, her best friend’s mom is agoraphobic - and she talked to the bartender and he repeated what I said about my tee shots and I think I’m so funny but I’m really not that funny and….then she belts out part of an Alannis Morresette song that goes “blah, blah blah ….and YOU OUGHTA KNOW! More lecturing, more “…and YOU OUGHTA KNOW” All boozy and loud, over and over. I started yodeling to myself, as I had done with The Driller, to block out Screechy. I got a little louder and sounded like the chick singer in the Cranberries where she does that falsetto donkey yodel over and over - “Aay-uhh, aay-uhh , aay-uhh etc….” A great moment for a single man in his underwear.

Well, I had left the door open and the next door lesbians who I almost never saw had come back to my apartment and were in the doorway. Wearing their fleecy sleeping sweats, they were not happy. Apparently they had been pounding on my door because of Screechy’s screeching. They’d given up and left but came back when they heard I’d opened the door.

When I sensed their presence I spun around so fast that part of me shot through my boxers and now we had a real mess. Screeching, yodeling and flashing. The ladies in the doorway bolted with a simple two word prayer by hissing our Savior’s name.

Even though it was past midnight, I couldn’t resist replaying Screechy’s loud nonsensical soliloquy on my machine before going back to bed. She was at times unintelligible, very Yoko Ono on a cobblestone road, but mostly she fixated on her perception of my one man insensitivity movement and how it demonstrated my immaturity. Had I been with some friends we would have popped a seam laughing… not at anyone's problems, but at Screechy's performance, a demo tape made for blackmail.

I went back to bed but didn’t sleep much as I replayed the unfortunate scene that had just gone down at my apartment. It was then that I realized what my excuse would be if I didn’t hold the lead Sunday in the final round of the County Championship. Perfect. Who could focus after being up all night dealing with such an experience? I had an out, a safety net.

The next day, which was really later that same day, I was tired but relaxed and found my tee shots in shorter grass and much further from the shade. I had simply turned the “Psycho-chick demon” into an ally, an “on-deck excuse” and went out and won the tournament.

The best excuse then, is the one you have ready, but never have to whip out – perhaps a poor choice of words, but it is the moral of the story here and there are some things I can hold in no longer. Bottom line; the on-deck excuse works as a preventative measure so no explanation for failure is ever necessary – and, in this case I still had a story to tell as well. Priceless.

I have often wondered since then, who would really be the one to thank for helping me win the County championship; Screechy, her best friend’s mom, the bartender, the lesbians? Big Butterfly Effect going on here. I’m thinking again, and so some “personal challenges” may be lurking, but in the event any of the above should come across this column – I thank you all, it was a team effort - but I’ve decided to give most of the credit to my buddy who gave me the booming answering machine as a wedding gift, and my ex-wife for letting me have it exchange for the L couch.

Still, the cheesy goodness of the Highland House Quesadilla got me to stop, and if I never would’ve stopped there, I never would’ve …..

Everything for a reason.