Food for (Swing) Thought(s)

By John Haines



It has often been said, “you are what you eat.” I’ve also heard, “how you eat, so shall you compete.” This brings up a golf-specific concern of mine, “can a snack, make you hack?” Other than my well known addiction to Advil Liquid-gels, (for howling elbow/moaning shoulder) I fear I’ve become dependent on various on-course snacks over the past several years. And this year, something I thought could be beautiful, turned out anything but.

First, some back-story. Years ago there was a guy who used to eat bananas during his rounds of golf. Not for nutrition, nor for convenience - he did it as aroma-therapy. He said that the vapors from the inevitable baby burps that bubbled up from his digestive apparatus created a subtle banana breath that was ever so soothing. Organic incense, if you will. His words - “Essence of banana - it keeps me even.”

Then there’s the guy who feels that Teriyaki Steak Bites from the Jack Link Co is the ideal beef treat. He is on record claiming it is “the quintessential meat snack of the modern era.” He kept a package in his golf bag at all times. At least back then he did.

Most of us know that even everyday beef jerky can have its moments. A standard batch will offer reliable low-carb gratification when the slightly gargoyled strips of dried meat splinter easily with the grain, providing just enough spicy satisfaction to buy it again. Even a tough, hemp-like piece can have a little flavor extracted when persistent tongue pressure is combined with some determined mouth-vac dehydration. Some would call this work - I call it interactive.

But with the development of Steak Bites - praise Jesus - well, this was the way many of us dreamed it could be. Sweet and spicy, they are tender and ready - yet with the broad-shouldered machismo of Angus beef, all in smartly unitized nuggets. This guy says that the high sodium content of room-temperature meat takes the place of the once popular athletic supplement called salt tablets - except it’s made from tasty steak! And, they come in a re-sealable package that is perfect for the golf course.

You may have noticed I am on board with Jerky Boy. Very much so. In fact, I am Jerky Boy. Truth be told, I am the burping Banana Man as well. No use hiding behind poetic license to tout my belief in, and commitment to, on-course comfort food. Often times these items are referred to as – snacks.

But make no mistake; these snacks can make a difference through the course of a round of golf, even a whole season. When a golfer’s energy sags, or his pie-hole just aches for a shake-up, something has to be done. Man can’t live on birdies alone- and bogies just leave a bad taste in the mouth. Even retro-fave, the ol’ granola bar, can turn the tide for the better, especially if it’s one of those with something like Heath Bar or Butterfinger pieces mixed in. (For me, in the ‘melt-in-your-mouth’ genre, Heath hath no equal.)

This summer I came upon a new, on-course comfort food savior. I never thought it would come to this, but, shockingly, it is – DRIED MANGO – “the apple of the tropics.”

These pieces of dried mango simply stepped up to the palate and went deep, touching most all my taste-bud’s sensory pleasure centers. This had been previously accomplished only by a few legends in the portable snack food community (Mike and Ikes, Swedish Fish, Honey-Roasted Cashews, assorted meat snacks, and, if chilled, some types of seedless grapes, among other venerable performers of course.)

The dried mango sounded unappealing to me at first. I thought it was some sort of fat apricot or something. Paul Zarek brought a bag back this spring from Hawaii and pulled them out on the 13th hole one day. He offered some to Tom Halla and me. Tom – he would eat a bunker rake if he could first hose it down with Ketchup, or any other lubricating sauce. He’ll try anything.

Me? I was frightened. These dried mango pieces looked too much like goldfish and I’m not much for seafood. And what if these mangos made a fleshy, veiny, shrimp kind of sound in my head, when I chewed? Urrggh! I could throw up. But I was out in the middle of Washington County Golf Course with nothing to eat but an old Slimfast bar. How old, I did not know, but the wrapper had yellowed and could have been from two bag transfers ago. I wrestled with the temptation.

But in an act of unbridled bravery, I placed a small piece of dried Mango in my mouth. The dusting of its fine sugar coating made for a very friendly intro - and it just got better after that. No texture inconsistencies, no funny smell. As we did this, Tom and I looked at each other and no words needed to be said. It was as if we instantly knew we now had a responsibility to tell others of this good news. And, as disciples, we would.

I asked Paul where I could buy some. I was not optimistic; after all, he had found them in Hawaii, an exotic island. He said, “There’s a Sam’s Club on the island, got ‘em there.” So, soon after that day, I went to my local Sam’s Club, renewed my membership, and plucked a 5 lb. bag from the mountain of pallets that made up the dried mango wall. (Apparently the dried mango bandwagon is a double-decker.) I started to leave the aisle to go check out the jerky tower, but then I stopped, turned around, and grabbed another 5 lb bag - for others - as I knew this is what I had been called to do.

For weeks then, I shared my sugar-coated dried mangos with everyone. Some, like those I was paired with in Janesville at the Ray Fischer tournament, hell, they popped the mango pieces in their mouths like stadium peanuts. No fear at all. Blind faith or long-time believers? I never could tell, but a new life settled upon us, and the joie de vivre was contagious.

Others, like a few in the Governors Cup, were reticent. This is understandable as they are older golfers and need to read every label before they decide it won’t set off some sort of glucose reaction, or maybe finish them off for good. But they too, fell under the mango spell.

I gave some to Marquette’s Steve Sass at the State amateur - and it was rewarding to see him unable to suppress the inner welling of his joy as he absorbed the permeating flavor like a believer does a blessing. I admit; it was emotional.

The boys at The Bog pretty much laughed at my consistent dried mango offers to them. I don’t know, maybe they don’t go well with beer. All it takes is one though, and when I’d finally get one of them to try a piece, they became lip-locked kittens on their mama’s teat.

I’ll never forget Tommy Welton - once he eventually indulged after so much resistance - he looked at me with a crooked smile, took a drag off his cigarette and declared, “these here mangos… they’re the porn of fruit.” That was the moment I first starting feeling a little like Eve in the Garden.

The whole dried mango experience turned out to be mind-blowing, and it began to raise some difficult questions. Questions that, deep down, I knew I’d be facing.

Did the powerful flavor of the dried mango adversely affect my golf game this summer? It is no secret; I did not have a very good year at all. Is it possible that I simply no longer needed a good round to feel good anymore? Did the focus and determination I once possessed in competition become less meaningful if my failings were quickly exonerated through the rapture of the mango?

I wondered, had I become like Elvis in his heavy-set years? Sloppy shows, forgotten lyrics, the jowls? He didn’t care, as long as there were fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches waiting for him later - along with his pills of course. Same with me; sloppy play, forgotten swing thoughts, and… the jowls. I didn’t care as long as there were dried mangos, and of course my Liquid-Gels, waiting for me. Waiting to mask my pain. My God! I had become just like the King -in his most embarrassing years!

The fact is, I practice diligently, work out regularly, and care deeply. And still I’ve floundered. I very much want to play better again, but it’s not happening. Over the summer, on these pages, I have pointed to injuries, spouses, a laughing barn, and have in fact, written an entire column on the art of the excuse. Plenty of explanations, so few answers.

All these things have gnawed at me, and so does this even deeper thought: If mangos look like goldfish, and since goldfish have memories that averages 3 seconds, and I’m popping them like peanuts, and, “you are what you eat”…hmmm….maybe that’s why I sometimes forgot my swing-thought(s) in mid-waggle. Perhaps it’s why by the time I stood up to my putt, I’d forgotten what grip I was using that round, or the line. Left hand low? Left to right? Firm it, die it? I usually decided, ‘Oh well, maybe I’ll make a bad stroke on a misread putt and it’ll all work out’. Wow.

This was not good. And so my path became clear and I must now take the first steps.

The answer is obvious – I must change my on-course snacking profile.

It is sad that it took me so long to come to this conclusion; but the responsibility for on-course snack choices is mine and mine alone. I can say this and try that, but sometimes it is only through the hard lessons of failure and pain that we are finally driven to get where we need to go.


This is the place where I must live now, with discipline, for the greater good. It will not be easy I know. Nothing worth anything ever is. But, I have learned much.


And so I am announcing here, that I am giving up dried mangos. Forever. I can’t, ever again, have even one. I’ve played the head games with myself, and it’s just not the way I’m wired; thinking I can have a few casual mango pieces with the boys at The Bog and then expect to play well. I was only kidding myself and I knew it.


I had come to think I was the type of guy who could handle it. Sure, I still have my job, my family, and a little money left, but I was nothing more than a functional mango user, hiding behind its potent flavor and deluding myself that everything was fine. That I could quit anytime I wanted. Perhaps I even meant to quit – but forgot.


But it’s over now. And as they say, anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Now, I will apply this strength towards making tough choices –like next years go-to on-course snack. Also, I will seek out other dried tropical fruit abusers, tell my story, and simply listen to theirs if it will help them. But the best way, without a doubt, would be a return to form on the golf course next year. To win again, or at least contend, and to do it mango-free.


Quite possibly, this means a return those glory years when Beef Jerky was always at my side. But, can you ever really go back? Isn’t that just wistful nostalgia? I’ll wait and see. I must tell you though; I’m excited by the progress being made these days in Fruit Roll-Ups. They don’t get as sticky as they used to. I’ll let you know.