CHAPTER 1
GOLF'S MENTALLY ILLITERATE
"Where's the scorecard?" grumbled Andy.
"Frank's got it, and he's in the shower," Kip said, trying to hold back a smile.
"I hope he's washing away his bad shots," Andy wisecracked. "I think we lost all the bets to you and Jason today."
Every Saturday morning for the past two seasons, Kip, Jason, Andy and Frank have played 18 holes together at the River Bend Golf Club in Aurora, Ohio, a beautiful university town on the outskirts of Cincinnati. Afterward there are usually a few bets to settle over a light meal. However, this Saturday was different; it was the Saturday of Masters Weekend, the official start of the season for most golfers, bringing with it hope for rebirth on the golf course. Frank appeared from the locker room, his graying hair still wet, and joined the others. He flicked the foursome's scorecard onto the table and with an audible sigh slumped into a chair. "Good grief. That was a rough day."
Kip took the card and started tallying it up, while Jason angled his lanky body so that he could see over his friend's shoulder. "According to this," said Kip, "we won the front, the back and the overall. Plus you pressed us once. Dig deep, guys. That makes it four ways."
"Big deal. We'll get most of it back," replied Andy. "The winners have to buy the drinks."
"Yeah, one of these days we should change that tradition," Kip chuckled. "I can't win for losing."
A natural talent and determined to achieve, Kip Raston is the glue that holds this group together for the simple reason that he's the best golfer of the four. At 24 years old, he's a successful sales rep for an industrial parts manufacturer, a job he's held since graduating from a Big Ten college, where he captained the golf team. Yet even though he had an impressive college record, Kip has never won a national competition or even one outside his own state. With an athletic, 175-pound body enhanced by a faithful exercise routine, he has all the physical attributes to succeed. But Kip feels his full potential is held back by the lack of a mental skill he can't quite put his finger on. Nevertheless, Kip's game is a treat to behold. On the days he really gets it going, his friends just watch his shots and shake their heads in awe.
Frank was staring at the table now with the frustrated look that a bogey, bogey, bogey finish tends to cause. "I guess it's hard to teach an old dog new tricks," he said, shaking his head. "You know, I've played golf for 45 years. I know more about the game than I ever did, and my scores still go up. What does it take to get better at this stupid game?"
A 58-year-old recently retired teacher, Frank is a walking golf encyclopedia. Given that his parents impressed the value of schooling on him, that's no surprise. He's tried almost every swing technique ever taught, and carries an eight handicap, though at one time it was considerably lower. Over the past few years, the frustrations of the game have eroded his enthusiasm, just at a time in life when he has the opportunity to enjoy golf most. He tries to put on a brave face, but for him the sport isn't what it once was. In fact, if it weren't for the energy he absorbs from playing with these friends on Saturdays, he probably would be playing very little golf.
Jason saw an opportunity to egg Frank on. "I thought you said you had it all figured out on the range this morning. To hear you tell it, you were striping it like Fred Funk, but you ended up playing like Freddy Flop."
"Very funny, hotshot, but as I recall, you had it under par for a while, then turned a 71 into a 75. You can't be happy with that score."
Frank's comment hit a nerve. "Yeah, I think maybe I need another lesson," Jason conceded, becoming a bit quieter.
Jason is a typical 17-year-old. He's excited about his future and naturally confident that he can do almost anything, yet occasionally anxious, wondering if his dreams really will come true. All the same, he's talented. Jason's rapidly improving game over the past year has brought his handicap down to zero – two behind Kip's plus two.1 Since he's nearing the end of his junior career, his talent, plus his above-average size, make him a big fish in a small pond. So he's trying to win everything he can in his age group before moving on to the next level.
"#@%! the lessons. Just go out there and have a good time. That's the way I play," Andy proclaimed, raising his glass. "By the way, boys, thanks for the drink!"
Andy is one of a kind. Thirty-nine years old and nurturing a solid spare tire around his middle – "a low center of gravity," in his words – he's the owner of a roofing company. Golf-wise, he's a 14 handicap and claims to be very serious about the game, but really only shows it for the split second it takes him to swing a club. The rest of the time, Andy's usually looking for some way to keep the mood of the group lighthearted, and he generally succeeds.
"Hah!" Frank huffed. "You play for the fun of it, do you, Mr. Volcano? Just how many clubs has fun-loving Andy broken so far this year? As I recall, you snapped your driver over your knee on your winter vacation. Then, in your first game back home, you threw your five-iron into never-never land, and just last week you mortally wounded your putter. Some fun, huh?"
"Sounds like our Andy all right," Kip chuckled. "But you know, besides the lessons we've invested in, I bet we could start a pretty good retail outlet with all the clubs, books, videos and swing aids we've bought over the years. And tell me, have any of them actually helped?"
"How come you're trashing swing aids and instruction magazines? I think they're awesome," Jason countered. "Isn't that why all the players are so good these days?"
"Okay, so they help some people," conceded Kip. "But why aren't guys like us improving more? Like Frank said, we learn more about the game and swing mechanics every day, yet after the age of about 21 or 25, the average player doesn't seem to get that much better. I wouldn't say I'm slipping, but I've sure noticed that my improvement has started to level off in the past year or two. The swing aids are helping you now, but probably anything would help at your age. I think we need something more, and I think there's something extra to help you too. You could use a better mental approach. You've even told me so!"
"Forget about it," Andy persisted. "You guys are going about it all wrong. Just ante up for a new driver every spring and buy yourself a game. I wouldn't go in for any of that brainy stuff."
"Brainy stuff? No kidding, partner!" Frank smirked. "Your 95 today certainly wasn't too brainy for a 14 handicap. It's a good thing I'm not your partner every week. I'd go broke."
"Who's worried? I've got lots of room to improve," Andy grinned. "Kipster here beat me by 25 shots today. He's so good he doesn't have anything to look forward to."
Kip dismissed Andy's comment with a wave of his hand. "Huh! You think we're that good, do you? Jason and I won the bets today, but my game wasn't anything to write home about considering how easy the course played. We're just fortunate that the way you guys slapped it around, we could've beaten you with a couple of brooms, an apple and an orange."
"I don't know what you're complaining about, Kip," Jason said with surprise. "With the scores you shoot and the tournaments you've won, what else do you want?"
Kip looked off into the distance, as if trying to bring some internal image into focus. "You know what I really want, Jason?" Kip said slowly. "I really want to play in the Masters!"
With his drink stopped halfway to his open mouth, Frank slowly turned toward Kip. "You want to play in the Masters? You?"
Andy had a less subtle response. "Buddy, there's more chance of me being elected president of the United States than you playing in the Masters, and my chances are zero. Although, in my case, it's not lack of ability. People just aren't ready for my razor-sharp mind."
"That would be awesome, Kip," said a wide-eyed Jason. "But how would you ever get into that tournament?"
"A lot of people forget," explained Kip, "that a nonprofessional can earn a spot in the Masters through the U.S. Amateur. The winner and runner-up traditionally get an invitation to play in the Masters the following spring."
Kip smiled and turned toward the group's jester. "That gives me two chances every year to do what I want to do, Andy, while you could only be elected president once every four years. You know, I could win the Amateur, do the talk-show circuit, and be back in time to organize your presidential campaign. How would you like that?"
Without waiting for an answer Kip turned back to the others. "Let's face it, every amateur dreams of playing at Augusta one way or another. Every professional wants to get there, too, and win, to be immortalized in the history of the game. Can you just imagine what it would feel like driving up Magnolia Lane toward the clubhouse? They'd put you up in the Crow's Nest,2 where Palmer, Nicklaus and Woods stayed as amateurs. Then you'd get to tee it up in the tournament. Man, I'm telling you, that would be like dying and going to heaven."
Frank and Andy were noticeably less skeptical than before, while Jason, awed at the possibility, kept pressing for how such a dream could come true. "It would be fantastic just to know someone who played in it. What do you think you'd have to do to finish first or second in the U.S. Amateur and get invited?"
"Obviously, I'd...
