My excellent golf adventure; the mission: learn to play well enough to network on the links - in three days

Kiplinger's Personal Finance Magazine, March, 1998 by Jane Bennett Clark

It's a lovely, breezy day in southwest Florida, yet I barely notice the weather. I'm about to do something I've never done before, and I'm nervous. To my left, a body of water shimmers in the afternoon sun; on my right, sand beckons like the land of the Lotus Eaters. An athletic man with a burnished tan has his arms wrapped around me.

But I'm not thinking about him. I'm concentrating on duplicating the golf stance he is demonstrating, the better to swing the club so that my ball falls somewhere between the water hazard and the sand trap. Actually, hazards are the least of my worries right now. Having spent my first morning at the Paradise Golf School struggling to learn the basics, I'm happy to make contact with the ball at all.

As golf-school students go, I am either the world's most likely or most unlikely, depending on how you look at it. A dedicated nonathlete, I've always believed that every hour spent on the golf course is an hour stolen from the chaise longue. Further, over the past two decades I've watched my husband, Chris, return from a poor day on the links questioning his swing, his stroke, yea, his very worth as a human being. This is fun? Fraught is the word I would use.

But golf isn't just a pastime. It also provides opportunities to network with colleagues, to pitch an idea, to close a deal. Would it be possible, my editors wondered, for a nongolfer to take a crash course and return ready to tee up with a boss or a client (or more likely in my case, a source)?

To find out, I enrolled in a three-day program at the Paradise Golf School. For $945 at fall rates, the program included six hours of instruction a day, breakfast and lunch at the Marco Shores Country Club, in Naples, Fla., and three nights at the Marco Beach Hilton on nearby Marco Island. For moral support I brought along Chris, who took a pass on the school but planned to pick up a lesson or two.

The advantage of Paradise Golf School is that it promises nine holes of play with an instructor each day rather than a mix of practice, lectures and complementary golf after class, as many schools provide. "How to hold a club and hit the ball are only a very small part of the game," says Betsy Clark of the Ladies Professional Golf Association (LPGA). "The most important thing is, are you going to learn the behaviors of the game, the etiquette, driving the golf cart? If you spend the day on the practice tee, that's all you'll get."

THE SWING IS A DIFFICULT THING

It's Monday morning, and Ray Thorp, a golf instructor who once played on regional tours, is delivering his opening presentation. A golf swing, according to Ray, involves two basic movements: twisting the torso from side to side and raising the arms up and down. He demonstrates, each swing as elegant as the last. That's it? I pity Chris for his klutziness.

At the practice tee, however, I realize that torso-twisting and arm-raising are just two of the required skills. Ray also shows how to position the club head, grip the club handle, tilt the shoulders, bend at the waist, raise the chest, relax the knees. He asks me to visualize a line running from behind the ball to a marker in the field. I now stand in a completely unnatural position, feeling like a paralyzed flamingo. Still, I swing the club--and watch as my ball scoots 2 feet off the tee. "That's okay," says Ray, from whom never is heard a discouraging word. "Give it another try."

Which is what I do, over and over, while Ray alternates between me and Sandy, a fellow student whose game has been hindered by a hip injury. Although we are supposed to be grouped by skill, Sandy is an experienced golfer. No matter: Ray devotes plenty of time to each of us, and I take satisfaction in listening to him identify Sandy's problem. She swivels.

Back in the club office, we engage in a crucial--and in my case, dreaded--ritual of golf school: watching our swing, which Ray has recorded on videotape. The video is a graphic illustration of lessons learned and not learned during the day's instruction.

Ray slides the tape in, and I see an unfamiliar sight: me with a golf club. I have obviously absorbed little of Ray's presentation. My back is straight, my legs are stiff, my shoulders are as level as a T square. Although I know for a fact that I was focusing on my stance, on tape I appear distracted, as if I am contemplating a nuance of quantum physics. The swing, when it comes, is wan; the ball limps off the tee. But Ray is undaunted. He uses a dry marker on the screen to superimpose the correct stance over my posture and offers a few tips on holding the club.

After watching Sandy's tape (besides that swivel, her swing doesn't have enough arc), we head back outside. This time I manage to loft five or six balls in a row. Encouraged, I sail through a session on the niceties of chipping and putting, aware that after lunch, the real showtime arrives: playing a nine-hole course.

NINE LONG HOLES

Ever hear of Shy Kidney syndrome? After this morning's bombardment of instruction, I'm suffering from its cousin, Shy Swing syndrome, a nervous condition resulting in temporary paralysis. But I can't stand here forever, and I finally swat at the ball. To my relief, it goes forward; to my dismay, it travels a ridiculously short distance. I imagine myself toiling away at 2 A.M. trying to get to the ninth hole. Don't worry, Ray says, we'll play off his lie. He puts a ball down and whacks it so bard I can hear the sound barrier breaking. His (and my) lie materializes 280 yards away.