 On
the Fringe
Battling Nerves on
the Back Nine
by Luke Flanigan
In no other sport can
fortunes change as swiftly as golf. The reason is simple — golf
is mostly mental.
It’s a sport with a
lot of time in-between shots, which can be deadly, as negative
thoughts have ample time to wreak havoc on your psyche. Enter the
putting yips, a terminal disorder that can strike any player
regardless of age, race, sexual orientation, or religious belief.
The Mayo Clinic has
described the yips as “involuntary motions of the hand or wrist
that can make effective putting all but impossible — even for
the most experienced and talented golfers.” One study found that
between 33 and 48 percent of serious golfers have experienced the
yip.
It can descend upon
you without warning, causing the electric pulses in your brain to
begin shorting out like a toaster in a swimming pool, causing the
putter head to begin shaking like an out-of-whack washing machine.
Suddenly, reading the green is like trying to make sense of a
Japanese newspaper and your intestines begin churning and
breathing becomes shortened.
Entire books have been
dedicated to overcoming the problem. Guys who can hit 300-yard
drives with deadly accuracy suddenly can’t sink a three-foot
putt. It’s enough to make you want to quit the game.
I’ll never forget
the first time it happened to me.
I once was playing in
a heads’ up money match for a few bucks, and heading into the
final hole I held a commanding four shot lead. We both hit nice
drives, mine a few yards further than his. At this point, I couldn’t
possibly lose. However, from about 165 yards out, this fellow hits
a beautiful 6-iron that seemed suspended high in the air for an
eternity against the blue sky. Then, like a heat-seeking missile,
it sought out the pin and crashed into the jar on the fly for an
eagle. I was so rattled that I bladed my next shot into a
greenside bunker and finally scraped it onto the green with my
third shot.
That’s when the yips
struck with a vengeance, landing hard on my shoulders like a safe
falling from a skyscraper. My legs began to tremble, and the
putter, a precision instrument, suddenly felt like I was holding a
steel chain with a battleship anchor on the end, and the hole
looked about the size of a thimble.
All I had to do was
two-putt for the win. No problem, I tried to reassure myself. But
it’s hard to putt with both hands around your own throat, which
is what it felt like as I proceeded to slap the ball around the
putting surface like a drunken gorilla. The first putt came up
about six feet short and three feet right. The next effort wasn’t
much better, going past the hole a good three feet into distant
patch golfers know as “The Throw-Up Zone,” which is a short
putt with a lot on the line. Needing this putt to tie the match,
those three feet might as well have been 80, as I missed the
entire hole, eventually tapping in for a seven, thanks to a
horrific four putt.
That was the first
time I ever felt the nerves of money on the line in a match, and
that was only for $25. Now, multiply that by about 50,000 and that
gives you an idea of the kind of scratch that the professionals
are playing for. It’s no wonder some of those guys suddenly blow
up on the 18th hole on Sunday majors.
Fortunately, I don’t
suffer chronic yips like some poor souls. However, since that day,
my pre-shot putting routine is anything but normal. In fact, I
have developed a calming ritual that I feel compelled to partake
in prior to any putt. I remove my golf glove and place it in my
back, left pocket, bend over and wipe my hands on my socks, take
my hat off with my right hand, and then put it back on with my
left, silently sing the first line of “Mr. Roboto,” take a
deep breath, exhale and then putt.
Sure it’s stupid,
but whatever gets the ball in the hole, right?
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