Roger Collier

T he man plucks a small, white ball from a bucket and drops it on the grass. He slips his left hand into a black glove. Turning to his golf bag, the man pulls out his pitching wedge. But he doesn't hit that first ball, not yet.

It's a glorious July afternoon. The sun is beaming and clouds are scarce. It's no surprise that the driving range is packed. The man, who has selected a spot on the far right of the range, quickly scans the golfers to his left. A few seem decent but most are terrible, spraying balls all over the place.

They are hackers. "Not me," the man thinks. "I'm a student of the game. I read all the golf magazines. I've watched hundreds of golf videos on YouTube. This time, it will be different. This time, I will hit the balls long and straight. This time, I will not leave this place muttering obscenities and swearing to never again touch a golf club."

After a few quick stretches, the man steps to the ball. He aims for the 100-yard sign. Typically, he hits his pitching wedge farther than that, but the next closest sign is 175 yards away and there is nothing else to aim for. He sets his feet, waggles the club twice, and swings.

The head of the pitching wedge digs into the ground four inches behind the ball. A long, thick strip of sod flies in the air. The ball squirts out to the right, almost at 90 degrees, travelling a grand total of 30 yards.

"Unbelievable," the man says to himself, staring at the crater near his feet in disgust.

The man figures the problem is with his arms. Perhaps he didn't keep his elbows close enough to his body. Or maybe he hinged his wrists too early. Or perhaps he didn't rotate his shoulders enough.

"I will focus on my arms this time," the man thinks, picking another ball from the bucket.

This time the ball goes straight. But it's a low-flying screamer instead of the high-arcing shot it was supposed to be. Again, the man is dumbfounded. He puts his hands on his hips and stares at the ground.

The man decides his arms aren't the problem. It's his legs. Perhaps his right leg got too straight in the backswing. Or maybe he didn't shift his weight properly from his right leg to his left leg. Or perhaps his left leg didn't get straight enough through impact.

"I will focus on my legs this time," the man thinks, tossing another ball on the grass.

He swings again and the ball shoots off to his left, higher than last time but landing far from where he was aiming. "This thing is cursed," he grumbles, casting the pitching wedge aside and reaching for his 8-iron.

He take several shots with the 8-iron, each one worse than the last. That's when it hits him. The problem isn't with his legs. He is moving his hips all wrong. Perhaps he is rotating his right hip too much on the backswing. Or maybe he is rotating his left hip too late on the downswing. Or maybe he is shifting his hips too much laterally.

"I will focus on my hips this time," the man thinks.

More swings, more duffs, more shanks, more swearing. The man feels like his head is going to explode. "Every time I come here I get worse," he thinks. "It's not fair. What am I doing wrong?"

As he works his way through the rest of the balls, he continues to tinker with his swing. Perhaps he is lifting his head too early or moving it too far behind the ball. Or maybe his left arm is breaking down in the backswing. Or perhaps he isn't initiating the downswing with his lower body. Or maybe he isn't extending his arms in his follow through. Or perhaps his backswing is too steep, or too shallow, or too short, or too long.

An hour after he arrives, his bucket now empty, the man grabs his golf bag and stomps toward the parking lot, muttering obscenities, swearing he will never again touch a golf club. When he reaches his car, he pops the trunk and is about to throw his clubs in when he realizes something.

"The problem is with my grip," he thinks, turning back toward the range and pulling $10 from his wallet for another bucket of balls. "Yes, definitely my grip. Or perhaps my stance."