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2008 Book Reviews

 

The Downhill Lie: A Hacker's Return to a Ruinous Sport by Carl Hiaasen

Rating:

***

 

(Recommended)

 

 

 

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Duffer

 

Carl Hiaasen’s latest book, The Downhill Lie: A Hacker's Return to a Ruinous Sport, provides more groans than laughs when compared to his fiction. Instead of writing a novel about zany Florida characters behaving in bizarre ways, Hiaasen applies his humor in a self-deprecating way and focuses on the bizarre behavior of a single Florida character: himself. Following a 32-year hiatus from the sport of golf, Hiaasen returns to the game, and records in a diary the joys and sorrows of his return. Golfers will enjoy reading the exploits of someone who probably buys more useless junk and tries harder but succeeds less than the average player. Here’s an excerpt, from the beginning of the chapter titled, “Emotional rescue,” pp. 25-7:

 

Golf was supposed to be easier the second time around.

That's what everybody told me. Because of the amazing new high-tech equipment, they said, your drives will launch higher and farther, your irons will fly straighter, your putts will roll truer.

It was a lovely world to hope for, but I remained wary. One thing I remembered too clearly from the old days: No matter what club was in my hands, a bad swing invariably produced a bad result.

The revolution in golf technology that occurred during my long sabbatical was driven by two corollary, and ultimately successful, missions. The first was to expand the popularity of the sport by convincing millions of nongolfers that, with prop­erly tuned and fitted weapons, the game really wasn't so diffi­cult to conquer.

A second and equally lucrative target was those souls who already played the game but did so in a mode of perpetual dis­couragement, approximately 98 percent of the USGA mem­bership. The industry correctly calculated that vast fortunes could be reaped if the average player could be persuaded that his or her score would be instantly improved by purchasing an expensive new set of sticks, a ritual ideally repeated every two or three years.

To shield the touchy egos of hackers, golf manufacturers perfected a lexicon of gentle euphemisms. "Forgiving" is now the favored buzzword used to promote clubs designed for the Neanderthal swing. "Tour models" are for good players, "game-improvement" selections are for weekend warriors, and the "maximum game-improvement" aisle is reserved for the congenitally hapless.

When researching which clubs would be best for a middle-aged recidivist nursing a banged-up knee, I was overwhelmed by the multitude of choices —and baffled by the specifications.

An advanced degree from MIT would have helped when I went shopping for a driver. The loft angles varied from 7.5 degrees to 15 degrees, and one particular Mizuno was available in twenty-nine different shafts. The innards of Ping's G5 were supposedly computer-engineered with a process called "finite-element analysis," a term that for all I know was stolen from an old Star Trek episode.

The promotional literature abounded with confusing ref­erences to "MOI," or moment of inertia, which describes a clubhead's tendency to twist when it strikes the ball. The greater the measured MOI, the more stable the clubface remains at impact, theoretically producing a straighter, longer shot.

Several brands of drivers allow players to experiment with the MOI by manually rearranging imbedded weights. The 460cc Cleveland Launcher touts a "beta-titanium insert" that is "robotically plasma-welded to expand the sweet spot." Meanwhile TaylorMade heavily advertises a SuperQuad edi­tion with "four movable weight screws" that may be adjusted to six different centers of gravity. Unfortunately, the $400 pur­chase price doesn't include a Black & Decker drill kit.

The last thing I wanted was a driver that came with an instruction manual. I can't assemble a toy train track without leaving blood on the floor, so I wasn't about to tinker with high-priced golfing equipment. The only "moment of inertia" that affects me is the one that occurs every time I stand over the ball, frozen with trepidation.

Friends said that choosing that first set of modern clubs would be a midlife-altering experience, and they encour­aged me to consult a professional fitter who could determine the head weights, shafts, lengths and lofts appropriate for my swing.

The problem was, I didn't have one swing; I had many.

Every time I went to the practice range I was a different golfer—a male Sybil in spikes. (Speaking of which, FootJoy is now marketing a golf shoe with plastic knobs on the heels, for personalized adjusting in case your toes suddenly swell up in the middle of a round.)

 

Readers will laugh, cry, or just turn the page while reading of another golfer’s hapless experiences of The Downhill Lie.

 

Steve Hopkins, July 18, 2008

 

 

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*    2008 Hopkins and Company, LLC

 

The recommendation rating for this book appeared

 in the August 2008 issue of Executive Times

 

URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The Downhill Lie.htm

 

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