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Executive Times |
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2008 Book Reviews |
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The
Downhill Lie: A Hacker's Return to a Ruinous Sport by Carl Hiaasen |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click
on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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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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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 For Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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