The McKenna experiment

By next year, Mac may qualify to play the Lakanuki Open. (Submitted photo)

When most people see me swing a golf club, their first reaction is usually to duck — even if they’re standing behind me. They usually follow this up with the kind of unabashed laughter usually reserved for people stoned out of their trees on a Carl Spackler hybrid mix of Bluegrass, Kentucky Bluegrass, Featherbed Bent and Northern California Sensemilia.
Naturally, you have to have the sense of humor of a Caddyshack fan to even think about trying to give me golf lessons, which is exactly what Sierra Star Pro, Dave “Schotty” Schacht, has done — typical of a man with a big heart, a perfect swing and a dashing smile.
“We’re going to turn you into a golfer, “Dave confidently declared early this past summer, as I silently questioned his sanity/sobriety level.

“You’re going to play golf and you’re going to like it!
“What about my asthma?”
“I’ll give you asthma!”
– from “Caddyshack”
Day One: The first day is a gorgeous one at “the Star.” The lesson’s agenda is to work on GAP (Grip, Alignment, Posture) and on swing setup. “Every golf shot starts behind the ball,” Dave says. “The only thing you can control is your routine, your set up. You can’t control the wind, the weather conditions or whether or not the people you’re playing with are cool.”
As a cool, early summer High Sierra breeze and crystal blue skies swept down along the pine tree-lined, verdant course I learn my first new golf mantra: “Pecker towards the pin.”
“The crack cocaine of golf is posture,” Dave explains, while I hit balls into the practice net at the Star and ponder the possibility that golfers are really just healthier drug addicts.
“Physics and geometry help the golfer, but what you need to remember is that at the end of your swing you should have your pecker pointed towards the pin,” Dave says.
Day Two: I’m the “Token Pecker” in a ladies group lesson. Kathy Copeland tries to confirm my masculinity with a “Sierra Handshake.”
As we work on hitting balls out of the bunker, I learn some valuable golf lessons: It’s better to play golf with women because not only do they smell better, spit and fart less and are better to look at than most male golfers, they like to laugh while they play. I also learn my second valuable new golf mantra — and one that’s got me trying to figure out how to become a target: “Tits towards the target.”
Day Three: Despite Dave’s pleas that I practice my new swing more before I try to actually play, I attempt my first half-round; nine holes at Snowcreek and my game is messier than a barrel full of toddlers trying to feed themselves tapioca pudding. After watching my post-round swing, Schotty says: “Well, the good news is we still have a couple months left in the season.”
“Don’t be obsessed with your desires, Danny. The Zen philosopher Basha once wrote, ‘A flute with no holes is not a flute. A donut with no holes is a Danish.’”

Day Four: It’s another bright sunny day in the High Sierra, perfect golfing weather. It becomes obvious that the effects of spending decades in the sun staring at golf balls has started to warp Dave’s senses. Either that or he partied too hard last night. He says, “Well, what do you know? It looks like we’re starting to build a nice foundation here.”
Dave solidifies my concerns about his sanity when he says the following at the end of our chipping lesson. “I’ve never had a student get a chip swing as quickly as you just took to it.” I don’t bother telling him that flattery will get you everywhere with me, because I think he’s starting to be able to see into my soul, or at least into my closet, and he doesn’t appear to be judging me. I can barely restrain myself from hugging him in the middle of the practice green.
“The way we’re going we’re going to have you breaking 90,” Schotty confidently declares, failing to explain if I’d break 90 on nine holes or 18.
“I’m no slouch myself.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Judge. You’re a tremendous slouch.”

Day Five: Dave explains that “the key to your sanity as a golfer is to be able to figure out what went wrong when you don’t hit the ball well and then make the necessary adjustments.”
Unfortunately for the greenskeepers at Snowcreek, I once again decide it’s time to take my game to the links and don’t have much luck figuring out what’s wrong with my swing. I play another nine holes with all the grace and balance of a drunken adolescent giraffe. I do manage to make up several new golf-related phrases, such as “Snogdoodled-in-the-sphincter!” and “Whoever invented this game should have a Big Bertha shoved up his cornhole!”
After the round, my clubs and I are no longer on speaking terms. In fact, I can’t even look at their ugly mugs for a couple weeks and I think my driver has started saying nasty things about my mother.
“Turds!
“Spaulding, how many times have I spoken to you about your language?”
“Double Turds!”

Day 6: My clubs and I decide to kiss and make up, but decline any make-up sex. Dave reminds me that having a positive attitude and visualizing success are important parts of playing golf. I realize the one good thing about golf is that it always reminds me why I’d rather go fishing.
“Just be the ball, be the ball, be the ball. You’re not being the ball, Danny. It’s tough to be the ball when you’re talking like that.”
Day 7: Dave once again proves he may need psychological counseling as he tells me he believes in me. He reminds me that “speed kills in golf.” As I head out for my first round of 18 at the Star, Dave advises me to only “give it about 80 percent today, make that 75. Remember, nice and easy is the way to go.”
I try to follow his advice throughout the round and amazingly enough it actually works. Despite the fact that I have the putting touch of an orangutan wearing boxing gloves, I have my best day ever on a golf course. For the first time playing 18 holes (or even nine holes for that matter) I don’t lose a single ball.
Meaning that I reached my biggest goal when the lessons began: to simply play Sierra Star from start to finish with the same ball. Thanks to Schotty’s sage advice, I accomplished it. Now if he could just figure out a way to get people to stop laughing at me when I pick up a golf club. But I guess, as Yankee fans everywhere are soon to be saying, there’s always next year.
“I don’t keep score.”
“Then how do you measure yourself with other golfers?”
“By height.”