Ryan Wisniewski
Kentucky summers of my youth were hotter than a pizza oven and there was no better place to work up a sweat than hacking away on a golf course.
On one of those hot days, my pal Ricky and I were coming off the ninth green of the little par 3 at the Kentucky State Fairgrounds. That’s where Ricky’s dad, Russ, took us when we were kids while he led the Shriners’ mini-bike parade practice out in the wide open, 20-acre parking lot. Russ was the squad captain.
“There’s only one rule you need to know about golf,” my own father hammered into me over and over. He was an excellent golfer, an Evans Scholar in college. That’s the national scholarship for students who’ve been caddies.
“Just one rule. Never, ever stand behind a guy getting ready to swing.”
That seemed like a simple enough thing to practice. And practice it I did. Except it didn’t seem too dangerous to stand behind a guy getting ready to putt, something I considered in the instant it took Ricky to take a full-and-fast backswing with his putter; a joke gesture about his little one-foot shot.
When I opened my eyes, the green’s short-cropped grass felt soft as a pillow under my cheek. There was a very loud hum in my ears, like the whir of a broken refrigerator. Now a blossom of pain opened in my head and I wondered why I was spread out on the ground. Ricky’s tennis shoes came into view.
We made our way across the Mojave Desert of a parking lot, over where the Shriners were in the middle of practicing a fancy figure eight. Russ was a no nonsense guy, a 3M tape salesman by day. He was what you call “stout” which made the sight of him on a little mini-bike ridiculous but I guess that was the point.
Russ was not amused when he noticed Ricky and me coming his way, Ricky waving his arms over his head to get his attention and me with one hand on my head, my index finger sunk up to the first knuckle under my lacerated scalp. The good news: I got a ride on the back of Russ’s mini-bike as he sped us across the lot to his car, cursing my name the whole way.
“Were you standing behind Ricky?” my dad asked when I walked, still bleeding, into the house. Life is a never-ending series of self-fulfilling prophecies, isn’t it?
Not even six stitches could take away the pleasures of playing golf. Like a lot of people, my favorite part, then and now, is slamming the ball off the tee. I did my best to hand this joy down to our three children.
When they were little, we’d head to St. Vinnie’s on Willy Street, where widowed spouses from Maple Bluff flooded the parking lot. They pulled in driving big, shiny Buicks. They’d pop the trunk to reveal their deceased golfer’s bag of clubs and, even better, bags of shag balls that, once inside, were priced at about three bucks. Tees were free if you, uh, just searched around the pockets of the golf bags.
That last move may sound like an act of delinquency but I assure you that’s only where the juvenile behavior started. People walking through Yahara Park who saw the kids and me whacking balls into Lake Monona came in two categories: 1) mildly amused and 2) about to call the cops.
“That’s too short of a back swing,” I informed our then-12-year-old, Tucker, whose grandfather would be proud of his grip (and the position the rest of the family took away from Tucker on the tee). Like hooking a fish after 10 casts, connecting on a ball with a 3-wood after 10 whiffs is everlasting bliss. And as much fun as taking the kids over to hit golf balls into Lake Monona in the daytime was, hitting them at night was even better.
Nighttime turned the visual payoff into an aural one. If you hit it square, you knew it. We stood together in what they call healthy family-time silence, motionless, and waited for the gorgeous, reporting sound of the ball plunking into the water. The longer the delay on the sound, the longer the drive. Who’s next? We’d hand over the driver.
For the record, my wife, Peggy, was in the “about to call the cops” category and has every right to be bummed about you reading this, even now.
However, somewhere deep inside, I know my old man would’ve approved.
Which must be why, for a few years in a row anyway, a Moore family Father’s Day ritual became going to the driving range. A tradition like no other. Two generations of duffers hanging their dream on every swing.
You could do it the way I used to — head to St. Vinnie’s, pick up some cut-rate equipment, and then hit balls into the lake if you want. But I’m guessing that since it’s 2019 and this is Madison and you’re reading Isthmus and the environment is important, you might not go that way.
So I’m going to tell you the two best places to hit balls at a legitimate Madison driving range this summer. The two suggestions are as different as the choice between a 4-iron and a pitching wedge.
Vitense Golfland off the Beltline Highway is the all-inclusive resort of Madison driving ranges. Their driving range “suites” could double as Airbnbs. You can spend an hour in one eating chicken wings and drinking high-end beer and watching sports and gossiping and almost forget that you can step up to the rubber tee. There are 36 regular tees on the driving range, in addition to the suites. Packages for group parties at the suites that include food, drinks, service and range balls are available. Cost for a bucket of balls, if you’re just looking to hit without amenities: $14/$9/$7 for large, medium and small.
You want to go no frills? The Bridges Golf Course has a respectable spray of 22 driving range tees. The best part here is the northern edge, a perimeter defined by a net strung so high that Homeland Security would approve. We always set up to see if we can clear it. Hint: It takes no less than a 9-iron and a medium-to-hard swing. Cost for a bucket of balls: $14/$10/$6 for jumbo, large and small.
Have a great summer everyone and remember: Don’t stand behind the person holding the club.
