I’m a driverholic. There, I said it. I’m addicted to the latest and greatest drivers that come on the market each year. All it takes for me to trash last year’s model and buy something new is the advertising promise that “this new model will add twenty yards to your tee shots.”
Just last year I traded my Calloway Big Bertha for a Ping G30 because I used my friend’s once and I hit a good drive. That’s all it takes. It’s like one Manhattan on the rocks and boom–hooked.
I have more drivers in my possession than Captain Morgan has rum–at least ten, all brand name drivers. I bought this one the other day, the new Calloway Epic. I didn’t even test it. Never struck a ball with it. Just casually observed the $500 price tag and took it to the check stand. Why? Because it has what the manufacturer calls “Jailbreak Technology.” I have no idea what the hell that is but it sounds rogue and when you’re constantly in search of distance, rogue sounds right. With my driver disease comes the need to hide my addiction from my wife. I have to keep the same old head cover so she won’t recognize a driver as being new. It’s like sneaking into your bedroom closet for a fifth of vodka and hoping no one will notice.
The reason behind all this driver buying insanity is that I’m unable to reconcile with the physics of getting old. I used to be able to hit my driver 250-yards, no problem. Now, as I get older (just hit 72) I find I’m losing 5-to-10-yards each year. Even though I know I’m losing distance, my besieged psyche is further confused by the fact that if I top out at 200-yards I can’t see that far anymore and it misleads me into thinking that I’m still “Pete the Ripper” off the tee. Only when I discover I’m 40-yards behind my playing partners off the tee does it finally sink in and then I pick up a couple of Bloody Mary’s at the ninth hole turn and proceed on my way to becoming an alcoholic as a way of combating my driverholic affliction. Golf is such a great game!