It was weird to see Phil Mickelson drive up in a cart. You always see star athletes with others and imagine there must be people around them constantly; agents, managers, friends, groupies, stalkers, and so on. So it was surreal when Phil pulled up to the Del Mar Country Club range alone, walked over, handed me a cup of coffee (in his logoed cup), and said, "We’re partners today. I need you at your best. Drink this." That is how I met one of the greatest golfers of our time.
A minute later, I was skulling and chunking chips with Phil watching me.
I can't explain how embarrassing that is. Truly. I'm an okay golfer. I used to be good but the chipping yips have plagued me for years. Now I am standing on a practice area with a six-time Major winner, and the already crippling anxiety I usually feel over a chip is thirty times worse. I grip the club so tight that my knuckles turn white. Chunk, skull, decent one, skull, skull. Finally and mercifully, Phil tells me to stop. "I've got a tournament to play soon. I can't watch that much longer." One of the many Phil zingers I’d hear over the next two days. It stung a bit and made me laugh.
It was weird to see Phil Mickelson drive up in a cart. You always see star athletes with others and imagine there must be people around them constantly; agents, managers, friends, groupies, stalkers, and so on. So it was surreal when Phil pulled up to the Del Mar Country Club range alone, walked over, handed me a cup of coffee (in his logoed cup), and said, "We’re partners today. I need you at your best. Drink this." That is how I met one of the greatest golfers of our time.
A minute later, I was skulling and chunking chips with Phil watching me.
I can't explain how embarrassing that is. Truly. I'm an okay golfer. I used to be good but the chipping yips have plagued me for years. Now I am standing on a practice area with a six-time Major winner, and the already crippling anxiety I usually feel over a chip is thirty times worse. I grip the club so tight that my knuckles turn white. Chunk, skull, decent one, skull, skull. Finally and mercifully, Phil tells me to stop. "I've got a tournament to play soon. I can't watch that much longer." One of the many Phil zingers I’d hear over the next two days. It stung a bit and made me laugh.
Before I get into Phil's lesson, I want to talk about the yips. I joke a lot about them on Twitter, but they have honestly taken some of the fun out of the game. I hit the ball pretty well last year in the Alpena City Open. I shot 84-79. The accumulation of strokes over par were almost entirely because of my short game. I was furious on the course for the first time in a long time. I once laughed at the lost shots every casual round, but they weren't funny anymore.
As the summer passed, I found reasons to not play golf. The fact was I didn't want to. I was tired of hitting two decent shots and walking away with a bogey after I chunked a chip, or watched as the ball never got airborne and rolled over the green. Bogey. I thought a lot about pros who suddenly begin to struggle with chipping. I could not imagine being unable to do something you have done so easily your entire life while watching your livelihood slip away. It must be such a helpless feeling.
Back to me making an ass of myself in front of Phil Mickelson. "Okay, I want all your weight on your front foot," was the first instruction. And then he adjusted the ball off my back foot and had me press my hands forward. Next, he instructed me to bring the club back without breaking my wrists. "Too many variables; eliminate those. The only variable is how fast your hands move." He then instructed me to pull my hands down towards my left pocket in the downswing. It felt terrible, but the first couple of chips at least got airborne and didn't land at my feet, or in the back bunker.
To get the feeling of having all my weight on my front foot, he had me stand on one foot. I must have looked ridiculous. But the guy giving me lessons probably knew what he was talking about and I took solace in that. We worked for about 15 minutes before heading for the first tee.
I hadn't touched a club for three months outside of hitting a few balls in my simulator, so my expectations were low. And I didn't have many opportunities to hit chips early, mostly because I was in my pocket. (Phil has a pick-up at double rule).
But the few chips that I did have were hit well. They didn't end up close, but they were hit (mostly) on the face of the club. A rarity for me. I concentrated on technique and less on the results.
Later in the round, on the par-5 6th hole (we played the back first), I had hit my drive right (right-of-right some might say). My next shot was one the best shots I hit in the two days: a smoked 3-wood that ended up right in front of a ravine running in front of the green. I had run through the fairway and into the edge of the rough on a slight downslope towards the ravine. The pin was on the front left of the green, maybe 35 or 40 yards away. This was an actual nightmare situation for a guy with the yips: a downhill lie when you have to hit a high and soft shot with danger lurking long.
With Phil Mickelson watching, I followed the instructions he had given me earlier. When I hit it, I heard "RYAN FRENCH!" from Phil (top-five most unbelievable moments of my golfing life). The ball landed softly about eight feet left of the pin and stopped. It was one of the best chips I had hit in…years?. I missed the putt, of course, but it didn't matter. Phil gave me a fist bump on the way back to the cart.
After our round, Phil told Mark Baldwin and me to meet him at his house at 7:15 the following morning; the rain wasn't going to deter him from getting some work in. We were going to continue our chipping lesson.
As expected, rain started to fall early the following morning. Phil brought Mark and me some rain gear as we headed for his range in his backyard. The three of us warmed up with the Mickelson logo Callaway balls he uses on his backyard range. About 10 minutes in, Phil said, "Alright, let's work on this chipping."
Let me set the scene for how ridiculous this moment is: I was in Phil Mickelson's backyard, wearing Phil Mickelson's rain gear, hitting Phil Mickelson's own range balls, and Phil-Fucking-Mickelson was giving me a short-game lesson. That entire scenario hit me at once, and for a few seconds, I didn't hear anything he said.
I shook my head, getting back in the moment. Weight forward, hands pressed forward, don't hinge, pull your hands toward your front pocket. Over and over. Phil had me hit shots with only my left hand (this is how Austen Truslow always chips, which Phil mentioned). He wanted me to get used to the feeling of pulling the club handle down towards my pocket.
Over and over again, I alternated between one-handed and two-handed chips. I got to the point where both felt comfortable.
After a couple of hours of work in the rain, we headed for The Farms. The course is closed on Tuesdays, but being Phil Mickelson has its perks. Mark, KFT member Michael Feuerstein, Phil, two of his friends, and I headed out, rain be damned.
On the fourth hole, I missed the green left behind a bunker. It left me a pitch over the bunker to a pin on a downslope. There was plenty of green to work with, but it was a delicate chip. I went through the checklist: weight forward, hands pressed forward, clubface open a little bit because I needed to hit a higher one, don't hinge, hands drive to my front pocket. I took a one-handed practice swing, as Phil had instructed me. The shot was hit perfectly; it landed soft and ran to about four feet.
"Did you take a one-handed practice swing?" Phil asked as I crested the green. After I confirmed I did, he gave me a fist bump. I made the putt. It had been a long time since I made an up-and-down from a difficult spot. After the group completed the hole, he took me 20 feet from the pin to the fringe, and had me hit some chips.
Phil chose a delicate chip from a tight fringe where the ball would need to fly about 3 feet – actual nightmare fuel. I hit three shots and although the first two went well past the hole, they were hit cleanly. The third popped up perfectly, landed softly, and rolled to a few inches. "There is some hope," Phil said as he headed for his cart.
I hit a few more chips as the round went along, and although not all were hit perfectly, none were yipped. I can't tell you the relief.
After 18 holes in mostly pouring rain, I thought Phil would be done for the day.
"I have some things to do for a bit, but why don't you guys grab lunch and come to the house later. We will continue to work on the chipping."
So, after a quick lunch, we returned to Phil's house and headed out to one of the short game areas in his backyard range. Soon, we heard Mickelson's cart coming towards us. More lessons and a quick game of 6-up – a short game competition Dave Pelz invented.
Mark and I teamed up to beat Phil, and Phil continued to watch my technique and give me pointers. After the game, Phil hugged us and returned to the house, saying we could stay and chip for as long as we wanted.
Two days and 36 holes with one of the greatest players of our time. It was a surreal 48 hours, and I hope his lessons get me back to playing like I used to.
It was weird to see Phil Mickelson drive up in a cart. You always see star athletes with others and imagine there must be people around them constantly; agents, managers, friends, groupies, stalkers, and so on. So it was surreal when Phil pulled up to the Del Mar Country Club range alone, walked over, handed me a cup of coffee (in his logoed cup), and said, "We’re partners today. I need you at your best. Drink this." That is how I met one of the greatest golfers of our time.
A minute later, I was skulling and chunking chips with Phil watching me.
I can't explain how embarrassing that is. Truly. I'm an okay golfer. I used to be good but the chipping yips have plagued me for years. Now I am standing on a practice area with a six-time Major winner, and the already crippling anxiety I usually feel over a chip is thirty times worse. I grip the club so tight that my knuckles turn white. Chunk, skull, decent one, skull, skull. Finally and mercifully, Phil tells me to stop. "I've got a tournament to play soon. I can't watch that much longer." One of the many Phil zingers I’d hear over the next two days. It stung a bit and made me laugh.
Before I get into Phil's lesson, I want to talk about the yips. I joke a lot about them on Twitter, but they have honestly taken some of the fun out of the game. I hit the ball pretty well last year in the Alpena City Open. I shot 84-79. The accumulation of strokes over par were almost entirely because of my short game. I was furious on the course for the first time in a long time. I once laughed at the lost shots every casual round, but they weren't funny anymore.
As the summer passed, I found reasons to not play golf. The fact was I didn't want to. I was tired of hitting two decent shots and walking away with a bogey after I chunked a chip, or watched as the ball never got airborne and rolled over the green. Bogey. I thought a lot about pros who suddenly begin to struggle with chipping. I could not imagine being unable to do something you have done so easily your entire life while watching your livelihood slip away. It must be such a helpless feeling.
Back to me making an ass of myself in front of Phil Mickelson. "Okay, I want all your weight on your front foot," was the first instruction. And then he adjusted the ball off my back foot and had me press my hands forward. Next, he instructed me to bring the club back without breaking my wrists. "Too many variables; eliminate those. The only variable is how fast your hands move." He then instructed me to pull my hands down towards my left pocket in the downswing. It felt terrible, but the first couple of chips at least got airborne and didn't land at my feet, or in the back bunker.
To get the feeling of having all my weight on my front foot, he had me stand on one foot. I must have looked ridiculous. But the guy giving me lessons probably knew what he was talking about and I took solace in that. We worked for about 15 minutes before heading for the first tee.
I hadn't touched a club for three months outside of hitting a few balls in my simulator, so my expectations were low. And I didn't have many opportunities to hit chips early, mostly because I was in my pocket. (Phil has a pick-up at double rule).
But the few chips that I did have were hit well. They didn't end up close, but they were hit (mostly) on the face of the club. A rarity for me. I concentrated on technique and less on the results.
Later in the round, on the par-5 6th hole (we played the back first), I had hit my drive right (right-of-right some might say). My next shot was one the best shots I hit in the two days: a smoked 3-wood that ended up right in front of a ravine running in front of the green. I had run through the fairway and into the edge of the rough on a slight downslope towards the ravine. The pin was on the front left of the green, maybe 35 or 40 yards away. This was an actual nightmare situation for a guy with the yips: a downhill lie when you have to hit a high and soft shot with danger lurking long.
With Phil Mickelson watching, I followed the instructions he had given me earlier. When I hit it, I heard "RYAN FRENCH!" from Phil (top-five most unbelievable moments of my golfing life). The ball landed softly about eight feet left of the pin and stopped. It was one of the best chips I had hit in…years?. I missed the putt, of course, but it didn't matter. Phil gave me a fist bump on the way back to the cart.
After our round, Phil told Mark Baldwin and me to meet him at his house at 7:15 the following morning; the rain wasn't going to deter him from getting some work in. We were going to continue our chipping lesson.
As expected, rain started to fall early the following morning. Phil brought Mark and me some rain gear as we headed for his range in his backyard. The three of us warmed up with the Mickelson logo Callaway balls he uses on his backyard range. About 10 minutes in, Phil said, "Alright, let's work on this chipping."
Let me set the scene for how ridiculous this moment is: I was in Phil Mickelson's backyard, wearing Phil Mickelson's rain gear, hitting Phil Mickelson's own range balls, and Phil-Fucking-Mickelson was giving me a short-game lesson. That entire scenario hit me at once, and for a few seconds, I didn't hear anything he said.
I shook my head, getting back in the moment. Weight forward, hands pressed forward, don't hinge, pull your hands toward your front pocket. Over and over. Phil had me hit shots with only my left hand (this is how Austen Truslow always chips, which Phil mentioned). He wanted me to get used to the feeling of pulling the club handle down towards my pocket.
Over and over again, I alternated between one-handed and two-handed chips. I got to the point where both felt comfortable.
After a couple of hours of work in the rain, we headed for The Farms. The course is closed on Tuesdays, but being Phil Mickelson has its perks. Mark, KFT member Michael Feuerstein, Phil, two of his friends, and I headed out, rain be damned.
On the fourth hole, I missed the green left behind a bunker. It left me a pitch over the bunker to a pin on a downslope. There was plenty of green to work with, but it was a delicate chip. I went through the checklist: weight forward, hands pressed forward, clubface open a little bit because I needed to hit a higher one, don't hinge, hands drive to my front pocket. I took a one-handed practice swing, as Phil had instructed me. The shot was hit perfectly; it landed soft and ran to about four feet.
"Did you take a one-handed practice swing?" Phil asked as I crested the green. After I confirmed I did, he gave me a fist bump. I made the putt. It had been a long time since I made an up-and-down from a difficult spot. After the group completed the hole, he took me 20 feet from the pin to the fringe, and had me hit some chips.
Phil chose a delicate chip from a tight fringe where the ball would need to fly about 3 feet – actual nightmare fuel. I hit three shots and although the first two went well past the hole, they were hit cleanly. The third popped up perfectly, landed softly, and rolled to a few inches. "There is some hope," Phil said as he headed for his cart.
I hit a few more chips as the round went along, and although not all were hit perfectly, none were yipped. I can't tell you the relief.
After 18 holes in mostly pouring rain, I thought Phil would be done for the day.
"I have some things to do for a bit, but why don't you guys grab lunch and come to the house later. We will continue to work on the chipping."
So, after a quick lunch, we returned to Phil's house and headed out to one of the short game areas in his backyard range. Soon, we heard Mickelson's cart coming towards us. More lessons and a quick game of 6-up – a short game competition Dave Pelz invented.
Mark and I teamed up to beat Phil, and Phil continued to watch my technique and give me pointers. After the game, Phil hugged us and returned to the house, saying we could stay and chip for as long as we wanted.
Two days and 36 holes with one of the greatest players of our time. It was a surreal 48 hours, and I hope his lessons get me back to playing like I used to.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Suspendisse varius enim in eros elementum tristique. Duis cursus, mi quis viverra ornare, eros dolor interdum nulla, ut commodo diam libero vitae erat. Aenean faucibus nibh et justo cursus id rutrum lorem imperdiet. Nunc ut sem vitae risus tristique posuere.
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Suspendisse varius enim in eros elementum tristique. Duis cursus, mi quis viverra ornare, eros dolor interdum nulla, ut commodo diam libero vitae erat. Aenean faucibus nibh et justo cursus id rutrum lorem imperdiet. Nunc ut sem vitae risus tristique posuere.
.jpg)
0 Comments