Sounds, Swings and Old Steel

A stroke of good fortune was growing up at a local golf course alongside a group of junior golfers of varying ages who loved the game. We sold range balls, cleaned clubs and carts, picked the range, changed grips, caddied, served as spotters during tournaments—and practiced every second in between. Countless hours of chipping and putting contests strengthened our friendships and, at times, drove wedges between them. For a small town in New Hampshire, the kids could play.

There was Chris Irwin, my junior golf rival and the heir to a successful group of car dealerships (which I beat him out of back then and will be coming to collect soon). Chris might have had the most technically sound golf swing in New England and was definitely the best bunker player. There was Ryan Mooney, a gearhead and faithful friend who could take a lot of abuse. Mooney had your back in a pinch and could break par on a good day. There was Ryan Robinson, an entertaining hothead and skilled southpaw who was always looking to play for something. Robinson never encountered a shot he didn’t think he could pull off. When shots or matches didn’t go his way—and they often didn’t—Robinson would snap into a fit of uncontrollable rage and break clubs. There were many others who played supporting roles, but the most influential of the group—and our North Star—was Jonathan Leahy.

Jon was six years older and knew golf better than most (his superior knowledge extended to nearly every other subject as well). He was always working on aspirational projects: tinkering with golf equipment, building something, or bringing art to life. He once created a mural of Jimi Hendrix out of pizza boxes for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Seattle. His next mural—of Fidel Castro, made from American baseball cards—earned him an invitation to Cuba for a diplomatic presentation (as far as I know, he never met Castro).

Jon won math and engineering competitions in high school and had a swing good enough to make a Division I college golf team. Somehow, despite his nerdy extracurriculars, he was also effortlessly cool. He wasn’t destined to play on the PGA Tour or make a Ryder Cup team, but he was certainly most likely to succeed. Whether he knew it or not, we all looked up to him. The days Jon invited you to lunch, or to help work on one of his films after a round, were formative. He bestowed each of us a nickname. I was “Lucky,” because I never caught a bad break. Jon was “Ringo,” after the legendary drummer.

In the 1990s, Cleveland Tour Action 588 wedges were the standard by which every wedge was measured. If someone describes a wedge as having a “classic design,” they’re probably talking about a 588. If you were a serious player back then, chances are you had at least one in your bag.

Jon calls them the “Porsche 911 of wedges” and has been in a long-term relationship with them since 1994. They served him well around the greens at amateur tournaments in New Hampshire, from tight lies at Kingsmill—where his William & Mary golf team practiced—to the thick kikuyu of the West Coast, where he now resides. Despite the deeply worn faces, smoothed grooves, and dings along the soles, Jon won’t give them up.

After college, Jon traded range sessions for recording sessions. He's now an Emmy-nominated film & TV music supervisor. You’re probably familiar with his work whether you realize it or not. Jon was nominated for a Grammy for Best Soundtrack for Bill & Ted Face the Music. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of music and is always juggling several projects, which doesn’t leave much time for golf. Most recently, he’s been working on Season 2 of Apple TV’s Stick, starring Owen Wilson—a show about a former tour pro’s chance at redemption.

The endless hours of matching sounds, songs, and swings for the first season of Stick inspired Jon to make time for his own swing. After years away from the game, the former scratch player began hitting balls again and decided to get fitted for equipment: new driver, fairway woods, irons…hell, even new shoes. He shopped for new wedges but couldn’t bring himself to give up the 588s. Like the moment when the perfect song aligns with the on-screen image, a plan dawned on him.

“If you want to drive the 911 of wedges again, your only option is to restore these vintage blades,” Jon said. “That’s where Javier at Super Swings Builds comes in.”

Super Swings is a boutique performance studio in San Diego offering lessons, fittings, personal training and club restoration. I’ll let Jon take it from here.

Restoring what Jon believes to be the perfect wedges—from sole to grip—cost about $135 per club, cheaper than buying new sticks off the rack. He could have kept the old shafts and simply refurbished the heads to save money, but instead opted for a full resurfacing and replating. No expense spared to rekindle an old flame.

How do they perform? Can the grooves produce spin again? I asked.

Jon hasn’t hit them yet—and in an ironic twist, he’s considering never putting them back in the bag. Of course, the process has given him ideas for how manufacturers could reissue classic wedges while standardizing grinds to make them less confusing for recreational golfers. But I’ll save that for another time. For now, he’s admiring what’s new again and hoping the experience inspires a renewal in his own game.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few past love affairs of my own to rekindle.

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