I Really Shouldn't Tell You This

"My swing is so bad I look like a caveman killing his lunch."
-Lee Trevino

As if this sport is not difficult enough. As if trying to figure out all of the complex body functions that need to perfectly harmonize does not require enough of an effort. As if not having the privilege, opportunity, or desire to dedicate every waking moment of my life to practicing is not a big enough of an obstacle. I have a very unique set of circumstances that make it even more challenging for me to practice my swing.

It's like this. I like to go to the Chelsea Piers driving range. It's a very lovely (and very expensive) driving range located on the west side of Manhattan. What can I say? I am a sucker for automated golf balls teeing up to the perfect height as well has covered stalls that allow anyone to practice in all kinds of weather conditions.

But this is not a commercial. In fact, quite the opposite. You see, as I've mentioned once or twice, I am incredibly tall. And for some reason, the hitting stalls on the ground floor have this long strip of PVC pipe that runs along the top of each of them. For a normal person of normal height, it's not an issue. But for me, when I get a long club in my hand, I end up actually hitting the pipe at the top of my swing. And on a couple of occasions have totally busted them. I think they're for drainage or something because one time after I broke one, a bunch of water was dumped on my head. (Nasty.)

So now every time I go there I have to either make sure I use the stalls on the second floor, or only practice with short clubs. Which does not help in the development of my overall game.

Please don't tell anyone. This is between us. The last thing I need is a bill from Chelsea Piers.