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GOLF
TEACHING PRO®
THE WORST SHOT IN GOLF
By Andrew Penner
USGTF Level III Member, Calgary, Alberta, Canada
 Skull, slice, yip, yank, top,
pop, tug, chunk, whiff, shank,
clank, hook, smother, flub, duff.
Indeed, as teachers, our student’s
mess-ups come in all shapes and
sizes. If only we could smite them
from the earth (and, along with
them, the gimmicky pop schlock
recordings of Britney Spears, Paris
Hilton, and Jessica Simpson).
Chances are, when Flanders is
breathing down your neck in your
tension-filled grudge match, one
of these saboteurs will be your
nemesis shot. Our downfall. Our
demise. The reason why we’re not
making millions on the pro tour.
(Of course, life as a teaching pro
isn’t half bad, is it?) But, which do
you think of the aforementioned
villains is the worst? Like beauty,
it’s in the eye of the beholder.
Personally, I’ve always been
partial to the clenched-teeth, smother-
hook shot that leaves behind a
vapour trail as it darts straight left
and burrows deep into the thistles
fifty-feet in front of the tee. This,
partially, is due to the superior
acoustics of this shot (I particularly
love the machine gun-like sound
when the ball ricochets off certain
buildings, tin siding, or cars in the
parking lot), but also because I’m
just really good at intentionally hitting
this aeronautical marvel. It’s
definitely a fan favorite, too.
Of course, one of the things I
pride myself in is the fact that this
heat-seeking smoker is actually a
“good player’s” miss. That’s right,
even some of the best players in
the world are prone to big, nasty
hooks when the pressure gets high.
I think of Severiano Ballesteros’
shot coming down the stretch in the
1986 Masters (when Jack won). So
full of passion whenever he played,
Seve sniped a beautiful left-to-left
snapper that dive-bombed into the
pond fronting the 15th green with
such conviction it probably ripped
through the lining at the bottom
of the pond, as well. By his own
admission, it was the shot that
signalled he was no longer one of
the greatest in the world. However,
a lot of our students out there could
certainly relate.
Of course, people who curve
it right have, I must admit, a few
things going for them when it comes to their off-centeredness. For
starters, the cutting swipe is, aerodynamically speaking, far
superior to the hard-left slinger any day. The ball simply yearns to
stay airborne. And, in the case of a poorly placed water hazard,
there’s always the possibility of skipping it across… that is, if
you’ve got enough heat on it.
Unquestionably, the headhigh,
three-skipper onto dry land is a perennial crowd pleaser. A real
rabble-rouser. Unfortunately, however, in many circles the banana
ball is considered inferior and weak. Unlike the hook, which can run
forever, the cutter doesn’t seem to go anywhere. Like Napoleon
Dynamite’s stud-muffin brother, it’s a bit flabby and feeble.
But is the slice the worst shot out
there? Absolutely not. Not even close. Johnny Miller says you can
win the US Open with a cut, but not with a hook. And Lee Trevino
famously quipped, “You can talk to a fade, but a hook won’t listen.”
I couldn’t agree more.
But to get to the worst of the lot we’ve
got to delve deeper. If we wince in pain at the very mention of the
word, then we know we’re getting close.
Surely the flat out whiff is about as
shameful and appalling as they come. I mean, there can be nothing
redemptive about complete, utter, and absolute failure in
administering a blow. Or is there? Typically, when a student
“whiffs,” there are anomalous variables at work. The ball might be
six feet below the feet in a gutter, lodged twelve feet high in a
sycamore tree, or you can’t actually see the ball at address because
it’s plugged in a pile of dirt, or something like that, in which
case a fearless swat at the ball, even if all that strikes the
clubface is air or excrement, is to be wholeheartedly admired,
appreciated, and applauded. So the whiff is clearly out of the
running.
AND THE WINNER
IS.....
Drum roll please. My vote is for the humbling, out of the blue,
awful shank. And I know I’m not alone in this. Not only is this
dysfunctional little surprise an embarrassment to anyone who has
ever known it, but its contagious and downright deplorable nature is
one that, one can only surmise, was forged in the fires of hell. And
to take a quote from Forest Gump, “That’s all I’ve got to say about
that!”
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