Today's Column About Nothing

Or how a Chevy Chevette is like a golf swing.

Libelous characterization of a legendary fraternity man (Pol Van Peel, 1977)

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I got nothin’.

I’m Hunter Greene, if Hunter Greene never topped 90 with his fastball. I got no fastball, I got no hops, I got no game, my golf swing has more problems than a ‘79 Chevy Chevette, which I will discuss momentarily. (That’s how busted I am this AM. I’m writing about the worst vehicle in the history of the world.) I’m thinking of getting a cardboard sign and standing on the I-75 median in rush hour: Will Work For Ideas.

It’s not even a new phenomenon. Lots of days for lots of years at the Enquirer, I’d roll out of the rack wondering what to write. I adjusted. I learned how to fool entertain readers by slinging words I wouldn’t feed my dog. I could be the Wade Miley of the keyboard, a real Bronson Arroyo, without the hair or the homerun balls. The thrower learned how to pitch.

So today I’m going to riff on why golf swings are like Chevy Chevettes. Try to curb your enthusiasm.

Some cars can be great while also being a pain in the ass. The MG Midget comes to mind. A blast to drive, sexy to the eyes. . . as reliable as a 1-iron. My sister had a Midget. When it wasn’t in the shop for a broken fingernail, it was a lot of fun.

This is a fair description of my golf swing. Lately I’ve spent more hours in a grassy field than your average heifer. My place of employ has a practice range of sorts, big enough for me and no one else. I go there seeking golf-swing truth. On the good days, I tune up the car and it runs like a dream. On bad days, I call a tow truck.

It’s always something. And just like the person who thinks they’re dying because they self-diagnosed on Google, trying to self-fix my swing generally makes it worse.

Take the past several days. I’ve been topping the ball, when I’m not shanking it or turning the club over so inexplicably, I’m hitting 7-irons damned near sideways and left. I tried a few fixes.

I inspected my grip and decided it was too weak. I made it stronger.

Shank Town.

I stayed with the stronger grip and stood taller.

Hook-o-Rama.

Al

I slowed down the swing. I stood closer to the ball, I stood further away. I did a Native American Tribal Rain Dance, I channeled my inner Al Czervik — “Whoa did somebody step on a duck?’’

My first car was a 1974 Chevy Vega. Some days, it ran like a dream. A dream that included a muffler with a hole in it, a cracked windshield and wipers that were effective when it didn’t rain. The Vega had an aluminum block engine, which somebody at GM thought was a great idea.

What it was, was a mandate to keep a 5-quart plastic jug of 30-weight in the trunk. The Vega went through a quart every 200 miles. If I went to Ocean City, MD, for the weekend, a two-hour drive, I stopped first at the oil station for a fill up. I looked at it like this: At least I never needed an oil change.

Appropriate color choice

The Vega was a DeLorean compared to the Chevette. It was the Scooter type, meaning it had no back seat and would get punked at Stop signs by 8-year-olds on scooters, challenging me to drag races.

It was a 4-speed. By about 25K miles, the ball-top of the shifter had worn through, leaving just the metal rod. I got callouses on my right palm after a few days of city driving.

At 30K miles, the speedometer started making these weird, rubbing sounds whenever I went faster than 35. I took it to the dealer, who wanted to charge me $50 to make it stop. Johnny Thinwallet was not going to do that. For the next three years, I drove with the screech.

At 80K miles, the ignition switch fell out of the dash. The wires remained attached, so I rolled with it. At 81K miles, I was able to start the Scooter with a flathead screwdriver. I thought that was pretty convenient.

At 85K miles, I discovered that the driver’s side floorboards had rusted through. I discovered this one rainy day, when I hit a pothole and the water came up through the floorboards and soaked my pants. I was on my way to pick up my date at the time. Incredibly, she married me anyway.

The rusted frame wasn’t all bad. It provided a nice breeze in the summertime and I considered myself pretty damned unique for being the only person I’ve ever known who drove a car he could stick his feet through. Kinda like Fred Flintstone did.

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I fixed my MG Midget of a golf swing, for now. I took the very familiar IDGAF approach. (Decipher that, Mobsters.)

If you play golf, there’s a decent chance you’ve read Michael Murphy’s novel, Golf in the Kingdom. The first half of the tome is dead-aim fabulous, before it drifts into mystical weirdness. The protagonist, one Shivas Irons, offers this advice to a playing partner:

Feel the nothingness in your swing.

I loosened my grip and my mind. I shrug-rotated my shoulders. I put myself in a Tahiti kinda place. Once you abandon all hope of ever again hitting passable shots, you start hitting passable shots. And so it went.

And that’s how the golf swing is like a ‘79 Chevette. Expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed.

Now, then. . .

TUNE O’ THE DAY. . . Every so often, like once every decade, I need to hear Toby Keith.

What, Doc?

Yeah, I know. I’m not a big CW guy, and purists will suggest loudly that Keith does not offer even a decent representation of the genre. Maybe that’d why I like him.