I decided to fix my golf swing the same way modern medicine fixes diseases: by watching strangers on the internet who speak confidently into ring lights.
This felt safer than paying a professional. Golf instructors at the course I play here in Grand Junction, Colorado, charge by the hour, and I already lose enough money to this sport in small, steady increments.
YouTube, on the other hand, is free. Which should have been my first warning.
The first video promised “20 extra yards instantly.” The instructor was 23 years old and built like he works out daily, whereas I work out from January 2nd to the 8th every year (but still pay my gym membership to Crossroads Fitness each month for fun. The YouTuber explained that all I needed to do was “separate my upper and lower body.”
This sounded illegal in several states.
He demonstrated by twisting himself into a shape normally reserved for balloon animals. I tried to follow along in my living room and spent the next hour applying Icy Hot to various body parts.
The second video focused on “lag.” I still don’t know what lag is, but apparently I do not have it, and this is the reason my life is the way it is.
The instructor swung in slow motion and said things like, “Feel the whip,” and “let the club fall into the slot.”
I do not own a slot. If I did, it would be full of unpaid bills.
By the third video, I had learned that my grip was wrong, my stance was wrong, my posture was wrong, my tempo was wrong, and my childhood may have contributed to all of it.
Still, I felt optimistic.
I went to the range.
My first swing produced a noise similar to a grocery cart with one bad wheel. The ball didn’t make it to the first “50 Yard” sign marker. (That’s normal for me, but still).
The man a few feet over paused mid-swing to watch me finish, the way doctors observe experimental animals. The guys from the Colorado Mesa University golf team happened to be there as well, crushing 300 yard straight drives, which is always a good boost to my ego.
So I adjusted my grip. I bent my knees. I relaxed my shoulders. I remembered to rotate. I forgot to breathe.
The next ball shot directly right, in a move I couldn’t replicate if I tried.
By the end of the bucket, my back began emitting sounds usually associated with early internet connections.
I briefly considered faking an injury serious enough to require a small parade.
Instead, I doubled down.
I watched more videos between shots. A British guy (they’re almost always British for some reason), told me to “load into my trail hip.” Another Brit said my wrists were “too emotional.” A third instructor just shook his head silently for ten seconds.
At this point I had received so much conflicting advice that my swing had become a group project.
I finished the bucket with four blisters, one pulled muscle, and the confidence of someone who knows nothing has improved but hopes no one noticed.
The next day I could barely put on socks without crying.
My back felt like it had been assembled by a committee using leftover parts. Sitting required planning. Standing required prayer.
I returned to YouTube to find a video titled:
“Why Your Back Hurts After Golf (And It’s Your Fault).”
It was.
Apparently, I had been rotating incorrectly, hinging improperly, firing my hips too soon, and decelerating with unresolved emotional baggage.
The instructor suggested yoga.
I suggested Jack Daniels.
I still believe YouTube can fix my swing someday. Just not all at once. Possibly not while I am alive.
For now, I have accepted a new goal: keeping the ball in the same zip code and standing upright afterward.
Professional golfers chase perfection.
I chase being able to exit my car without using both hands and a walker.