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Breakroom... Spikeless in AtlantaFor years, I have felt isolated on the issue of spikeless golf. Then, a few days ago, I was scanning a certain user forum targeted specifically to golf course superintendents when I noticed a comment on the topic of golf without enhanced traction, written by Corey Eastwood, CGCS, of Stockton, Calif. Said Corey, a skilled golfer, “I have played only in walking or tennis shoes since 1990, and it has not hurt my game at all.” No longer alone in a mob of spike worshippers, I figured it was safe to tell my story. In 1983, I converted to spikeless, quite by accident, at Cypress Lakes Golf Course in Hope Mills, N.C. I had arrived there for the third and final round of an amateur tournament, still in what I considered “contention.” To my horror, my precious patent leather FootJoys had not made the trip. I panic-shopped the pro shop and was trying on shoes I could not afford, when L.B. Floyd, the owner/pro/superintendent (and Raymond’s dad), quietly advised me to play in my tennis shoes. “Stay balanced,” he said, “swing easy.” I reluctantly followed that advice and shot 71, the low round of the day on a course set up to frustrate. After that, I dared not return to spiked feet. Since then, I have slipped only once while swinging, and that was when I foolishly was locked into a duel with a young, ball-bashing limberback. I recovered when the old fellow playing with us shook his head and muttered, “Big hitters – woods are full of ’em.” The only problems I have with spikeless golf are toting three pairs of socks to finish a wet round, and guys that miss the clattering of steel on asphalt. It must remind them of high school football. A couple of months ago, I was approached on the range by a fellow who was offended by my Stan Smith tennis shoes. As I was contentedly punching 6-irons downrange at the ball picker, this fellow pointed at my shoes and went off on a tirade that explained how the golf industry had foisted a diabolical conspiracy on the average golfer. Apparently, the switch to non-steel golf spikes had nothing to do with damaging greens or leaving huge spike marks; the transition was triggered entirely by evil golf car manufacturing conglomerates, intent on protecting their precious rubber floor mats and wildly valuable accelerator pedals. Big Bubba went on to theorize that Tour pros still were allowed steel spikes because they didn’t ride in golf cars. Although I was determined not to be drawn into this cerebral debate, Bubba provoked me. “I suppose you’re wearing those sissy shoes because you think you’re protecting the greens?” “I like to think I’m not hurting them,” I replied. “But spikes hurt my feet, my back aches when I walk 18 with them . . . and to be brutally straightforward, you just don’t need golf spikes.” Bubba went all white-eyed on me, frothing and stammering about tradition, hobnail shoes and Hagen. “I haven’t had a decent round of golf since they took my long spikes away! Them little plastic spikes don’t work!” Bubba yelled, trembling in anger. “And they ain’t safe!” “First of all,” I replied, slowly losing my composure, “you won’t ever have a decent round of golf until you stop alternating shanks with whiffs. Second, spike marks have almost vanished, even with much lower mowing heights. And as for damaging greens, you ever look at wooden steps or decks where steel spikes chewed them up like rabid beavers? You think wood isn’t tougher than bentgrass? “And safety? I’ve seen golfers skate across a tiled bathroom floor on steel, face-plant a sink and crush a tailbone. I’ve seen steel-shod golfers catch a new spike and dive nose first into irregular pebbled sidewalks. I once saw a golfer’s foot ripped off above the ankle, hanging by a blood vessel, because he enjoyed hanging his feet out the side of the golf car and the long spikes yanked his foot under the back wheel.” Bubba backed up a step, probably because I was the one frothing now. “Well, I heard the long spikes are good for the greens,” he said. “They aerate them.” “Really?” I said staring at his shoes. “You’re wearing side-eject coring spikes?” “Huh? Well, what about slipping on wet grass?” Bubba said making a sliding motion with his hands. “Those plastic spikes come with a warning not to wear on wet grass.” “Preemptive lawyer-speak,” I replied. “Modern humans are so used to clomping around on hard, flat surfaces without looking where they are going that they instantly launch themselves into low, horizontal orbit at the first sign of mud or ice. You want a warning? Don’t wear steel spikes to church like my dad did. All he wanted was a little head start, and Momma was so humiliated, she hit him with a steam iron – Dad still has the scar.” “Well,” Bubba huffed, “I slipped and fell on wet grass, wearing them durn plastics.” “How many beers?” I asked. “Uh, 11.” Randy Wilson can be reached at rwilson@turfnet.com. |
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