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It’s entirely possible (even desirable) to swing the club—specifically, the *sweetspot*—on a single, selected plane angle throughout the stroke. Whether you agree with that statement or not, the *one plane* swing is certainly a subject worthy of debate, as it has been for many years.

That said, any thoughtful discussion of the concept must begin with an agreed-upon definition of the term:

Should a “one (single) plane swing” be defined using (a) the plane angle of the backstroke shoulder turn and left arm (the popular conception); or (b) the plane angle of the sweetspot and the *ball* (my preference)? 🎓

ON HALLOWED GROUND

For golf history buffs, 1948 Masters champ Claude Harmon is practicing (photo) on the left side of the original range at Augusta National. Behind him are the magnolias that line Magnolia Lane from the clubhouse to the front gate on Washington Avenue. The blurred white dots in the distance (at the hedged fence bordering the range) are the players’ caddies—in uniform—serving as targets as they s**g the players’ own practice balls.

Many of the favorites had their preferred spots on that range. Sam Snead would practice on the far left (where Harmon is in the photo) and draw the ball toward the magnolias. Ben Hogan would work on the far right and fade the ball toward the bordering hedge row. George Knudson, always his own man, would position himself in the center, and then, beginning with his pitching wedge, hit shots directly toward the magnolias, landing the ball just short and working his way progressively up the line, eventually finishing with driver shots bouncing into the far left corner. Exciting stuff for a golf-rabid teenager to watch.

Until Jack Nicklaus came along, nobody in the field could fly that fence; a driver shot would typically take a few hops and bounce into the hedge (or more likely, into the caddie’s outreached s**g bag). In 1965, my first Masters, I watched Nicklaus, then in his mid-20s and on that tee, uproot the iron pins securing the yellow gallery rope, lay them down, and move back another ten yards or so until he was almost on the footpath fronting the grandstands (bleachers, actually). From there he would launch his prodigious drives, and to the delight and cheers of the gallery, his caddie would wave a white towel as the ball sailed over the hedges. Great fun for Jack and the fans, probably not so much for the pedestrians and cars on Washington Avenue!

A second range was 150 yards or so behind Claude, on the other side of Magnolia Lane, also stretching out toward Washington Avenue. There I could usually find the international stars, players like the great Argentine Roberto De Vicenzo, South African Gary Player, Aussies Bruce Devlin and Bruce Crampton, the wild-haired Brit Neil Coles and the rest of the Great Britain and Ireland Ryder Cup team.

As the players got longer and longer, both ranges became outdated and were overhauled. The constrained right range became a dedicated short game area, and the left range, lengthened and outfitted with the tallest net I’ve ever seen, became the sole long game range. Later, of course, the club acquired additional property and created the world class practice facility we know today.

The past sixty years brought many changes to the club’s practice ground, but they have not dimmed my early Masters memories. In many ways, they remain as clear as yesterday. Sometimes it only takes a photo to bring them back. 😊

DELIVERING THE CLUBHEAD

Every player needs an effective, efficient way to deliver the clubhead into impact. There are two ways to do this.

The hard way is to attempt to *cover* the intended curved path with the clubhead “blur” as it arcs through impact and beyond. This is the *Visual Arc of Approach* procedure.

The easy way is to use the leading right forearm and #3 pressure point (right index finger) to *point at* (“trace”) the *straight line* baseline of the inclined plane through release and impact. This action produces the exact same curved clubhead path as the Arc of Approach procedure, is much simpler to do, and can be even more precise. This is the *Geometric Plane Line* procedure.

More information about these two procedures can be found in *The Golfing Machine* (2-J-3). Understand both, then use the one that works best for you. 😊🎓

POOL PLAYERS, GOLF PLAYERS, AND CONTROL OF THE GAME

Master pool players have acquired a sound technique, one that gives them total control of the cue stick and with it, the ability to produce a straight “line of compression” (LOC) through the cue ball. Further, they are able to manipulate that LOC to control the reaction of the cue ball after its impact with the object ball.

Here, for example, both Paul Newman and his mentor, Jackie Gleason, in addition to their overall body posture and arm alignments, have virtually identical left hand grips, forming a perfect bridge for maximum control of the cue stick and its intended LOC. Jackie has aligned his cue below the center of the cue ball, a LOC that will cause the ball to “draw back” after impact with the object ball. Paul, on the other hand, has aligned his cue to produce a ball that “follows forward.” Both reactions are *intended consequences* to position the cue ball for the next shot.

Similarly, aspiring golfers must also acquire a sound technique, one that gives them total control of the golf club and a straight LOC through the golf ball. Mastery comes with the ability to manipulate that LOC to produce the intended ball behavior (direction, trajectory, and distance).

Unlike pool shooters, however, who deliver their force with a short and simple straight-line (linear) motion, the golfer must produce the straight LOC with a much longer, angular (circular) motion. Obviously, a more difficult procedure.

If the arc of the clubface is uncentered, the impact *point of compression* on the golf ball cannot be sustained during the entire impact interval. This will result in a loss of compression and, likely, an unwanted spin, a loss of both power and accuracy. Unless, of course, the compression loss and spin is the player’s intention, in which case, the observed curve, trajectory, and distance of the ball flight will confirm the player’s artistry.

As is evident in the photo, both Jackie and Paul are poised, confident pool players, fully prepared to execute their selected procedure. In Paul’s case, it’s equally apparent that having a good teacher matters. 😎🎓

This week’s Arnold Palmer Invitational brings back memories. Here’s a post I wrote on Pro-Am day back on Wednesday, March 22, 2009. Enjoy. 😊

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THE KING AND I

The Arnold Palmer Invitational always makes for an exciting week in Orlando. I worked all afternoon Monday with a budding mini-tour player at Orange County National, a huge golf complex in nearby Winter Garden, then spent most of the day yesterday at Bay Hill with Brian Gay. As usual, neither needed much help, just a minor tweak here and there in an already great motion.

Wednesday is pro-am day, and late this beautiful morning I was once again on the practice tee at Bay Hill, waiting for Brian and the warmup before his 12:50 start. There was a good crowd in the public grandstands, which extend left-to-right approximately two-thirds the length of the tee. Given that configuration, anyone who practices on the far right side does so in virtual anonymity.

As I scanned the tee, I saw only one golfer down at the end, and he had just arrived, entering through the far gate. I squinted in the bright sun and could make out his fire-hydrant build and bucket hat. A number of credentialed folk were assembling immediately behind. The silhouette was familiar. Could it be? I made my way down the line, past the grandstands, and soon found myself directly behind the tournament host and heralded pro-am participant, one Arnold Daniel Palmer.

# # #

Two Japanese photographers had already set up camp about twenty feet away, off the tee in the first-cut. His caddy stood opposite him, steadying the bag upright. Taking full advantage of my Tour credential, I nestled in just behind the caddy.

Arnie was loose and in good spirits. As he bantered with the group and took a few practice swings, my mind flashed back some forty-five years to the first time I'd seen him. I was a teenager then, on the grounds at Augusta National. He was in his prime, already a two-time Masters champion, and the most popular golfer since the immortal Bobby Jones.

At age 79, he still exudes charisma and the aura of command. Addressing the ball, his outsized hands assume their perfect grip on the club. His leathered arms are in textbook alignment. The will and intent to smash the ball is there. But alas, time has taken its toll. With a short iron, he hit his first two shots fat, each ball traveling barely twenty yards. After the first, he grunted an embarrassed chuckle. After the second, his brow furrowed, and, looking down, he muttered to no one in particular, "I have no business being here."

Breaking a painful silence, his caddy reminded him: "Five thousand more tickets were sold for charity because you're here." Arnie smiled, nodded, and tried again. Clean contact, but still woefully short. He had chosen the far end of the range—out of the public view—on purpose.

Meanwhile, more of the practice tee entourage had assembled to glimpse The King. As I watched him labor, I couldn't help but think that this might very well be his last appearance as a player at a PGA Tour event. Sure, there would be more ceremonial drives to launch The Masters, but as a golfer putting pencil to scorecard, this could be the end.

A few mid-iron shots. A three wood. Then, he asked his caddy: "What time is it?" Inexplicably, the caddy had no watch. (He was a non-pro, a friend of the family in on a fun day-gig, but still . . ..) "What time is it?" the Great Man asked again, only this time much louder, more insistently, and while leveling his steely gaze on *me*.

I looked hard at my watch, cursed the fact that I didn't have my reading glasses, squinted, and replied, "12:12." For a terrifying instant, I wondered if I had read it right. The champagne dial was tough to read. And this was Eastern Standard Time, right? Had I adjusted for Daylight Savings yet? Did I need to? Where was I? Had I just given Arnold Damn Palmer the correct time, or had I not?



Mercifully, he accepted my time, nodded a silent thank-you and turned to his caddy: "We better get going. Give me the driver." The caddy pulled the club, and Arnie said, "First time this one's ever been hit." With that he gave the ball a cracking smack, sending it sailing some 220 yards down the range. "There," he said. "That's better!"

He handed the driver to his caddy and stripped off his glove. On that signal, two guys behind me in the gallery went on the march. The leader brushed me aside, whispering loudly to his buddy, "Let's go!" Within seconds he was standing beside Arnold and posing. His accomplice snapped their photo with his cell phone.

The King just smiled, first at their clumsy assault, and then for the camera. That done, he granted their request for an autograph. No fuss. No muss. Just another day at the office.

As he walked the next twenty feet to the practice tee exit, four more hopefuls asked for an autograph. He slowed, but didn't stop, and rendered to each a perfect *Arnold Palmer* signature, certainly the most legible and arguably among the most numerous of all celebrity autographs. I looked close: There was no shakiness in the signature; it was a strong, clean hand. And then, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin with all the children in tow, he made his way toward the putting green.

# # #

Meanwhile, Brian had arrived and was half-way through his warm-up. As usual, he was striking the ball beautifully. "What's your dominant swing thought?" I asked. "Take my right shoulder straight back," he said. "Great," I said, "Like yesterday. It's a sound move." Soon, it was time for him to go.

I'll follow Brian in the first round tomorrow, but decided to skip today's pro-am. Instead, I spent an hour with the guys in the Mizuno van—all the equipment trucks pull out Wednesday afternoon—grabbed some lunch at Caddie Central, then headed out to Orange County National for a practice session of my own. Only a few precious years separate my 62-year-old self from Arnie's 79-year-old self, and I'm damned if I'm going to go gently into that good night.

At OCN, I got the guys to load a large teaching basket of balls into a cart, and, checking the direction of the late-afternoon breeze, headed to the opposite side of the circular range. There I took dead aim at first one yellow flag and then another, sending ball-after-ball screaming into the wind. I quit only because it got too dark to see.

And, by God, I hit it good. Not every time, mind you, but most of the time. For sure good enough to prove that there's still something left before the inevitable decline.

"There, that's better," Arnie had said.

Indeed. 😎

EVER WONDER WHY . . .

Gary Player, a small man, could produce such gigantic results?

It starts here . . .

At address.

Compare yours with his.

Especially the right forearm alignment.

Make the necessary adjustments.

🏆

https://youtu.be/kPgPrtOxvK4