Summary
DURING one of the Alfred Dunhill Cup tournaments, when all the play took place over the Old Course at St Andrews, I watched the Australian, Ian Baker-Finch, having a few swings with a wedge before hitting an approach to the 12th green. The 1991 Open champion hadn't yet run into the brick wall which was to end his playing career and was at the peak of his powers. He is a tall man and was taking full, easy swings. When the clubhead made contact with the ground, it did so with a firm smack and when the time came to execute the actual shot, nothing changed apart from the smack being accompanied by the click of the ball being taken a split second before the turf. As the ball settled gently beside the flag, I felt weary and defeated, for I knew that such precision was quite beyond me.
That hadn't always been the case. Well, it had, really, but there had been a time when, as a young lad, I could hit shots with lofted clubs - wedges hadn't arrived yet - with fair regularity. It wasn't precision of the Baker-Finch variety, but, as far as my simple needs were concerned, it filled the bill. I was confident with the shot and unafraid of the club. When bunkers or bushes intervened between me and the green, I relished the challenge and squared up to the task with never a doubt in mind. As I approached such shots, I would toy with the various methods I might bring to bear, variations such as "cutting the feet from it," a firm and dependable favourite.See the full content of this document
Extract
Wicked Wedges Are Not to Be Trusted
Changed days. I'd no more attempt to cut the feet from it now than fly in the air. The very thought curdles the blood. I don't know when it happened - this cris...
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