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Authors: Carl Hiaasen
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Q-Link “requires no belief for it to work.” This was a bonus for nonbelievers such as me, who would be inclined to think that the product was a complete rip-off.
Risking another dose of electromagnetic poisoning, I revisited the official Q-Link Web site and learned that twenty-eight touring pros had used the pendant during PGA competition, including Fred Funk and Mark Calcavecchia. How well these guys performed while sporting their Q-Links was not thoroughly chronicled.
A fellow named Ted Purdy won the 2005 Byron Nelson Classic while supposedly draped with a Q-Link, and several top money-winners on the Champions Tour (formerly the Seniors Tour) were listed as satisfied customers. In fact, the entire European Ryder Cup roster of 2002 was said to have been necklaced en masse on the road to victory. I assumed they got a bulk discount.
The next time I tried the Q-Link, I wore it facedown to position the cosmic coil closer to my heart. According to the instructions, this method was entirely acceptable and, in fact, favored by many golfers.
It helped not even slightly. I still had five three-putts on the way to a 91, featuring a stellar 50 on the back side.
For two weeks I waited in vain for my stress levels to subside, and for my focus to sharpen. Although I didn’t shower in my Neville Brody creation, or loan it to friends, I did wear it faithfully on the golf course, despite mild chafing. Its effect on my game ranged from indiscernible to adverse.
One afternoon, after making a hash of the 16th hole, I whipped off the pendant and vowed to get my money back. That evening, the following exchange took place between me and the woman who answered the phone at Q-Link HQ.
Q. Why are you returning it?
A. Because it doesn’t work.
I mentioned my deplorable putting, but she seemed unmoved. Your refund, she said, will be forthcoming.
No sooner had I transferred custody of the Q-Link to the United States Postal Service than I experienced an almost transcendental unburdening, as if a toxic mojo had been purged from my biofield.
Wishful thinking, as it turned out. My inner golfing frequencies remained hopelessly jangled with static.
Day 283
After hitting three consecutive 7-irons into the lake from the eighth tee, I suavely pick up and move on.
Day 289
I’m considering switching from the overlapping grip favored by Ben Hogan to the interlocking grip preferred by Nicklaus and Woods. I experiment by alternating on each hole.
Day 290
My first golf foursome in thirty-three years. That sonofabitch Leibo talked me into it. It’s me, him, Al Simmens and a genial, mild-mannered fellow named Bill Anderson.
Apparently, betting is involved. I assign myself a Quail Valley handicap of 20, which sounds about right. Leibo and I are paired together and that’s fine; he’ll keep me laughing. When I tell him that I’ve been going back and forth between overlapping and interlocking grips, he suggests switching in the middle of my backswing.
Before teeing off, I dip into my small stash of pre-flight Xanax. It might as well have been a Tic-Tac, for all the good it does. I shoot a ghastly 103; Leibo shoots 80. Somehow we still win the Nassau, with a couple of side bets, and end up splitting $26.
“How is that possible?” I ask.
“Just shut up and take the money,” he says.
Day 295
I’ve officially switched to an interlocking grip, with no detectable improvement in either my driving or my long irons. However, my hands don’t ache as much at the end of the day.
At Sandridge I shoot 50 on the front nine after being tailed for two holes by the ranger, who finally busts me for driving off the cart path on a par-3, which apparently is a Code Red violation.
All this I blame on residual bad karma from the Q-Link, still en route to the refund bin.
Day 297
I phone Lupica to vent about my terrible putting. He advises me to try a different putter.
“I can’t do that,” I say. “Fenia gave me this one as a present.”
“You can
Risking another dose of electromagnetic poisoning, I revisited the official Q-Link Web site and learned that twenty-eight touring pros had used the pendant during PGA competition, including Fred Funk and Mark Calcavecchia. How well these guys performed while sporting their Q-Links was not thoroughly chronicled.
A fellow named Ted Purdy won the 2005 Byron Nelson Classic while supposedly draped with a Q-Link, and several top money-winners on the Champions Tour (formerly the Seniors Tour) were listed as satisfied customers. In fact, the entire European Ryder Cup roster of 2002 was said to have been necklaced en masse on the road to victory. I assumed they got a bulk discount.
The next time I tried the Q-Link, I wore it facedown to position the cosmic coil closer to my heart. According to the instructions, this method was entirely acceptable and, in fact, favored by many golfers.
It helped not even slightly. I still had five three-putts on the way to a 91, featuring a stellar 50 on the back side.
For two weeks I waited in vain for my stress levels to subside, and for my focus to sharpen. Although I didn’t shower in my Neville Brody creation, or loan it to friends, I did wear it faithfully on the golf course, despite mild chafing. Its effect on my game ranged from indiscernible to adverse.
One afternoon, after making a hash of the 16th hole, I whipped off the pendant and vowed to get my money back. That evening, the following exchange took place between me and the woman who answered the phone at Q-Link HQ.
Q. Why are you returning it?
A. Because it doesn’t work.
I mentioned my deplorable putting, but she seemed unmoved. Your refund, she said, will be forthcoming.
No sooner had I transferred custody of the Q-Link to the United States Postal Service than I experienced an almost transcendental unburdening, as if a toxic mojo had been purged from my biofield.
Wishful thinking, as it turned out. My inner golfing frequencies remained hopelessly jangled with static.
Day 283
After hitting three consecutive 7-irons into the lake from the eighth tee, I suavely pick up and move on.
Day 289
I’m considering switching from the overlapping grip favored by Ben Hogan to the interlocking grip preferred by Nicklaus and Woods. I experiment by alternating on each hole.
Day 290
My first golf foursome in thirty-three years. That sonofabitch Leibo talked me into it. It’s me, him, Al Simmens and a genial, mild-mannered fellow named Bill Anderson.
Apparently, betting is involved. I assign myself a Quail Valley handicap of 20, which sounds about right. Leibo and I are paired together and that’s fine; he’ll keep me laughing. When I tell him that I’ve been going back and forth between overlapping and interlocking grips, he suggests switching in the middle of my backswing.
Before teeing off, I dip into my small stash of pre-flight Xanax. It might as well have been a Tic-Tac, for all the good it does. I shoot a ghastly 103; Leibo shoots 80. Somehow we still win the Nassau, with a couple of side bets, and end up splitting $26.
“How is that possible?” I ask.
“Just shut up and take the money,” he says.
Day 295
I’ve officially switched to an interlocking grip, with no detectable improvement in either my driving or my long irons. However, my hands don’t ache as much at the end of the day.
At Sandridge I shoot 50 on the front nine after being tailed for two holes by the ranger, who finally busts me for driving off the cart path on a par-3, which apparently is a Code Red violation.
All this I blame on residual bad karma from the Q-Link, still en route to the refund bin.
Day 297
I phone Lupica to vent about my terrible putting. He advises me to try a different putter.
“I can’t do that,” I say. “Fenia gave me this one as a present.”
“You can
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