Step to the Front if Your Golf Game Is Falling Back

Attention 25-handicappers and deep-ditch divot makers.

Have I got news for you.

Forget those infomercials, fire your swing doctor and throw away all those gizmos that promise to lower your golf score or YOUR MONEY BACK.

What if I could cut eight to 10 strokes off your game for nothing, save you thousands of dollars on lessons, lost balls, broken clubs and sports psychologists?

This is no gimmick.

The answer has been right in front of your duck-hook noses for years.

Here’s what I did and suggest you do pronto.

Move up in the box.

Trade “three easy payments” for 25 leisurely paces.

I’m not suggesting an incremental jump from black tees to blues tees, or from the blues to the whites.

I’m talking red tees, friends.

First, lest you are fixing to have Gloria Allred serve you a writ of habeas courses, these are no longer referred to as “Ladies” tees. That is so old school it’s practically one-room A-framed.

They are “red,” “forward” or “front” tees.

Listen, I’m catching your Burt Reynolds macho drift, so let me explain. If you belong to a country club, smoke cigars on the course, would take out a second mortgage to play Pebble Beach and/or subscribe to Golf Digest, this plan is not for you.

I’m appealing to those among us who play less than 10 times a year, those of us who have no head covers and borrow tees and ball markers from you on every hole.

I’m preaching to a congregation that is tired of plunking down $100 to shoot a 100.

Yes, there is a machismo factor. Golf is serious business to serious men, but I ask this:

What is so manly about having to pick your second shot off a manhole cover in the parking lot, or watching your drive slice toward the plate-glass window of a $10-million home on the No. 10 fairway?

What is so Gentlemen’s Quarterly about having to return to the pro shop after five holes to purchase another sleeve of balls?

This red-tee epiphany hit me like a 4-iron shank last summer, in the midst of a miserable round during which I found myself with one ball left in my bag and three holes remaining.

I moved up to the reds on a short par three to avoid a water hazard.

Result?

Par.

I stuck with reds on the par-four No. 17.

Result?

Par.

And on No. 18, a par four, the No. 1 handicap hole on the course?

Birdie.

You talk about an ego boost. Back at the cart-return shed, the kid cleaning my clubs asked me how played.

I told him I finished par, par, birdie.

“You birdied 18?” he said in awe.

“Yep,” I said. “You know, you just have to drive it straight.”

Why did I have to bore him with all the details?

People say no one can approximate what it feels like to hit like Tiger Woods.

Well, try this: Hammer a driver straight off the reds and see if you are not putting for birdie.

Understanding that three holes do not constitute a scientific conclusion, I recently put my red-tees theory to the test over 18 holes at Oak Creek Golf Club in Irvine.

I brought a friend along of comparable ability to serve as a measuring stick and boldly predicted a 10-stroke victory.

The boys in the pro shop took quick interest in my plan and allowed us to go out as a twosome.

“Should I get you a skirt?” Bud, the starter, quipped.

I should have speed-dialed Gloria right there on the spot, but I realized this was going to be a ticklish subject. I planned on telling our trailing group that I had to play from the reds because of a bad back, but ended up opting for the last resort: the truth.

With a shortened, relaxed and condensed swing, I struck the ball beautifully on the front nine but couldn’t drain a putt to save my life and shot 46.

But I caught fire on the back. On the par-five No. 15, I knocked a 5-wood off the tee, 7-iron to the fringe and chipped in for my first-ever eagle.

I was so jacked-up jittery that I finished with two double bogeys on the last three holes but still shot 41 on the back to finish with an 87.

Mind you: I haven’t shot an 87 since ’87. With a little putting practice, I swear I could have scored in the low 80s.

I lost the bet, winning the round by only eight strokes, but it was the most satisfying round of golf I have played. I lost only one ball and not once did I have to pull out my trusty toe wedge to improve my lie.

These are my red tee diaries.

I asked Ryan Olson, the kid working the Oak Creek pro shop counter, if other people played from the reds.

“Oh sure,” he said. “They tend to be older.”

But Ryan confessed that I might be onto something.

“Do whatever it takes to get enjoyment out of it,” he said. “I see 28-handicappers who tee it up from the blacks just because that’s what their buddies are doing. The gauntlet has been thrown. And they come in here with heads hanging low, go straight to the bar, no chit-chat, and their wallets are empty when they go to the parking lot.”

So you have no problem with me playing from the reds?

“Not at all,” Ryan said.

With a hop in my step, I turned to report my findings to the world when Ryan hit me with an out-the-door zinger.

“Of course,” Ryan said. “I would never do it.”