Life as a Range Rat

Mentioning work on the driving range in last week’s blog seemed to strike a chord with quite a few of you, so I thought I’d return to the subject and recount a few more tales from my former employment as a Range Rat. 

So, where should I start?  For some, the adrenaline pumps as you drive (monotonously) up and down, up and down in that iconic range tractor with no windscreen to shield you from the horizontal rain on a winter’s day (mixing it up, rebellious types like to throw in a few side to side runs).  For others, the high point is clearing up after some bright spark forgets to put the bucket under the range dispenser and then scuttles away in the hope that nobody will notice. Yes, it’s fair to say there are probably more glamorous jobs in the golfing industry, but in fairness, I can think of worse ones too.

Naturally, the finger gets pointed at you for all manner of indiscretions and failings on the driving range. Like the time I was out collecting balls on the range, when the electronics of the ball dispensing machine malfunctioned and decided to start spitting out golf balls, just for fun.  One or two buckets, no problem, but we’re talking the best part of 6,000 golf balls before anyone raised the alarm.  What I returned to was a sea of white, as if a giant bean bag had been split open. Golf balls bounce too, so no surprise to find them in the car park, getting under the feet of the lady captain, and even causing chaos on the nearby A road. Naturally, the responsibility for complex circuitry of the machine rest entirely on the shoulders of the aspiring pro stranded in a tractor a hundred yards away.  All seems perfectly reasonable.

Still, 6,000 golf balls in one place (sort of) are considerably easier to deal with than the entire contents of the ball storage unit. In winter, a prolonged period of wet weather would often render the tractor redundant for fear of churning great mud pathways in the range. Cue a pair of ‘clicka’ tubes, some industrial wet weather gear, a hell of a lot of buckets, and a sense of humour failure. No need to make any other plans for the next four hours, just a lonely, cold, wet existence picking up 12,000 golf balls spread randomly across a vast wasteland.  I kid you not; 12,000 golf balls picked up by hand.  The words “hand picking today” still send shivers down my spine.

That did at least provide some serenity in what is otherwise a fairly noisy occupation.  The motor on a ‘Kawasaki Range Mule’ (or tractor if you prefer) wasn’t invented with much consideration for the ears of the driver.  That constant chugging up and down the range will undoubtedly leave your head vibrating at the end of the day. But nowhere near as much as the ball landing on the canopy of the Kawasaki. There isn’t a sound in the world that compares to the clang of a descending golf ball on a 2mm thick piece of sheet metal placed 6 inches above your head. You can deal with the drivers clattering into you at 200mph, the cage will wear those for you all day, but a golf ball on the roof provides the closest comparison to a giant symbol being bashed on your head as humanly imaginable. I’m sure the site of a Range Rat leaping out of his seat with sheer terror is pretty amusing from the other side of the cage, but I promise you that anyone with a heart condition shouldn’t go within 100 yards of this contraption.

Then again, target practice for the golfers can backfire. Admittedly, the comedy value amongst friends of being able to claim you pinned the Range Tractor with your driver is undeniable, but whilst a few do it by accident, others (those with a screw loose) wait until you’re at point blank range before unleashing the fury. Now, whilst a golf ball doesn’t rebound with much force from a metal cage, it certainly does when it hits a rubber tyre. I witnessed more than one person felled by their own folly, as their ball rebounding straight back at them from the tractor tyre. There’s only a certain amount of sympathy to be granted when you’ve been a moving target for the past half hour!

I once witnessed a chap convinced that the errors in his game were all caused by the range balls, and not his swing. ‘These are all high right balls’ he announced confidently as another one flayed away wildly off target. Sadly for him, he did it within earshot of the passing Pro, who with a sharp eye for an opportunity, walked up to him, turned the ball over and suggested that now the balls would be ‘low and left’. I’m not sure which expression I enjoyed more as the next ball went sailing away high and right – the utter bewilderment on the poor chap’s face, or the satisfied smirk from the Pro.

You’ll see all sorts on the range. Funky swings, baffling warm up routines, clubs thrown down the range. Even golfers walking 50-100 yards into the firing line to retrieve a final three balls, and I’m sure there’s more besides. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’m a veteran of the Range Rat occupation, but I certainly witnessed enough to provide some unforgettable memories.

Curiously though, there’s a strange correlation between being a Range Rat, and going on to become a successful golfer.  Ross Fisher did it, as have many others.  I wonder where I went wrong?