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Johnson Fits His Own Mold

When you imagine yourself as a golfer – not the real you who’s better with a butter knife than a butter cut – what do you imagine? Big hitter, long, like the Lama? Fred Couples shoulder turn, Phil Mickelson swagger, Adam Scott stubble? Fair Enough. It was Victor Hugo, whose novel Les Misérables is not about golf though it sounds like it, who wrote that “each man should frame life so that at some future hour fact and his dreaming meet.”
Face it, your four-day growth will never look as good as The Masters champion’s and when you take a mighty swipe at a ball buried in ankle-deep rough, you look like a man swatting bees, not like Tiger Woods. Which brings me to Zach Johnson. He should be our Heidi Klum, our Iron Byron, our model. Johnson plays meat-and-three-veggies golf and he’s healthy, wealthy and wise. His tee shots don’t skywrite in the air. He doesn’t bomb and gouge. He has learned to love his 4-iron. Every time Johnson tees it up, he defies convention because he is one of the rare golfers whose IQ doesn’t decline when he steps into his soft spikes. He is thriving in a world enamored with 350-yard drives and wedges into 480-yard par-4 holes. At times, professional golf looks like an overamped Transformers movie. Johnson is Woody Allen’s Midnight In Paris. Brilliant in its own way. If you’ve ever taken a lesson from a pro worth his hourly fee, you were told to spend more time practicing your wedge play, short game and putting. Then you immediately went out and hit three large buckets on the range.


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