Northwest Park

Year Opened: 1964

Architect: Ed Ault

Web: www.montgomerycountygolf.com/NO_home.html

Phone: (301) 598-6100

A pleasant meandering drive in Northeast Montgomery County, hence the name, oh wait, it’s called Northwest Park (apparently there’s a local watershed, the Northwest Branch, which empties into the Anacostia, if you’re into that sort of thing, which I, by the way, am not, gee what a shock); well then, ok, the drive into the course is essentially the highlight of the afternoon (by a lot), with pretty pine trees lining the tarmac. The clubhouse is purely function over form and not much of that.

There is a flat putting green and a lit driving range and a decent instructor where I took my first lesson years ago, though naturally my contrarian nature thwarted that clearly quite proper swing-maturation process and wayward self-tinkering became my chosen method of development. Well, strictly speaking, that’s not altogether the case. First there was the Ben Hogan book – the one with the plate of glass illustrating the concept of the swing plane and the whole wrist supinating at impact deal. That didn’t take. Go figure. Then the countless Golf Digest lesson tips with completely contradictory theories – first swing shallow, then attack steeply, hinge the wrists early, keep wrists stiff, stand tall to the ball – by the time I was through I had like 17 swing thoughts to organize, all while trying to get my cigarette lit in the wafting breeze. Here’s a tip – don’t start playing golf in your 30s. So anyways, me and my boy and Irish Denny and another chap jetted off to Arizona for golf school. The setting in Sedona, red rock vista-ed land of mystics and crystalline healers and aroma-therapists, was suitably awe-inspiring and transcendentally serene. What wasn’t so peaceful was our delayed flight to Phoenix and the inevitable hold-up at the car rental, necessitating Irish Denny driving 95 mph to make our tee-time at the Sedona Country Club, where we’re lacing up our golf cleats in the pro shop as we hear the pro shop attendant’s pronouncement: “Gentlemen, you’re on the tee”, words we’ll hear pretty much any time we go on a golf trip. Sure, wake-up before dawn, pack (that’s a given, what, pack the day before, are you effin’ kiddin’ me?), drive to the airport, 6 hour flight, drive 110 miles in 70 minutes and off to the first tee we go. Nice relaxing way to start your round.

The next morning we met our instructors, Ralph and Tom. Ralph was the epitome of the southwest golfer: sunswept hair set off just-so by a jaunty visor, a natty taupe/mauve sweatervest/polo combo that tapered down to his pleated twill trousers and a copper bracelet encircling his tanned wrists. Yeah so, OK, I had a bit of a man-crush on Ralph. During that morning’s initial tutorial on the golf grip and posture, Ralph was demonstrating the proper location of the hands during set-up and for some reason (perhaps he was hip to my uncomfortable feelings of sexual disorientation) he asked: “Greg, where are my hands?” Well, Ralph, I don’t want to talk out of school, but it looks like you’re about a centimeter or two from fondling your crank. After that, Ralph pretty much focused on this one single-digit handicapper while our gang got learned by Tom, the jean-shorts wearing, untucked shirt, porn-mustached, acid-trippy goofy dude that Irish Denny repeatedly pummeled in match play. I gotta tell you, it broke my heart. I even adopted Ralph’s visor-wearing until I remembered that I’m bald. So we didn’t learn much, though years later, “Greg, where are my hands?” will still pretty much crack us up.

Once gain, an offering from the folks at the Montgomery County Revenue Authority. I don’t understand why, but this course gets more play than any other in the area. The staff is surly and the course is kind of a yawn. Sure it’s longish but I don’t get it. And don’t even get me going on the starter, who must’ve been a former high school vice principal or a Bobby Knight disciple (think Soup Nazi from “Seinfeld”). There’s a whole procedure here about checking in, which color copy of the receipt to give him, when you can go to the putting green, lining up three groups deep at the first tee, having your club pulled, where you can take a practice swing before teeing off, and well, me and my boy knocking off a pitcher or two before the round while waiting to be called wasn’t quite standard operating procedure, especially with me fumbling through my pockets to find my receipt, tees and ball markers tumbling to the ground. So we’d tee off “slightly buzzed” (as if) with this dick glaring and barking out orders in the middle of our backswing. Good times.

I suppose I should mention the golf course at some point in this treatise, though I really ain’t feeling it, in case you haven’t noticed. You definitely get a sense of what’s ahead here on the first tee. A longish par 4, not exactly defined or anything, grip it (but be quick about it, damn it), try and ignore Joan Crawford bitching over by the starter shack and away you go. You will be spending lots of time waiting in between shots, not only because of the unwarranted popularity of the place but also because it’s popular with really bad, as in not good, golfers.

The second is a challenging long downhill par 4, but it’s not exactly attractive. The area in front of the green is in a lowland and always seems to be either torn up or just slopped-up and muddy. #13 and #14 are decent enough, but the whole course lacks delineation between fairways and rough and the conditioning is pretty beat. But I can overlook all that (I can, really) but I can’t ignore the utter lack of variety. Every hole basically plays the same. Forget about using every club in your bag – hit the driver, pull out a wood, chip-on (if necessary) and repeat this ritual 18 times while waiting 10-15 minutes between shots. I guess #18 is kind of a fun hole, a dogleg right uphill to a well bunkered green but there are just too few shots of any redeeming value and too long a time between those shots. There is also an executive 9 which is OK, but not by much.

I guess I’ve had some unpleasant experiences here, wouldn’t you say? Perhaps it’s because I was such a hack when I played here but whatever, I don’t like this course. I genuinely can’t think of one hole that I can even somewhat admire. To me, it’s Hain’s Pt. with an extra 1000 yards, larger greens and no monuments or Potomac River. I can’t explain its popularity but then again, I’m confounded by how Keannu Reeves still holds onto his SAG card (he’s not acting, hell, he’s not even behaving) and I’m perpetually perplexed (and aghast) how the stupidiotic Bushes became America’s political dynasty. I will never, ever come back to this golf course. Because I might be moving to Canada if the Republicans win again and I’ll have to rant about…oh I don’t know…curling.

In the words of Richard Dawson, survey says: 3.