'Everything you know about the swing is wrong'
Paul Nusbaum hated, hated, hated golf.
"It made me want to slit my wrists," says the West Virginian, 56, a health-care administrator. "I wanted so badly to get better. I went to golf schools — McLean, Leadbetter, Flick. I bought all the tapes and gadgets and had teachers on speed dial. I spent about $70,000 over 15 years, but the harder I tried, the worse I got." One morning, the 27-handicap carded a front-nine 37 and thought, I've got it! "But I shot 59 on the back. So I gave up."
Then, late one night in 2002, a Golf Channel infomercial caught his eye. A.J. Bonar, an owlish teacher in a bucket hat, was enticing viewers with "the truth" about golf, which could be theirs for $89.95, the cost of his DVD. "I started yelling 'You fraud!' at the TV," Nusbaum recalls. "I was pissed. I sent him an e-mail that said, 'You're lying to the American public! You're all fakes!'"
The fake wrote back: "You're just swinging wrong. Come to my school. No improvement? No charge." Says Nusbaum, "On the first day, I start killing 7-irons and crushing my driver. I dropped seven strokes in a month and won my club's championship." He laughs. "Now I sound like an infomercial, but golf is fun again."
Who is A.J. Bonar? He's not famous, though he has sold a million copies of his DVD series, A.J. Reveals the Truth About Golf. He doesn't teach top pros. He spent eight years as head golf coach at Bowling Green State University, 12 more running the San Diego Golf Academy, and has headed the A.J. Golf School, in Carlsbad, Calif., since 2000. Solid credentials, but hardly Harmonesque. Yet Bonar, 62, boldly claims that your teacher is screwing up your game, and that he holds the sacred secret to the golf swing.
I'd seen the infomercial. I'd heard breathless accounts of hackers emerging from his school with gleaming new swings. I doubted that golf's "truth" lay in the land of the Ginsu and Flowbee. But gimmick or not, I was desperate. Golf had been sticking its steel-tipped spike in my rear for years. I had taken countless lessons from pros who preached the same gospel: head still, hands quiet, clear out. Nothing dented my 15-handicap. At times the planets (and my shoulders) aligned, but my swing flaws always returned, barged in and threw their muddy feet up on my couch. I was tired of skulling irons, of cussing like a gangsta rapper with a stubbed toe. It was time to think outside the tee box.
Paul Nusbaum hated, hated, hated golf.
"It made me want to slit my wrists," says the West Virginian, 56, a health-care administrator. "I wanted so badly to get better. I went to golf schools — McLean, Leadbetter, Flick. I bought all the tapes and gadgets and had teachers on speed dial. I spent about $70,000 over 15 years, but the harder I tried, the worse I got." One morning, the 27-handicap carded a front-nine 37 and thought, I've got it! "But I shot 59 on the back. So I gave up."
Then, late one night in 2002, a Golf Channel infomercial caught his eye. A.J. Bonar, an owlish teacher in a bucket hat, was enticing viewers with "the truth" about golf, which could be theirs for $89.95, the cost of his DVD. "I started yelling 'You fraud!' at the TV," Nusbaum recalls. "I was pissed. I sent him an e-mail that said, 'You're lying to the American public! You're all fakes!'"
The fake wrote back: "You're just swinging wrong. Come to my school. No improvement? No charge." Says Nusbaum, "On the first day, I start killing 7-irons and crushing my driver. I dropped seven strokes in a month and won my club's championship." He laughs. "Now I sound like an infomercial, but golf is fun again."
Who is A.J. Bonar? He's not famous, though he has sold a million copies of his DVD series, A.J. Reveals the Truth About Golf. He doesn't teach top pros. He spent eight years as head golf coach at Bowling Green State University, 12 more running the San Diego Golf Academy, and has headed the A.J. Golf School, in Carlsbad, Calif., since 2000. Solid credentials, but hardly Harmonesque. Yet Bonar, 62, boldly claims that your teacher is screwing up your game, and that he holds the sacred secret to the golf swing.
I'd seen the infomercial. I'd heard breathless accounts of hackers emerging from his school with gleaming new swings. I doubted that golf's "truth" lay in the land of the Ginsu and Flowbee. But gimmick or not, I was desperate. Golf had been sticking its steel-tipped spike in my rear for years. I had taken countless lessons from pros who preached the same gospel: head still, hands quiet, clear out. Nothing dented my 15-handicap. At times the planets (and my shoulders) aligned, but my swing flaws always returned, barged in and threw their muddy feet up on my couch. I was tired of skulling irons, of cussing like a gangsta rapper with a stubbed toe. It was time to think outside the tee box.
