Yes, senior ball collector. Life as a human target. Beat me. Hit me again, and again, and. . .
So I went to the Whirlaway Sports Center in Methuen, where owner Dave Kazanjian carries on the proud legacy of the country’s oldest family-owned driving range. Hitters big and small have started teasing Whirlaway since the center of the Great Depression.
“You really want to do this, don’t you?” I asked Kazanjian, as I reported on duty on a hot and humid evening last month. “It’s not fun to be hit.”
“Are you saying it’s not safe?” I said, suddenly reevaluating the wisdom that I thought existed on that wish list.
Don’t worry, Kazanjian assured, no ball has ever penetrated what he believes is the shatterproof glass windshield of the cart. He believes it is unbreakable just because it hasn’t broken. Yet. As for each side of the vehicle, which is a custom gas powered golf cart, they are closed with a steel mesh that could withstand the rigors of a NASCAR crash test.
“We have great successes,” said Kazanjian. “It can be noisy in there.”
“Drive the cart with the sides facing the golfers,” said a voice inside.
Unfortunately, not a rain cloud in sight.
I glanced at the tees, where about 12-14 golfers kept hitting the balls. A boy, a big boy, was really hammering. Each of his blows was punctuated by that heavy “blow!” of ball stick head.
My bucket list was turning into a death wish, even before I first walked through the grass.
The longest blow to Whirlaway is 250 yards, and there is a 20 foot tall screen resting behind the 250 marker. When Whirlaway added a top bunch of tee boxes about 30 years ago, the Red Sox Jim slacker Rice and Bruins defender Don Sweeney, the latter just outside Maine Mariners, have both cleared the screen and the tree line behind marker 250.
“Hockey guys,” said Kazanjian, “can really make it spin.”
Uh, yes, you can bet.
Good friend Matt Lee, one of the Globe’s superb staff photographers, came to tell us about the race. I know this is a gross generalization, but photogens are generally all good people and are universally crazy. I say it with affection. OK, slight affection.
“Great!” said my union brother Lee as Kazanjian was about to hand over the keys. “Have you ever thought of painting an ox eye on top of the cart?”
Lee was interested. A little too much.
“And if anyone hits the bull’s eye. . . do they get a bucket of balls for free ?! “He said. “Would be great!
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said a dark Kazakh.
“Whaddya says we’re going out now?” I said, thinking that my son’s Go-Pro camera could have covered us for the video.
In fact, the operation of the trolley was a lot of fun. The key to being a good breeder is a slow and steady run, perhaps 4-5 miles per hour, which allows the infinite number of trolley wheels and humming gears to sweep away the balls and spit them neatly into large bins. With all the containers full, it collects about 4,000 balls per revolution, about 400-500 balls per bin.
Gradient is monitoring horizontally across the range, never facing the tee boxes frontally and working at a distance of at least 75 yards.
“Closer,” observed Kazanjian, “you are the best to honk. This should tell everyone to stand up and let you pass. Most of them understand. They are respectful. Generally.”
I kept my distance. Maybe the horn works great. Maybe it just invites more problems. I know honking anyone on Storrow Drive does not return smiles.
Maybe it would have vanished, but for the 45 minutes I dodged around the 15-acre patch, I found it impossible to relax. It seemed constantly that thunder was coming, someone was about to tear a tall hard one.
It’s not the same for our trusty Globe photog, of course. Lee was shooting the video and captured the only time we made a good pop. He loved it. Center of target.
“Oh yes,” said Lee even before leaving for this mad rush. “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!”
As Kazanjian warned, the quick, sharp skin on the roof reverberated. I jumped when they popped up. I knew it was coming. I was ready for this. But still I jumped.
My reaction was not dissimilar from my annual visit to the ophthalmologist, who only had to glue his eyelids to keep me from wincing every second of the exam. The nonsense and failures that remain with us forever, right? Should solve, I just can not. I could finally learn to swim one day, but probably not. Should solve, I just can not.
It turns out that it wasn’t fun to be a target as I expected. But it was worth checking on the wish list. There was something oddly satisfying about watching the balls open in the bins, and looking behind and seeing the cart path blown away, the ball-free and almost inviting green lawn like Fenway Park.
I’m not sure what I’ll face on the list later. But I always wanted to clean the ice with a Zamboni. Note for the photo assignment editor: I will provide my photo.
Kevin Paul Dupont can be reached at [email protected]. Follow him on Twitter @GlobeKPD.
