Once a year or so, a few co-workers who have been similarly infected with the dreaded Titleist virus get together and hit the road for a round of golf or two at a scenic mountainside course.

That course will remain nameless for one major reason: Every year, I go there confident, bolstered by several low-key rounds of 90-something and an 80-something or two at our area’s easier layouts. Then I play Sug … oops .. almost slipped … and realize exactly how bad I really am at this odd, frustrating game.

Here’s all I’ll say about this course: I’d probably be about as effective if I teed off from the top of the mountain and tried to keep my ball on one of the skiing trails as I am when I try to hit a ball onto one of the well-groomed fairways, armed with nothing more than an inconsistent swing, a 5-wood, and a pocket full of prayers.

This year, things were going to be different. … just like last year. And the year before.

This time, I figured I’d actually do something to fine-tune a swing that had, a few weeks earlier, inexplicably failed and pull-hooked a ball from the 18th tee, off the (supposedly out-of-play) clubhouse at Pine Hill Golf Club.

It’s never the golfer’s fault, you see. It’s always the swing. And as far as I can figure out, a swing has a mind of its own. … unless it has actually lost its mind altogether.

So, this year, I decided to get serious. I went to the local Duck-Hook-and-Hosel-Rocket Range to work out the kinks.

The theory was sound. Everyone will tell you that practice makes perfect, after all.

This time, by golly, I was gonna practice. Hit balls until my hands bled, just like Tiger and the boys.

I invested in an extra-big bucket of balls, since I figured that it might take me awhile to figure out exactly what kind major swing refurbishments might have to be made. After each swing, I tinkered with mean ol’ Mr. Swing.

Stance? Could be the problem. Grip? Probably a factor. Alignment? I’ve got a lazy eye, so that’s always a toughie. Take-away? Shoulder turn? Hips? Arms? Hands? Follow-through?

I tinkered with it all. Somewhere, hidden deep down with that long-forgotten stuff like teen angst and pocket lint, was The Swing. It had to be there.

After two balls, I thought I had it figured out. After 10, I was confused. After 20, I was frustrated. After 30 I got angry. Then it got worse, until I finally succeeded in hosel-rocketing, duck-hooking and toe-jamming every one of those striped little devils onto the range … more or less.

Somewhere between the 12th toe-jam and the 15th hosel-rocket, frustration turned to despair.

On I tinkered. I moved my feet. Changed my head position. Closed one eye. Closed both eyes. Changed gloves. Didn’t use a glove.

Still, yellow-and-black range balls whizzed wildly off into the night.

Then things began to make sense.

(Before you misunderstand, let me quickly point out that my swing never got any better, and my shots never got more predictable. Things just started making sense).

Practice does not make perfect.

Practicing doing things the right way is probably the key. And since I obviously have no idea what the right way is … I’m in trouble.

In fact, I finally figured out, letting my swing have the chance to practice the ugly, nasty, evil things that it does is probably a very, very bad idea.

A few days later, I headed to the mountains with the rest of the gang. Just like last year. And the year before. And the year before that.

And just like those other times, I was horrible. … well, that’s not entirely accurate.

My swing was horrible. And that’s not my fault.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter. His e-mail address is jholyoke@bangordailynews.net