A line o' gowf or two

STARTING KEATS TWO UP.

When Rome started to burn Nero turned to fiddling. Had there been a golf course nearby he likely would have golfed instead.

Lady giving order for a caddie at a Country club: “Please send me two small ones or one large one.”

Golf is a great game because it leads a man to self-restraint and poise. There is the case of the philosophical player at Glenview. After topping three new balls into the river he threw his midiron into the drink, pitched his bag of clubs after it, and then chased the caddie to the clubhouse.

The abolition of the stymie by the Western Golf Association will be applauded by those golfers—or, rather, golf players—who delight in five and ten-cent syndicates. When a man has a jitney or a drive invested in a hole it is “unfair” to have his investment jeopardized by a stymie. Then again, the holes are too small. The W. G. A. might consider enlarging the cup to the diameter of a peck measure.

ON ADDRESSING THE BALL.

Some players accost the ball opprobriously, employing the adjective “pock-marked.” Others regard it dubiously, hopelessly, prayerfully, tremulously, disgustedly, resignedly. Still others eliminate the troublous sphere from their consciousness (it can be done), and swing through the spot where the Ding an sich would be if the consciousness had not refused to entertain the notion of its existence.

The best way to address the ball is neither fiercely nor dreamily, but quizzically; as one should say, “Well, well, little pest! And so you are going on a long journey. Take keer of yourself!” Bang!

THE BALLYROT STYLE.

“Pairsonally,” said Mr. Sandy McTosh, professional at Ballyrot—the word “personally” being a waggle with which every pro preludes a shot at the King’s English—“pairsonally, I punch the ba’, nae sweep it. I dinna use a besom in gowf, though ’tis useful in curling.” Pressed for an analysis of his perfect stroke, “Oh, ay,” said Mr. McTosh, and obligingly took up a driver. “I tak’ the club in ma hands, and raise it so; and then”—his face fairly radiated intelligence—“I gie the ba’ a guid skelpin’. Ay.” Nothing could be more transparent; and by adopting the Ballyrot style we expect to add at least a few more strokes to our score.

We were discussing the golf stream, and Leopat was reminded of a fisherman acquaintance, Bill Rice, who having recently begun golf, fancied that everybody was as interested as he. Seeing Dick Lang, another fisherman, go by, he called out: “I got six in bogey to-day.” “You’re a liar,” replied Dick. “There ain’t no such stream in the hull state.”

A medical adviser suggests chair-swinging for men who cannot golf. It has the disadvantage that it cannot be practised in the open, without attracting the attention of the idle curious. On the other hand, it is not an expensive sport—a kitchen chair will last for years—and it is almost as interesting as indoor golf. Chair-swinging might also be recommended to those whose scores run over 100.

“The Essence of the Matter,” holds up as an exposition of the soundest technique we have encountered. Technique resides chiefly in the fingers, in golf as in piano playing. Its first use, and its last, is to enable the player to produce any desired effect with a minimum of effort. One man, without exertion, will drive a ball fifty yards farther than another man who delivers what seems to be a terrific blow. Mr. Percy Grainger will sail through a Tchaikowsky concerto at the conventional tempo, and yet, so impeccably smooth is his performance, he seems to be playing it much faster than you have ever heard it played before. Speed is necessary in golf; in piano playing an impression of speed suffices.

YOU NEVER CAN TELL.

It was Saturday afternoon, and a cup match was under way. We were standing near the first tee, smoking a cigar and watching one manifestation of the inefficiency of the human race. The weather was dry, and the course was noticeably in need of rain.

A friend ambled out, garbed for battle, but unaccompanied by implements or bag-bearer. “Aren’t you playing?” we queried. “I’m waiting for my opponent,” he replied. “He is taking a lesson from the professional.”

“Congratulations!” we exclaimed. “The match is as good as won. No man was ever able to hit a ball for a week after taking a lesson.”

Our friend smiled complacently, and we left him to his waiting triumph. A few hours later, when we encountered him again, the smile was on the other side of his countenance. “Jones trimmed me,” said he; “never knew him to play so well.”

Moral: All signs fail in a dry time.

“When a player puts four balls into a pond,” queries a reader, “would you call it playing golf or pool?”

WITHOUT WHICH NOT.

Of the instructing of dubs there is no end. Yet how little emphasis is placed on the sine qua non, the multum in parvo, the e pluribus unum! As Edmond Dantes observed, when he finished three up on his enemies, all human wisdom is contained in the five words, “Get back of the ball!”

HEWING TO THE LINE.

“THE ESSENCE OF THE MATTER.”

Mr. Hammond’s article in the world’s greatest golf magazine for September was interesting in more ways than two. The photograph of Ernest Jones shooting a 72 with only one leg to his name, and that a left, was an arc-light of illumination. One-legged golf is what we have all been hoping for. It does away with the problem of the shifting of weight from one pin to another; it eliminates the perplexities of stance; it prevents heaves and swayback; it precludes pivoting on the left great-toe (unless the player is a Mordkin); it reduces the game to its simplest terms, and leaves the pundits not a leg to stand on. Surgeon, get the saw! On to the operating room!

Mr. Hammond mentions Jones’ conviction that “the fingers are the essence of the matter.” They must be, since the cracks all have the game at their fingers’ ends.

THE QUINTESSENCE OF THE MATTER.

The Essence of the Matter having been definitely exposed, suppose we consider the quintessence, “the perfect flower and efflorescence,” the Pythagorean ether, and this quintessence we esteem to be a “fine careless rapture.”

We will say this much for golf. It begets an ambition to succeed—at golf.

While we are praising golf, we will say still another thing for it. Its first rule contains the sum of human wisdom: “Keep your eye on the ball.”

This being understood, we now inquire—

Why, if putting is as simple a matter as it is cracked up to be—and it is even simpler—why practise it, as the doctors enjoin? Why not merely do it? Whatever genius may be in the fine arts, genius in the gentle art of putting is not infinite capacity for taking pains; it is possible to putt well and take no pains whatever. If a man must practise, let him practise the fine careless rapture of the singing thrush, for this includes confidence, relaxation and everything else that the doctors say should enter into the least complex of strokes. If anyone should not comprehend what is meant by this fine careless rapture, we might reply with Burke—or somebody—that we are not obliged to find him a comprehension.

Perhaps the next simplest thing to putting is rolling off a log. Prithee consider what would happen if a man practised that for an hour each day, paying excessive care to the position of his hands and feet, the relaxing of his muscles, the eye fixed on the ground, and so forth! Eventually he would execute the roll-off in a self-conscious, constrained manner, and, if it were possible, he would miss the ground once out of five times. If he also practised following through he would stand an excellent chance of breaking his neck.

MAKING IT EASY FOR DEMOCRACY.

“I want,” writes Mr. Francine in the Golfer’s Magazine, in his prolegomena to a disquisition on form, “I want to take good golf out of the class of accomplishments that belong to gifted characters only, and pass it on to the common people.” Quelque want, nace-paw? Why pause here? Why not take poetry out of the class of accomplishments that belong to the gifted, and sometimes dissolute, characters only, and pass that on to the undeniably common people? It is a simple matter to tell a mute inglorious Milton what constitutes good poetry; all he needs then is pen and ink. The golf swing is simple, and so is the line—

Why should only a few gifted characters write stuff like that, and only a few other gifted ones whale a golf ball a mile without slicing it to Helngon?

Medal play is certain to retain its popularity in a country the motto of which is “Safety First.”

Suggestion for the opening of an essay on putting by any celebrated professional: “At the outset I may commence by beginning to say that putting cannot be taught.”

AN ALL-AROUND LINKS.

[From an ad of a Southern resort.]

You can sail, bathe, motor, play tennis or play golf on the finest nine-hole golf course in the South.

Speaking of democratizing the U. S. G. A. and making the game safe for democracy, an old lady accosted a man who was poking a ball along the edge of a public course. “What do you call that game?” she asked. “Dunno,” said the man. “This is the first time I ever played it.”

On the same course, a child was heard to announce: “I’m going to play golf, too, when I’m six years old.” “Here!” called a waiting and weary democrat, “take my clubs. You’ll be six years old when my number is called.”

RULES FOR PORCH GOLF.

Our interest is solicited by W. J. T. in behalf of the Porch Golfer, who burns up perfectos and works his elbow in a praiseworthy endeavor to reduce the floating debt of his club. Should he not be subject to rules, as is the regular golfer? As a starter, the following is suggested: