Part 1
A Line o’ Gowf or Two
_BOOKS BY BERT LESTON TAYLOR_
A PENNY WHISTLE THE SO-CALLED HUMAN RACE THE WELL IN THE WOOD A LINE O’ GOWF OR TWO
_In Preparation_
THE EAST WINDOW
_And others in a uniform collected edition, to be ready later_
_New York: Alfred · A · Knopf_
A Line o’ Gowf or Two
by Bert Leston Taylor
_With an Introduction by Charles (“Chick”) Evans_
New York [Illustration] 1923 Alfred · A · Knopf
COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.
_Published, March, 1923_
_Set up, electrotyped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York. Bound by H. Wolff Estate, New York._
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
_Acknowledgments for permission to use material are due ~The Chicago Tribune~, ~Golf Illustrated~, ~The Golfer’s Magazine~ and ~Mr. Payson Sibley Wild~._
Foreword
If desired may be pronounced “Guff”.
B. L. T.
Introduction
By Charles Evans, Jr.
A man once said to me: “I consider the daily reading of B. L. T.’s column equal to a liberal education in English.” The thought immediately came to me that whatever it was necessary for B. L. T. to do he did well; and as his chief business in life was the writing of English he did that with an accuracy, a beauty and grace of expression at which the rest of us could only marvel. Of course, my attention was first called to him because of his interest in golf, and I began reading his column mainly to see what he might say about the game, but I ended by being interested in everything that he wrote about, and that often seemed to mean the whole universe.
I cannot remember exactly when I first met him, but I think that it was at one of the indoor golf schools where he was practicing, and we began discussing golf in a desultory sort of way. That part of my remembrance is hazy, however, but another meeting stands out with peculiar vividness. We were at the Cliff Dwellers, and deaf and blind to the clamor and brilliancy about us we retired into a corner, and with the aid of a cane or an umbrella we worked out the golf swing segment by segment. It was his idea of the way to learn it. It showed his thoroughness, and it may be said truthfully that by the time the demonstration was over he had mastered the theory of the swing. It was then very apparent that he was fast yielding to the charms of the enchantress.
After that he and I played a good many games of golf together. It was a great pleasure for me and I hoped that he enjoyed it. We presented a marked contrast. He had learned his golf at a comparatively late age; it was a cerebral production, a good one, too, and like all such things it had improved with time. Had he lived longer I am sure that his game would have become a very fine one. Indeed I often thought that it had developed faster, considering the time he had been able to give to it, and certain physical limitations, than any game I had ever watched. His eyes had been long over-worked, and I do not think that during his early life he had given much time to athletics. These two things are a drawback, but in spite of them his game improved with surprising rapidity. On the other hand I had picked up my game when a small boy and it was largely imitative. I had fine eyesight and I had played every game that the “vacant lot” or the school playground permitted. When I reached years of reason I spent a great deal of time trying to find out why certain shots were played in certain ways. When the reasons were unearthed I frequently discarded the methods, having proved to my own satisfaction that other ways were easier, and based on a sounder theory.
Mr. Taylor may have thought at times that I was helping him with golf. I knew that he was helping me. Through his eyes I was often able to see the theory of the shot, and I confess that many of us imitative golfers work from a false foundation, and do not know why or how we play our shots, and that is the reason why, when the game that we learned without reason deserts us, we are unable to find the way back quickly. Mr. Taylor’s whole attitude towards the game and everything else in life impressed upon me the intrinsic value of sound methods. In a way he is linked in my mind with Edgewater, for he, Mr. MacDonald, and I played many games there, and they are things that we are very glad to remember.
The greatest compliment ever paid my game of golf I received from B. L. T. The text is not now before me, because like many another thing that I prized and preserved most carefully its exact sanctum is unknown, but he said, in that priceless column that daily intrigued me, and thousands of others, that he had gone out one day to play golf with me and to try to find out the secret of my golf swing. He declared that it was rhythm, and added: “The morning stars have nothing on Mr. Chick.”
I have received much of praise and of blame in my life, and I have tried to bear both philosophically, feeling often that one was just as far wrong as the other, but never before have the morning stars and I occupied a place, to my advantage, in the same sentence. It may have been hard on them, but as for me, I was thrilled to the depths of my being. It made me wonder, too, if B. L. T. (what a world of affection dwells in those initials, whether spoken or written!) was not right in this: That any art, however humble, and often it may be the humblest, must be rhythmic, a part, infinitesimal though it may be, in the great song that the morning stars sing; and whether it be the sweep of the artist’s brush, the measured beat of the poet’s song, the movement of a game, or dance, it answers to the universal swing.
B. L. T. had a mind that continually asked why. Therefore when he discovered at first hand the overwhelming difficulties of the putt, and the overwhelming ignorance of all golfers, amateur or professional, concerning it, he put his mind to the task and evolved a new theory, or rather he decided that the billiard-player, not the golfer, was using the right method to get the ball into a sunken receptacle. “Keep your eye on the ball,” is a sacred, ancient golf law. Even the small boy, picking up his game when and where he can, learns it, and no one is more dogmatic than he in its promulgation. B. L. T. attacked us right here. He said, “Keep your eye on the hole and not on the ball.” Various matches were played to try out this theory, chiefly among newspaper men, I fancy, and I think that Mr. Taylor lost most of them, which may or may not have been conclusive, for it would have taken a longer time than had been given to weld a new theory solidly into one’s game. Ordinarily I should say, however, that Mr. Taylor should have beaten the other men.
I could not recommend looking at the hole, but I can say that the best putting I ever did was achieved by keeping my eye, not on the ball, but on a spot two or three inches in advance of it. But whether right or wrong, B. L. T.’s golf theories were always inspiring and they made a game with him a stimulating occasion that we were never willing to miss.
Our days with him upon the links were all too short. Without warning the news of his illness crept about. “Threatened with pneumonia,” some one said, and before we realized the threat the end had come. Few men could have been so missed. Thousands had found his column a sort of daily bread, and mind and heart were hungry when he laid aside his pen. His golfing friends missed him with an aching sense of loss; they felt that something irreplaceable had gone from their lives. Now it is a pleasure to them to learn that Mrs. Taylor has prepared a carefully edited collection of all B. L. T.’s sayings and writings about golf. It is just such a record as we have wished vainly to have. In his own inimitable style a student of the game has told us about it, and in this little book, the fine fugitive things, the glancing wit, the keen flashes of human nature that illuminated all that he said or wrote, have been preserved. And we are very grateful.
CHARLES EVANS, JR.
A LINE-O’-GOWF OR TWO
_Motto: Hew to the Line, let the divots fall where they may._
STARTING KEATS TWO UP.
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. The turf upon the fairgreen still is soft, And offers many perfect brassie lies.
* * * * *
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.
When Bishop Berkeley said there was no matter— And sliced it—’twas no matter what he said.
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.
There were three dubs stood on a tee, And they were dubs as dubs could be. The par for that there hole was three, But all they made was B. L. T.
W. B. H., JR.
“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—
“_I will arise now, and go to Innisfree._”
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:
Rule I. “Keep your eye on the high-ball and swallow through.”
II.—Foursomes shall have precedence over twosomes. It costs no more to make four high-balls than to make two, and the club gets twice the revenue.
III.—When a player is carried out of bounds he shall not be permitted to put another ball into play.
IV.—A golfer soleing his face on the table shall be disqualified.
V.—A player holing his opponent’s ball shall be penalized one round.
VI.—Should a player, when addressing his ball, roll off the porch he may be replaced; penalty, one round.
VII.—In case of rain, snow, or darkness the player shall take the same.
A GOLFER’S GARDEN OF VERSES.
OFFICE IN SUMMER.
In winter, when the links are white, I’m at the office until night. In summer, when the course is green, I always catch the 12:15.
I have to stay till then to see The business folks who bother me. There’s always something to detain, And more than once I’ve missed my train.
And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, That I must office half the day, With only eighteen holes of play?
WHOLE DUTY OF GOLFERS.
A golfer, when he plays with you, Should speak when he is spoken to, And keep his score-card free from fable; At least as far as he is able.
RAIN.
The rain is raining all around, It falls on turf and tree; But I don’t care how wet I get— I made that hole in three!
TRAVEL.
Winters I should like to go Where there is no cold and snow, Where, below another sky, Lureful links Elysian lie;— Where, with nothing else to do, I should golf the whole day through, Pausing only now and then For a bite, then back again. Southward I would track the sun: Travel always broadens one.
THE PRO.
The friendly Pro so tanned and tall I love with all my heart: He shows me how to hit the ball, And shares with me his art.
He wanders here, he wanders there, Instructing dubs like me, And charges for his counsel rare A very modest fee.
He drops a ball upon the tee And knocks it half a mile: “There, hit it that way, man,” says he, And never cracks a smile.
PRAYERS.
Every night my prayers I say, And ask a better score next day; And every day, for all my care, My card would make St. Andrew swear.
HAPPY THOUGHT.
The world is so full of a number of links, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kinks.
HOW TO TOP A MASHIE.
One of the prettiest shots in golf is the topped mashie. The ball flies low, like swallow on the river’s brim, and, crossing the green, comes to rest in the clean white sand of a deepish depression, vulgarly termed a trap. The majority of golfers execute this shot naturally, but not inevitably; now and then they get under the ball, which of course prevents a top, the result being an ordinary pitch. To make certain of a top, it is only necessary to have the left hand, at the moment of impact, a few inches in advance of where it was when the ball was addressed. This means that the pivot on which the club swings (the left wrist in a short shot, the left elbow in a long) is transferred to a point nearer the flag, and the lower edge of the clubhead, instead of connecting with the ball at 90 degrees south latitude, meets it anywhere from 35 to 45 degrees south. In the works of the golf masters, old and young, we have seen no reference to this advancing of the pivotal point in the swing, from which omission we conjecture that the idea has not yet occurred to them.
Another pretty mashie shot is that which sends the ball well to the right of the green, where commonly there is some sort of hazard. The simplest way to bring this off is to pronate the left forearm. This facilitates cramping the down-swing and pushing the ball off to starboard.
* * * * *
There is no accounting for tastes, in love or golf. Many expert players use a mashie with a narrow face, whereas we prefer one with a square chin.
PEMMICANIZED GOLF.
In selecting a driver, choose a club that is neither too long nor too short. If too long, you must stand away from the ball; if too short, you must stand in to it.
Choose a shaft that has just the right amount of whip; a whippy shaft is not desirable, neither is one that is rigid.
The lie is important. Expert opinion is against a too flat lie, and the best authorities disapprove of the ultra-upright.
Be particular about the weight. A heavy driver is likely to be unwieldy, while one too light would not be wieldy enough.
The best plan is to have your professional measure you for a club. The ready-made ones soon bag at the knees.
THE METAPHYSICIANS.