I
One hears it said sometimes by versatile and thorough-going sportsmen,
that of all the sweet sensations to be discovered and enjoyed
occasionally in the whole world of sport, the hitting of a perfect tee
shot is one of the best, one of the only two or three best. These men
are probably right, for the hitting of a really spanking ball from the
tee, when one feels the complete absence of a grating or a jerking
anywhere in the system, showing that the whole of the most complicated
movement has worked round the centre with the accuracy of a watch, and
that every ounce of available power has thus been put into the drive to
the greatest advantage--this is a fine thing to feel, and the pity is
that the joy of it is so fleeting, and that the memory of it has
entirely gone a few minutes later when some succeeding shot has not been
quite so good.
But is there not another feeling which comes to a man in the game
sometimes which is even more uplifting, much more so? It lasts longer,
and it is fuller, richer. The man is then transformed, etherealised; he
is no longer a thing of this crawling, walking world; and he is not a
mere man on the links as he used to be, happy, indeed, for the most
part, but very human, with many adversities to encounter, as generally
in this world. The man is raised for a while to the higher state, and
his golfing soul floats in Valhalla when he is suddenly permitted to
play many holes in succession better than he had ever played holes
before--everything perfect, and a little more than perfect, which means
fortunate all the way from the tee to the flag. It is one of those days
which have been dreamt about and regarded as impossible, when the
marvellous coincidence has occurred of the man being “on” everything at
the same time, and of everything going right when he was thus on them.
Aforetime it has been that when he was on six things a seventh has led
him astray, and there has always been a seventh at least, if not another
too. The factor of evil could never be cancelled. But this time it is,
and it is as if the gods, smiling benevolently on the lucky and
successful player, determine that he shall be happy to the utmost, and
therefore they allow him all the good fortune that is theirs to give.
The most perfect balls are driven from the tee, the most impossible
carries are accomplished; there is a delightful crispness about the
approaches, and the six-feet putts are holed with precision and
confidence; while here and there, to the utter demoralisation of the
arch enemy par, to say nothing of the poor man who is the human victim
of it all, the long putts go down as well.
It is, perhaps, given to most players to be stirred with this
indescribable joy once or twice in their lives--seldom more than that.
It is not until three or four holes have been played that the full
realisation of what is happening comes to the favoured player, and it is
then that he is rapidly etherealised. His joy may last for another four
or five holes; it will seldom endure a round. I have seen men when they
have been in this state and under this most extraordinary influence, and
they have not then been as they are at other times. Their inward ecstasy
shines outside them. There is a curious nervous smile on their faces,
and their eyes gleam. Their steps are short and hurried. They seldom
speak, and when they do there is a touch of incoherency in their
remarks. It is best that they should not be spoken to. They are
suffering from a curious dementia of exaltation. They have help from
Olympus, and history is being made. When I have seen it done I have once
or twice made a close study of the behaviour of the man, and I know that
it is as I have written. One of the most memorable occasions on which I
witnessed this super-exaltation was during an Open Championship at
Sandwich, when records were being made, and when at last a fine amateur
player seemed to set out towards the making of one more. Hole after hole
was played with that combination of perfection and fortune, and at last
the man fell under the influence, and you could see it in possession of
him as he went tripping along. You knew that, phlegmatic as a golfer
must be who aspires to the greatest achievements, and as this one often
was even in the hour of crisis, his heart was now beginning to beat.
Soon afterwards it was all over; there was an amazing catastrophe on a
fiery putting green and four or five putts were needed there. Three
years later I saw the same man with the exaltation in him again at
Muirfield, when he went through to a great achievement. I shall not
forget the look of that man when he was doing these things. It is a
chilly descent when the spell is broken, and it is all earth and clay
again, but in the reaction there is no suffering. A happy reason comes
to the rescue of the throbbing player, and he is reminded that such
things are not to be for always, lest golf should not be what it is.