THE SUPERIORITY OF BRITISH LINKS, AND A MASTERPIECE OF KENT, WITH SOME
SYSTEMS AND MORALS FOR HOLIDAY GOLF.
The chief and essential difference between golf in Britain and all other
places in the world, as everybody feels on coming home to it after
wanderings with clubs abroad, is that here in the home of the game it is
"the real thing" as nowhere else. Climate, soil, history and sentiment,
and the temperament of the people have combined to make golf here a
thing that foreign people who have never seen and enjoyed it cannot
imagine. It is not only that its excellence is so great, but its variety
so infinite; and perhaps it is because of that excellence and variety
that, human nature being in such a constant state of discontent, our
people in these days are so much concerned with problems of architecture
and the attainment of ideals which vary much with individuals and cause
incessant wrangling. It is when we are far away that we think most of
the magnificence of the courses on the western seaboard of
Scotland--Prestwick, Troon, and Turnberry among them, with Machrihanish
and Islay in more lonesome parts--of the wealth of golf in that East
Lothian district that is so amazingly crowded with fine links, of the
splendid strength of such as Hoylake and others in Cheshire and
Lancashire, of our own east coast with such jewels as Brancaster set in
it, of that marvellous trinity of courses on the Kentish seaboard, which
as a golfing land has surely not its match in the world--Sandwich, Deal,
and Prince's, in the group--of Littlestone and Rye along the southern
coast, and then in the west such a glorious golfing ground as Westward
Ho! And there is Wales with its pretty and excellent Porthcawl,
Ashburnham, and many more, and Ireland also with its great Dublin
courses, Portmarnock and Dollymount, and then sweet Newcastle in county
Down, and bold Portrush.
Indeed there are no others like the British courses, and it is always a
tremendous speculation with any golfer of experience as to which he
likes the best. When he comes to make it he has to separate in his mind
the feelings of admiration and those of affection, for it commonly
happens, if the judgment is reasonably good, that one may have the
utmost admiration for some particular course, for its unimpeachable
architecture based so well on perfect theory and the attempt always to
make the punishment fit the crime and award stern justice, and yet not
greatly delight to play upon it because in a way that sometimes he can
hardly understand it does not give him his utmost pleasure. Here again
the inexplicable emotions settle it. But in that matter of "justice"
which seems so much to be the ideal of new architects, there comes the
reflection in the ordinary golfer's mind sometimes as to whether golf,
not really being a game of justice now, would be better if it were one,
whether with so much that is unfair and tantalising removed from it the
game would be half so good. Surely in no fine sport is there always
exact justice done, and if it be made an ideal is it not possible that
the nearer such ideal is approached the poorer may become the sport, not
perhaps in regular proportion but in approximate effect? Golf is a game
of Nature after all, and Nature in some ways does not always stick to
justice. One may ponder upon what Anatole France once said about this
justice. "In the vulgar sense," he wrote, "it is the most melancholy of
virtues. Nobody desires it. Faith opposes it by grace and Nature by
love. It is enough for a man to call himself just for him to inspire a
genuine repulsion. Justice is held in horror by things animate and
inanimate. In the social order it is only a machine, indispensable
doubtless, and for that reason respectable, but beyond question cruel
since it has no other function than to punish, and because it sets
jailers and executioners at work." And perhaps it may be said that golf
has little enough in principle to do with justice either; and we have
seen into what perplexities the good authorities of St. Andrews have
fallen by their vain endeavour to make a code of laws that would settle
the just dues of every golfer in every circumstance. Nature in her
variety has contrived to beat them all continually. Perhaps it may be
the same with the construction of courses, but the end of all golfers'
endeavour, however much it may be criticised, is the good of the game,
and it is generally achieved.
* * * * *
Those who in the most dispassionate frame of mind have considered
carefully all the points that should count the most and detached
themselves as well as they might from their private and inexplicable
preference have generally come to the conclusion that there are three
courses in this great golfing country of ours that are somewhat better
than all the rest in their golfing quality. One of them is old St.
Andrews, another of them is middle-aged Westward Ho! and the third is
the youthful Prince's at Sandwich. Considered as the perfect course,
weighing point against point, a jury of the best critics might have
difficulty in coming to any other decision than that architecturally,
for the real magnificence of its golfing value, the great creation of
Mr. Mallaby-Deeley on the golfing land by Pegwell Bay is supreme. Here
ten years ago there was nothing but a barren waste of sandhills, just as
they had been, as it seemed, since the very beginning of
things--lonesome, useless, forgotten. Then it was realised that what was
good for nothing else was best of all for golf. Mr. Mallaby-Deeley saw
it and understood, and now hereabouts the land is comparatively
priceless so much is it coveted by the golfers, who also now understand
as they see. Other great courses have been the productions of a long
period of time, improvements continually on an original structure of the
crudest kind. Westward Ho! was not made in a season, nor in many
seasons. Only recently some of its most delightful touches have been
added to it. St. Andrews was the work of generations. But Prince's,
though it has been appreciably changed from its original design, was
like one great flash of inspiration, and as such is surely the most
amazing achievement in the architecture of golf. Mr. Mallaby-Deeley in
other ways has shown himself to be a man of immense imagination; but was
it ever better illustrated than in his making of Prince's? Our
admiration for the course may be not the less but greater because we
cannot play her properly. For my own humble part I love most the
championship course of the Royal Cinque Ports club at Deal near by. Here
there are charm and variety, and holes of the most splendid character.
If some find fault with them, what does it matter when they are so good
to play? The Royal St. George's course at Sandwich, again, is a most
beautiful thing; surely there is no other which gives such an infinite
pleasure to a greater number of capable players. But for sheer golfing
quality, Prince's truly is the queen of all.
* * * * *
I have asked Mr. Mallaby-Deeley to tell me what his ideals are in this
matter, and in response he has made a statement of such interest and
value that it should be given at its length. He said that, premising
that for purposes of consideration we should regard "ideal links" as
having reference only to the sequence of holes, both as to ranges of
length, difficulty, and beauty of design, he submitted that the making
of such an ideal course, given suitable ground, depended then on three
things only, being knowledge, time, and money. St. Andrews and his own
Prince's come nearest to this ideal, but the former fails in that it is
too straight in and out, and also because one can pull all the way out
and all the way home again without falling into any trouble, the truth
being that the more one pulls the greater the possibility of safety in
doing so. Some say that if you do thus pull you cannot reach the greens,
but in these days that is not so. We have seen them reach those greens
after the most exaggerated pulling. Then he thinks that the set of St.
Andrews in the matter of prevailing winds is far from ideal, for so
often the wind is at one's back all the way out and against the player
all the way coming home, or the other way about. Again, no one can deny,
he says, that St. Andrews has three if not four very ordinary and
commonplace holes. Prince's, as now laid out, has in general opinion not
a single commonplace or uninteresting hole in the whole course, but it
has had the advantage of being laid out many years after St. Andrews,
and after the introduction of the rubber ball. A course comes nearer to
the ideal as its holes are placed to every variety of wind. In the early
days of Prince's at Sandwich the disadvantage of an in and out course
were soon discovered and an enormous amount of money was spent in
altering it to its present form, in which, with the single exception of
St. George's, it is the best in existence, the old course at Sandwich
being ideal in this respect. Mr. Mallaby-Deeley, looking upon his
Prince's in the supercritical way of a pleased but still insistent
creator, can see only one blemish in it, and that is that the two short
holes, being the third and the fifth--though the fifth is longer than
the third--come too close together. Any two holes on a course may
separately be extremely good, but coming together lack something of
perfection because of the repetition that instantly arises. He would
have the pin visible for every approach shot on his ideal links, and the
only exception he would make would be in the case of a full second shot
with a long carry over a high bunker to the end of it, for this to his
mind is a most interesting shot. Such an one, he points out, is that
presented at the sixteenth hole at Littlestone, and he would be
surprised to know that any one would ever think of altering that hole in
order to enable a player in the distance to see the pin. He also would
not agree to placing a bunker immediately at the back of the green,
which punishes the man who dares to be up and encourages "pawkiness."
The visible pin is imperative at short holes; he will admit no
exceptions. But all who have been to Prince's have been most impressed
with the beauty and golfing perfection of the dog-legged holes there, a
couple of which are presented at the beginning of the round, immediately
introducing the stranger to some of the best delights of this course. He
would have dog-leg holes of both shapes in his round, those bending to
the right to worry the slicer, and those angled towards the left to help
the long driver who greatly dares. The first hole at Hoylake and the
second and eleventh at Prince's are dog-leg holes that he likes best.
But, he will tell you, by far the most vital matters to consider in
making any course with pretensions to being ideal are the position of
the greens and the bunkering through the course and near the hole, and,
though it is a consideration that is too often overlooked, it is nearly
as important to bear in mind from which quarter the prevailing wind
blows. He believes every shot from the tee to the hole ought to be of
equal importance, but in the case of the majority of the courses this is
not so. Despite the fact that on the tee the man has everything in his
favour, a perfect stance and a teed-up ball, he is given more space to
play into and a greater margin for inaccuracy than in the case of any
other shot. This, says the architect, is wrong. Surely it should be as
necessary on the ideal course to place the tee shot as any other. He has
turned the subject of ribbon bunkers very thoroughly over in his mind.
In a general way, he does not like them because of the varying winds. He
says, "_Tutiores ibis in medias vias_," is a safe and golden rule of
life, and it applies equally to ribbon bunkers which while they make
some holes mar many more. Most frequently on account of wind and other
things this form of hazard fails as a fair guard to the green for a hole
that is meant for two full shots. It is then wrongly placed, and would
generally be improved by the substitution of ear bunkers to catch sliced
and pulled shots thereto. The push shot is one of the most difficult in
the game to play, but it is one of the prettiest and most satisfactory
in accomplishment; but the ribbon bunker is often unfair to the man who
plays it. Yet the absence of such ribbon bunkers does not prevent the
man who likes to play his high mashie shots from still playing them.
Thus the absence of this form of bunker is fair to all, while if placed
very near the green its presence penalises the push-shot player.
But many a tee shot would be tame if it were not for the ribbon
bunkers some way ahead. In epitome he says to the student of
architecture--"Bunker your course so that every bad shot is punished;
place your bunkers so that every shot must be played and played well;
make the length of your holes such that if a shot is foozled it costs
you a stroke; guard your greens right and left, and even to the very
edge and into the green itself, if necessary, but this must of course
depend on the length of shot to be played; and at one-shot holes make
the green a very fort of surrounding bunkers, and guard the tee shot. Do
not leave it open as at the famous short hole at St. Andrews, a much
overrated hole. But above all things, make your bunkers fair; don't make
them impossible to get out of except by playing back."
As to the lengths of the holes on his ideal course he would have about
twelve two-shot holes varying from 380 to 440 yards, and there should be
three one-shot holes of about 165, 180, and 200 yards respectively.
There would be two or three drive-and-iron holes of about 350 yards
each, but a drive-and-iron hole should be so constructed that if the
drive is missed it will be impossible for the man who missed it to sail
on the green with his next. There is a good example of this in the
fifteenth at Prince's, for although this hole is only a drive and an
iron the penalty for missing the drive is that it takes the player two
more shots to reach the green because of the nature of the ground in
front of the tee. And then he would have it a condition that the last
three holes should average about 400 to 420 yards each, and the
seventeenth and eighteenth should be made specially testing ones. This
is the ideal course, and, being such, it is not a place for foozlers.
But if it is properly and fairly constructed it will be easier and
pleasanter to play on than a course which is made difficult by the
simple method of making it unfair, for example by putting bunkers in the
wrong places, by cutting the hole in a ridiculous position on the
green, by punishing the man who is "up" (a new-fangled and absurd idea
of course construction) by placing the hole immediately in front of a
bunker at the back of the green, and by leaving the approach to the
green from a long shot rough or broken, and so unfair. It is easy to
make any course difficult, and so conducive to high scoring, by making
it unfair. This induces pawky play because the punishment for bold play
may be too severe. He is also of opinion (and there is a constantly
growing tendency to agree with him) that there is too much premium on
putting, and that it plays far too important a part in the game,
especially among first-class players and in first-class matches. He
thinks the hole should be six and a half inches instead of four and a
quarter. Under present conditions a putt missed by half an inch bears
the same punishment (although the rest of the hole through the green may
have been played faultlessly) as a hopelessly bad shot by one's opponent
through the green.
Prince's supports its creator's arguments very well indeed, and one
enormous fascination of it lies in the fact that it is always suggesting
to you, always inviting you, always tempting you to do the more daring
thing, and hinting that, even though you failed, the suffering might not
be too much. In that, it seems to me, lies the chief charm of this
masterpiece of architecture.
* * * * *
So when we come home from other lands, let us think of golfing holidays
in our own, and moralise from old experience. It is an aggravating
circumstance that while there is hardly anything in the way of change
and holiday that is so splendid as a golfing holiday, there is hardly
any kind that is so easily spoiled. The golfer is not dependent on the
weather, only to a small extent on his friends, he seldom knows limits
of time or space, yet he fails oftener in his pursuit of the perfect
happiness of a summer vacation than do the unsophisticated people who
kill the time of August and September in other ways, and that happens
because of the very fascination of the thing, and the enthusiasm and
excess to which it leads him on. In our working days limits are imposed
upon us; when we are loose and unrestricted all system and wise
restraint fly to pieces. It is not only that we often play too much on
holidays, but that during play and in the intervals between those spells
of action the imagination is at work too fast and makes riot upon
settled methods which have raised the game of the individual to some
more or less agreeable sort of quality. Excess and experiment are the
two evils that shatter so many golfing holidays, and yet the
contradictions of golf are such that we find there is something good to
be said both for excess and for experiment. But be all this as it may,
it is not until a man has gone through twenty golfing holiday campaigns
that he fully realises he has an education to serve in this matter, and
after twenty more he is able to start out on the forty-first in the
strong confidence that from the days and weeks before him he will
extract the full available supply of rich golfing delight. These remarks
do not well apply to the person of the thick phlegmatic temperament who
plays now with the same set of clubs that he started with ten years or
more agone, the which have not had their shafts varnished, nor their
grips attended since the time of their first swinging. This man is
without imagination, without feeling, and, with no blessing upon him, we
may let him wander away to play wherever he will, knowing that he will
always derive some great satisfaction from his pursuit and gain
mightily in health. He is not like most of us; he is as the man without
any religion; he is very material. He eats, he plays, he rests, he
sleeps. And he does very well in it all; and yet we of the majority who
think always, ponder deeply, worry exceedingly and are wracked with
doubts and conflicting theories, disappointed ever in fruitless
experiments, do not envy him. The material person does not go down into
the depths where we grieve and are in pain (how often do we go and
grieve!), but neither does he ascend to the heights of pleasure that are
scaled by successful experiment, by the sudden discovery of some
wonderful secret that seems to have unlocked the gates of the higher
golf and rendered us immune from failure for evermore. (Never mind what
happens in the morning!) We may suffer the depths for those hot moments
of life on the summits.
This preamble is needed for warning. Golf is the great game of emotions,
and at holiday times those emotions are quickened, strung up and, flying
loose in riot, play the devil with our game. I am sorry to believe that
many young men who come back to their homelands from the golfing holiday
grounds in October do so with inward sighs and stifled sobs. They tell
us that they have had the most glorious time; they may foolishly give an
account of a round said to have been done in 74, and of many of the
longest holes that cost them only four strokes apiece, and we forgive
them for their words which we know are false, realising the pain of
their case and that their dissembling is in a small manner for the good
of the game. Their emotions have led them astray; they have been weak
and foolish; they have done the wrong things and they have left undone
all those which were recommended to them as right. They have played
three rounds a day, and they have bought new drivers and putters. And
some of them have actually changed their stances and had an inch cut off
a favourite shaft! Truly their emotions have led them wrong. Player! if
you would pass the placid holiday, kill those emotions and cast them
off. You may then take a golfing holiday from which you will derive that
magnificent material comfort and refreshment that your butcher and baker
do when they walk upon the promenade at Margate and, well fed, sleep at
times on the sunlit sands. You will really believe on your return to
labour in the town, that you have had a splendid time, but soon you will
cease to talk of it for you will find that there is very little to
remember. Time was passed; that was all. The man whose emotions played
old Harry with him does not forget. He has something indeed to remember,
for he lived very much in his month of play. So you will see that in the
scheme of golfing things as jointly ordained by Nature and kind
Providence, with the petty meddling of the man himself, there are
different processes of holiday, and each in its way is the best. As in
so many other affairs of golf there are contradictions abounding. But
let us, after such philosophy, move to some definite considerations, and
consider life and facts as they are presented to us.
* * * * *
One of the doctors' papers was well laughed at a little while since for
suggesting that, on account of the nerve strain that it makes, golf is
not an ideal game for everybody, especially busy folks with few hours
and days for recreation. To quote: "If he takes his failures to play a
good game to heart, it is doubtful whether his health gains very much.
He has had, it is true, the advantage of a change of scene and
occupation, and has lived for a while in a healthier atmosphere, and,
if he had only been satisfied with his game, all these things would have
conspired to send him back to his work cheered and braced up. But he may
play very badly and become unduly worried thereat. A game that is
calculated to increase an irritability which has arisen out of a trying
week's work can hardly be said to be recreative, at all events to the
mind." The medical writer concluded impressively: "The game of golf, if
it does not go smoothly, presents so many points of analogy with the
tiresome eventualities of life that there can be little doubt that
persons of an irritable, gloomy, and worrying disposition would be
better if they did not seek their recreation on the links." The common
people sometimes look upon these pronouncements from the columns of the
professional paper as being like the essence of the wisdom and knowledge
of the whole of Harley Street. I remember, however, that when this was
published the golfers ridiculed and condemned it, and agreed to take
more golf and less medicine. It is not my function to advocate the
playing of less golf than is played, much less the stoppage of any of
it, but I dare to suggest that there was a germ of truth in what the
medical paper said. There are kinds of players who should take their
golf with restraint and caution, especially at holiday times. The truth
is that a vast proportion of golfing holidays are completely ruined
through a bad plan of campaign, or over-doing it, or both--commonly
both. We would say nothing to a doubter now about the selection of his
friends for his party; he should know that it is a matter demanding the
extremest care. A golfing holiday _a deux_ may expose all the least
beautiful parts of each man's character, and those who are not such
friends that they can comfortably bear each other's infirmities might do
better even to go on their golfing way lonely and without a partner.
There is much to be said for the freedom of this latter holiday
existence, and odd indeed would be the golfing place where there were
not many games for the solitary stranger to play.
The night before the opening of the campaign, the eve of the journey
outwards, is a trying time to many men. I think of those who take loving
interest in their clubs, and have many of them, including a first-class
reserve, and perhaps a second-class reserve also, to the original set
that is in full commission. The man who has only seven clubs in the
world, and seems to take a pride in telling you that he has had them all
since the beginning of his golf, is in no difficulty. But with others
the trouble is how many clubs to take, and how many to dare to leave
behind. After the first selection it is seen that about five or six
drivers are put in the list, very many irons, and a large assortment of
putters. All the ex-favourites are to be tried over again and
experiments to be made with a number of others. It is found then that
too many clubs have been selected; but after the most painful and
difficult weeding out there may still be some twenty left, and these are
taken. It is a mistake. From the day of arrival at the holiday place the
man is in doubt as to what he will play with, and he mixes up his game
into a bad state of confusion through using different clubs almost every
day. It is a good rule, to which every golfer subscribes after twenty
campaigns, if not before, to take away the regular clubs as used every
day at home, not one less and only two more, being a spare driver and an
extra putter. In that way happiness and contentment lie. I would leave
out the driver did I not know the case of a man who so much grieved for
one he had left behind that he travelled three hundred miles back home
to get it!
The little truth that there was in the indictment against the game by
the doctors' paper is that it is possible for some men, many of them, to
have too much of it, when it becomes bad for the men and bad for their
game, and holidays are rendered failures. There was a time when really
good golf could only be had at the seaside, or very far away from the
great centres of work and business. That is no longer the case, and the
situation is that the golf we are having all the time at home is hard
and strenuous, demanding great ability and thought. The golfing holiday,
then, might very well be made an easy one on a links where the holes are
simple, and--remembering another scare that was made by a doctors' paper
some time later--I believe that there is as happy golf to be had up on
the hills, and in the lonely country places, as on the margin of any
sunny sea.
But it is the excess of golf that is played on holidays that spoils
everything in the case of the man of a somewhat nervous temperament, and
one who may not be as strong and beefy as the John Bull of the pictures.
Too many of these people seem to think that, as they have gone away for
golf, they should have as much of it as they can get, and play to excess
accordingly. Three rounds! Three rounds! One of the reasons why some men
play so much--as they put it to themselves--is that they wish to improve
their game, and they conceive that the holiday time is the best of all
in which to achieve that end. But experience shows that very seldom
indeed is a man's game improved at such a time; very frequently it is
injured, and that through the excess. When so much of it is played,
weariness, though half unconsciously, is induced, proper pains are not
taken at every stroke, carelessness becomes constant; then, with
deterioration, too many experiments are tried, and worst of all, that
terrible, and for the time being incurable, disease of staleness sets
in, and there is then an end to all happiness and enjoyment. There is
hardly any cure for staleness except complete abstention for a time. It
needs some strength of mind to carry out such a resolve, but he who
severely limits his golf at holiday times enjoys it the more, and he and
his health and his game are the better for it. A holiday system based on
wise restrictions is a splendid thing. Men of long experience have tried
many of them, and the best of all is this: Play two rounds on the first
day of the week, one on the second, two again on the third, one on the
fourth, two on the fifth, one on the sixth, and take a whole holiday
from the game on the seventh day. That is not too much nor too little.
Another point for remembrance is that on the days that are warm and long
the old convention of one round before lunch and another afterwards is
not a good one for the best and most enjoyable employment of the day.
Much better is it to play in the morning, rest pleasantly--sleep,
perhaps--in the afternoon, and play again in the cool of the evening,
when golf is the best of all--always provided your course is not laid
out in a straight line from east to west and back, for playing full
against a setting sun is a very tantalising thing.
* * * * *
Mention has been made of staleness. In our minds there is awakened an
unhappy thought with which something had better be done for good
contentment's sake ere we pass along to the pleasant consideration of
this holiday golf. Staleness is the canker that kills many of these
expeditions that are planned with the happiest promise. It is a dread
golfing disease that rages on the links almost like an epidemic during
August and September. It spoils the game and happiness of every player
whom it attacks, and sometimes it cuts holidays short. It is nearly safe
to assume that when on holiday one golfer in every half-dozen is
afflicted with it, and some of the others are in danger. It consists in
the absolute incapacity of the player to produce a game that is within
very many strokes of his real form; in truth the game of a good man may
fall to the twenty-handicap level or lower, and each new effort on his
part to raise it up again only results in a worsening of the case. There
is no certain cure except isolation from the game and long rest. A
trouble that has the power, then, to ruin the golfing holiday, and often
does, must be considered very seriously.
Here is the progress of a case for the details of which I can personally
vouch. I was a sympathetic witness of it. The man was playing well at
the beginning of the holiday season and went for a month to a fine east
coast links where there was no town, no village, and no society but that
of golfers, and nothing to do but golf, which was what he desired. For a
week he played well, doing two rounds every day, and sometimes three.
The weather was hot. At the beginning of the second week there were
signs of a failing game. His first anxiety soon increased; he changed
his ball, then began to make alterations in his stances and swings, and
at the end of the second week was all foozles, and getting worse. Soon
afterwards it was obvious that the cause of the whole thing was
staleness. The man tried the heroic remedy of loafing about his
quarters, golfless, for a couple of days, reading novels and pretending
to play bowls against himself. He also studied the stones in the old
graveyard near by. On the third day he went back to the links very
hopeful, but the case was as bad as before, and, desperate, he gave his
game a three days' rest after that. This also failed. Neither of the
resting spells was long enough. This being a man of keen nervous
temperament, who took his game very seriously and was very miserable, he
did the wisest thing by giving up his holiday and going home to work in
London.
The primary cause of staleness is excess of play, resulting in
exhaustion of nervous and physical energy, which in turn produces
carelessness, decreases the capacity for taking the infinite pains that
are necessary to the game, and--important--brings about a failure in the
subconscious working arrangement between the mind and the physical
system that has everything to do with the proper accomplishment of the
various strokes. The movements of every golfing swing, as we have
agreed, are extremely complicated; they consist of hundreds of little
movements amalgamated into one great system, and while one is conscious
of the system, it is impossible for the parts of it to be anything but
subconsciously done, and they are made perfect by training and practice,
and by getting the brain and the physical construction to work together
exactly and with harmony. When staleness comes on, this working
arrangement breaks down and the player attempts the hopeless task of
trying to do consciously what can only be done the other way. I believe
that this is the true explanation of staleness.
_Note 1._--The exhaustion of the nervous and physical energy is often
unsuspected, and is covered up by the enthusiasm for the game. _Note
2._--Excess of play does not mean only a frequent playing of three
rounds a day. Two rounds every day, as a regular thing, may be excess in
many cases. Much depends on the individual. A man of highly-strung
temperament will become stale much more quickly than a beefy, phlegmatic
person, who is commonly immune. _Note 3._--Staleness is very much more
easily induced, and develops more quickly and dangerously, in hot
weather than at other times, because the tax on the nervous energy and
the eyesight is so much greater then.
Now here are the common symptoms and the results of staleness. Almost
the first real sign of it is swaying of the body. This is very slight at
first, and is rarely suspected; but it brings about a general collapse
of the swing and the entire golfing apparatus. A very hopeless sort of
tap is given to the ball on the tee, and it is driven perhaps only a
hundred and fifty yards. As everything seems to have been done properly,
the player is mystified, begins to experiment, and then worse troubles
come on. Shakiness of the legs, and much exaggerated knee and foot work,
often resulting in collapse of the right leg and the player getting up
on his toes, make up the next symptom; and another one that is a common
accompaniment of the beginning of staleness is falling or lurching
forward as the club is brought down on to the ball. Anything like a
proper swing is, in such circumstances, impossible. Bad timing begins
immediately; then there is overswinging and too fast swinging; and, of
course, the moving of the head and the taking of the eye from the ball,
those two faults that never miss an opportunity of coming in to add to
the woes of the worried golfer.
What must the stale golfer do for his salvation and happiness? In the
first place, if he has had this thing before, he should be on his guard
against it and catch it in time. If taken at the very beginning an early
cure is quite practicable. The golf should be stopped at once for a few
days, and a rest and change, as complete as possible, taken. Then the
game should be resumed warily--one round a day. In addition to this,
some men will insist on having alterations made in their clubs. They
deceive themselves. One of the greatest champions of all times once, in
intimate conversation, laid down a rule to me with great seriousness,
and it is one never to be forgotten. He said: "Never make a change in
your regular clubs, and never buy a new one, unless it is a putter, when
you are playing badly. Only make changes when you are playing at your
very best. You may then play even better, knowing so well what you
want." Yet, warn them as much as you may, many men will make extensive
changes when they are stale and desperate. One plea to them then--the
change having failed, go back to the old clubs before changing again.
Never get far from your base, or you will be lost in doubt and
confusion. Let it be the same with methods as with clubs. If a new way
fails, let the sick man go back to the old one before experimenting
again. He should remember that that old one has served him well, and the
possibilities are that he will have to stand by it after all. Then the
stale golfer should try to encourage himself; he should try a new set of
opponents, play with men of longer handicap than himself, who normally
would never outdrive him, and so on. A change of links often works
wonders, but if the staleness has gone very far, and it matters little,
it is often wise to give up the golfing part of the holiday if one is in
progress. We have seen the advice given to play through a period of
staleness. This is a heroic measure, but it would not succeed in one in
six cases, and the suffering would be too great for the ordinary mortal.
We tell him to take few clubs away with him, and to be faithful to them,
and they will serve him well. And we tell him when his golf is ill not
to fly to the dangerous stimulant of a new club. And yet, where is the
man who does come back from his holiday without a new one in his bag,
one fond relic of those days that were so tightly packed with golf? We
bring them back with us, the names of their nativity upon them, as
hunters and explorers bring trophies from distant lands. Mutely they
testify for us. Sometimes when the holiday is done they are added, for
their merit and fine service, to the clubs in commission in the bag;
oftener they fall into the reserve; frequently they are given a purely
honorary office and sent off with a title to the golfer's own private
House of Lords as magnificent relics.
* * * * *
A diary should be kept during the golfing holiday; indeed it should be
kept at all times. More such are made than the golfing world realises,
because they are often, to the uttermost degree, secret and private, and
that not merely for the reason that some diarists place themselves in
the confessional when they make their entries, but because, alas! they
are conscious of serving their own vanity by exaggeration of their best
achievements. It may be kept for one of two distinct reasons, or for
both of them, though the latter is not generally done. The two different
objects are entertainment and instruction. For the former, the small
things that are sold in shops will do. You write down, each time you
have been playing, where the game was had, who the other man was, and
what you beat him by; or the extent of the disaster if it was the other
way about. In the column devoted to "Conditions" you exaggerate the
force of the wind; and under "Remarks" you say you were driving and
putting splendidly when you won. If you lost, the space is left blank.
This record is in its own way valuable, because at a future time it will
refresh the memory concerning great golfing days of the past, and thus
furnish a real enjoyment. When a game of golf is played, and finished,
it is not done with. It is lodged in a great store of remembrance, with
full particulars attached to it, ripening with time, so that the
player's memories are among the best happenings of his golfing
possessions. All of us know that this is so, and it is as a kind of
catalogue that the little diaries serve their purpose well.
The diary of analysis or instruction is a very different thing. The
object is to make a serial record of ideas and successful experiments,
faults and tendencies--most particularly tendencies--in order that on
periodical examination of it the player may derive useful lessons and
improve his game. One should get a good exercise book, bound nicely and
strongly, with morocco corners, and just enter up one's performances on
the plain paper according to any system that one may choose, giving
prominence to a line at the top of each entry, naming the day, the
place, and the man. I have seen diaries kept in this way, and they have
been very serviceable. But the man who is starting anything of this kind
must come to a definite agreement with himself to be absolutely honest
and sincere; and he must also be very introspective, and have keen
discernment for his own faults and constant observation for all that he
does at every stroke. Otherwise it were better that he merely kept the
diary of glorious remembrances.
Let him, if he keeps a diary of fact, hold it secret from all the world;
but every night after his play put down in it the plain, real truth
about what happened; and let him see to it, after much thought upon
recent events, that he does properly know the truth. This point is
emphasised because men may be short with their putts, say on sixteen of
eighteen greens in one round, and yet not notice the frequency of the
same fault; or they may be pulling or cutting their putts all the time
and be oblivious, in the same way, to the circumstance. Or they may be
pitching their approaches too short of the greens, or slicing most of
their drives. The point is that the golfer's memory for his own
misdeeds is an exceedingly short one, and he rarely gets them tabulated
and analysed as he should. If he made an analysis of his play at the end
of the day, stated the truth about it in the book, and then examined
that book carefully once a week, he would learn something about the
causes that were preventing him from getting on in the game, and the
next step would suggest itself. Some would say that the making of
personal statistics in this way would be a very troublesome matter, and
they would be certain to tire of it soon. It is not so much a nuisance
as might be imagined; it becomes interesting, and it helps one's game.
But if you are doubtful about this idea, do keep a diary of sorts
anyhow, for it is such a pity to let the golf that has been played die
out of memory. You may gather a notion of the value and interest of what
might be called played golf by reading through the match-book of another
man, like that of the late F. G. Tait, which is included in the
delightful and pathetic memoir that Mr. John Low wrote about him. Tait,
model of golfers, always filed the facts about his matches, but briefly.
Not many words were wasted in the "Remarks" column; what was said there
was the plain truth. Often it was "F. G. T. in great form," but the
recorder knew how to denounce himself. It does one good to read through
this diary of one who was soldier, hero, golfer, and darling of the
game.
* * * * *
But not every man departs on a golfing holiday for a strenuous time of
continuous match-play with keen rivals who might be fine companions, and
who would keep him up at night with bridge, after a day's work on the
links was done. All sorts and conditions of men are included in this
comprehensive golfing world of ours; and some have most contemplative
moods, love solitude, and, alone with themselves and the game, probe
deeply into its mysteries and into their own weaknesses. It is to the
credit of the pastime that it accommodates itself most splendidly to
every disposition and mood and manner; and men of a lonely way have gone
solus on their holidays, and held themselves solus all the time, and
have come back again, well refreshed and satisfied. They have often
enough had fewer disappointments than the others. They have practised
extensively, and they have improved themselves as golfers. Practice is
indeed a feature of many golfing holidays. Here at such times we have
the full game at our disposal and nothing but the game, and now, if
ever, we can make ourselves to be better golfers. That is how we reason.
It is a matter to be considered carefully.
Practice fails in most cases because the golfers concerned do not
concentrate upon their efforts with that keenness, thoroughness, and
determination they exhibit when playing a real match. The game is not
the same to them; they do not try so hard, however much, as one might
say, they try to try, and the result is there is such an excess of
looseness, carelessness, about their methods, that bad habits are born;
and these persons then had really better not be practising at all, for
thus they do harm to their game. This is one reason why one-club
practice is better in small quantities than in large ones. It is not
sufficiently interesting when kept up. What we should do, therefore, is
to make the practice interesting, and fortunately the circumstances of
the game afford wide scope for doing so. There is no other game that is
half so good in this way. Golf to many people's minds is not merely a
game to be played with others and against them; it is a study, a subject
for meditative research and exultant discovery. If others should regard
such terms as immoderate, golfers anyhow know they are fairly employed.
The essential difference that the presence of a man as opponent makes is
that a real game, hard and according to the law, has then to be played,
and there can be a winning or a losing of it.
Well then, it is our business, in order to make solitary practice
interesting and valuable, to create a game for ourselves. It is easily
done, and there are some wise men who say that they would rather play
their solitary game, going round the links alone with all their clubs or
nearly, than they would play a match with a stranger who happened not to
turn out to be the right kind of golfing man. Many who start systems of
solitary competitive play against themselves in this way fail with them,
did they but know it, because they are not honest with themselves.
Having become very badly bunkered, and having taken three for recovery,
they must not call it one because they should have got out in one, had
they played the shot just right; nor, having missed a foot putt, must
they consider it as holed because if they had tried their uttermost they
could have holed it. We must see that it is of the essence of solus
play, and making it valuable, that the man should try his best and
should know and feel that he has no second attempt at the same stroke,
just as he has none in the real game when others are there. If he
permits himself second drives and putts, all the strokes are done
without the sense of responsibility, and the player then were better
indoors writing letters to his friends to come and match themselves
against him. Therefore let the first and the most inexorable rule in
one's solitary golf be that the shot once made must count, no matter
what its quality. What may be permitted--and this does not operate as an
exception to the rule--is that when a shot has been badly done another
ball may be played from the same place. One may learn something in this
way, but always must it be understood that the first ball must count;
and it is a good maxim that there should be no attempted repetition of a
successful stroke, for if it were done well again the man would be no
better off in mind or skill, and if it failed there would be an
unnecessary disappointment and uncertainty.
Now, to consider ways of competing against oneself that will make
interesting the lonely game, and lift it to value too, every man of
thought might quite well devise some suitable system for himself; but we
may tell him of some that have been successful with many players, and of
a good principle to embrace in any new one, which is never to make the
test or competition too severe. I believe that golfers are improved more
by coaxing and flattery than by harsh measures and heavy defeats. It is
often said that the best way to improve is to play against better
players than ourselves, but there are limitations to that advice which
are not always sufficiently emphasised. The superior party ought not to
be too much superior, the different points of the game of the two men
should not be very widely contrasted, and the better player should be
giving to the inferior one so much allowance that the latter ought to
win as often as he loses, never letting it be forgotten that, when
handicaps are right and three-fourths of the difference is allowed, the
odds are really always in favour of the better player, as has been
proved over and over again. Even when a man is of long experience and
has been fashioned by nature in the heroic mould, it is impossible to
play his very best golf, and be improving on it, unless he "has his
pecker up." The pecker properly set makes happiness and confidence, and
it is only when such moods are engendered that the man is led on to
higher things, perceives the absence of limitation to his prospects of
improvement, and likens himself to the chrysalis of a Vardon or a Braid.
Above everything else, as we have agreed so often before, golf is a game
of hope. Crush the hope by setting the man a task that is beyond him and
you take away the joy of the game and kill the happy prospects. The
golfer who is winning will win again and play better.
In these observations there have been some principles for practice laid
down that are seldom emphasised, but are of the most vital importance.
To make exact systems to suit them is, after all, a simple affair. Now
many men play round after round, counting their strokes, as if they were
playing in a medal competition, and comparing results at the finish,
always trying to break their own records. They may gain some benefit
from this play, but it often fails in interest, and consequently in
value, for the same reason that medal competitions do--because of the
continual occurrence of the one, or it may be two, very bad holes. The
percentage of cards that are turned from good to bad merely by one
disastrous hole must be very high, and when a man is playing a practice
round and does a nine at the second hole, it is difficult for him to
treat the remainder very seriously or be keen about them. The remedy is
simple. Let this system of playing and comparisons be that his aggregate
shall always be for sixteen or seventeen holes only, leaving the worst
to be eliminated. There is nothing unfair in doing so. The one bad hole
is frequently more the result of accident than of inability. At the
beginning of a system of practice play three holes may be dropped
regularly from the reckoning, then a week later two, the week after that
one only. Comparisons of form are more accurate and reliable when the
worst hole is eliminated, than when all eighteen are totted up. Then the
man may play the bogey game; but instead of opposing the set bogey of
the course and complicating the business with handicap strokes, let him
make a bogey of his own of such a kind that it represents not the
scratch man's proper game but his, so that when he is playing well he
ought to beat it, and it should be a tolerable match. In constructing
such a bogey, he might make allowance for his own special likes and
dislikes in regard to particular holes. Again, I have known men to
derive pleasure and improvement from a system of practice against the
ordinary bogey by which they merely reckoned the number of holes at
which they equalled or beat the phantom's figures, disregarding the
losses. There is a little difference between this and the ordinary
reckoning, and it is in the direction of encouragement if the player is
coming on.
And then there is the interesting system that was first set forth by a
most eminent player who has been amateur champion more than once, by
which the practiser wins half-crowns for his good play and loses them on
his off days. He plays against bogey on terms that give him an equal
chance. Then he establishes a money-box with two sections in it, one
being for bogey and the other for himself, and into each section he
deposits four half-crowns, which is very little to pay for all the
enjoyment he is about to gain. When bogey beats him one of the
half-crowns is lifted out of the man's section into the ghost's, but
when flesh and blood prevail the coin comes back. The course of practice
is ended when one side or the other has got all the half-crowns. If
bogey has them there is something wrong with the game of the man, and he
had better start another series; but when the man is triumphant he may
depart for a holiday exultingly and spend the money on it, in the doing
of which he will probably win some more, his form being so much bettered
by his lonely practice.