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.