“There is no ball that will run more straightly to the hole than an
ordinary putt,” deposes one pundit, meaning a ball to which no spin has
been imparted. On the o. h., a physicist tells us that the cut ball will
hold the tenor of its way more evenly than the uncut ball. The reason, we
conjecture, is that the deflecting material on a green exhausts itself in
opposing the spin on the ball, and so has little chance to interfere with
its forward motion. One may ascertain in practice what line a ball will
take, curved or straight, with any given spin, and he may then hew to
that line in full confidence that the spin will keep it in its course,
whether the shot be a pitch or a putt.
“THE PSYCHOLOGY OF GOLF.”
We were smoking a pipe in the laboratory of Dr. Sike, the eminent student
of the soul and less eminent golfer. All about us were queer looking
instruments for measuring the mental processes of the so-called human
race. We indicated one contraption and asked its use.
“That,” said Dr. Sike, “is the well-known Poggendorff illusion.”
“Never drove into Pogg. What’s his club?”
“The Styx Country Club, if any.”
“And what was his illusion, that the flag moves after you shoot?”
[Illustration]
“You are nearer the mark than you think,” said the Doctor; and taking
up a pencil he drew two perpendicular lines (as represented in Fig. 1).
Then he added the oblique line, and pushed the paper across the table.
“Continue that line across the ditch,” he instructed.
We did so, and the result is indicated by the dark line in Fig. 2; the
real line is the dotted one. The illusion is corrected by looking down
the oblique line.
Dr. Sike lit an introspective cigarette.
“Suppose that a fairway,” said he. “If a ditch or road cuts the line of
play at that slant, the player should aim a bit to the left.”
“Unless the ditch runs northeast-southwest. Then he should hold to the
right.”
“Exactly so.”
We poked the ashes in our pipe with a deep contemplative forefinger, and
remarked that the illusion would not seriously affect the play of the
average golfer, but that it might mean the loss of a match to an accurate
approacher like Mr. Chick Evans or ourself.
“But hold on,” we second-thoughted. “The player is not, as in this test,
looking down the ditch, but down the line that crosses it. Wouldn’t that
correct the illusion?”
“A slight illusion would remain, if the player established his line of
play by looking along the ground, and if the ditch were wide enough to
disclose two lines.”
“Otherwise the Poggendorff person contributed nothing of permanent value
to the psychology of golf.”
“Exactly so,” said Dr. Sike, and plunged into a revery. Presently he
emerged. “Still,” said he, “the majority of shots would fly to the right.”
“Because of the cosmic tendency to slice?”
“Exactly so. Will you pass the matches?”
“How is it,” we asked Dr. Sike, as we passed the matches, “that after one
has taken the line of his putt and transferred his attention to the ball,
he still can view the line with ‘that inward eye which is the bliss of
solitude’?”
“Eye-pull,” said the Doctor, lighting a laconic cigarette.
“What an alibi!” we whatted. “A gentleman who blows a five-foot putt has
only to remark to his partner: ‘Sorry. My eye-pull isn’t on straight
to-day.’”
“Exactly so,” said Dr. Sike. “To some persons, like myself, the line of
the putt is clearly defined, as a darker green in the grass; to others
the line is not present, but these locate the target just as accurately.
All this is quite apart from the visual imagery referred to in the
Wordsworth poem. The eye——”
What followed was highly technical, and we regret that our memory failed
to imprison the Doctor’s exact words; but we gathered that the eye is a
mawxstrawnry organ, which can do everything except talk. The technical
explanation would, of course, be a-b-c to a reader like Max Behr, who
looked in “A Critique of Pure Reason” for a definition of amateurism, and
is now working on the Hegelian Hypothesis of Professionalism; but we fear
the average reader would be puzzled by such phrases as “accommodation
pull,” “convergence pull,” and “binocular disparity.” Therefore, to
put it as simply as possible, we will say that when a man takes the
line of his putt the muscles of his eyes set themselves, his head and
neck muscles co-ordinate, and there is probably co-ordination in the
semi-circular canals. The eye-pull once established, it remains after
attention is transferred to the ball—how long we cannot say, but long
enough to serve the purpose of all except those extremely deliberate
persons who fall asleep over their putts. We should advise, therefore,
putting as rapidly as is consistent with an unhurried stroke.
“Strange to say,” mused Dr. Sike, “although innumerable experiments in
eye-pull have been made and recorded in laboratories, there has been no
attempt to relate them to golf, which is the proper study of mankind.”
“But science is coming round,” said we. “The last two or three years have
brought a great deal of speculation and research.”
“Yes, yes,” yessed the Doctor. “Even the watchers of the skies are
beginning to admit that Canopus, Aldebaran, and the Pleiad Seven are only
exaggerations of a golf ball, which is the symbol of the universe.”
* * * * *
“Now, if we imagine amateurism as a great sea, and in the midst of it a
little island....”—Mr. Behr, at the annual meeting.
Why, then, on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, at any country club, we can
define an island. An island is a professional entirely surrounded by dubs.
* * * * *
“Did you ever take up the game?” we asked Arthur Whiting, the musician.
“I took it up and put it down,” said he, and mentioned two shots that
were memorable. The first was made with a driver, the pet club of the
lady who was showing him how to wield it. The head broke off and wound
itself around the lady’s neck. “And your second shot?” we inquired. “Ah,”
said he, “the second shot—” An interruption at this point put the game
out of his mind. It was undoubtedly a remarkable second shot.