When lovely woman whacks the pellet,
Though fair as Helen’s be her face,
Her golfing form (I grieve to tell it)
Is very far removed from grace.
The way she stands, her every motion,
Suggest the airy dinosaur:
She sways, she lifts, she heaves like ocean—
_Ma chère, vous devriez la voir!_
* * * * *
The Oklahoma Times refers editorially to the Nineteenth Amendment. The
editor, it is conjectured, is probably a golfer, and has confused the
amendment with the hole.
* * * * *
Society over here doesn’t make much of golf. For one thing, all sorts of
people play it; then there isn’t much chance to exhibit millinery, while
to watch a match one has to walk three or four miles. It is easier to
pretend an interest in tennis.
* * * * *
Golf seems a great waste of time, until you see a man shooting at clay
pigeons or starting off to attend an automobile race.
* * * * *
We believe we have discovered a method of hitting a golf ball with
certainty and precision, and we pass it on to the great army of toppers.
You know what you do; you step up to the ball apprehensively and hit it
timidly and ineffectively. Then, when it hop-skips into the rough you
waste all manner of epithets on it. The language is all right, but it is
applied at the wrong time.
Try this; tee the ball, stand over it threateningly, and glare at
it balefully. As you swing back, say, between shut teeth, “You
pock-marked”—the adjective brings you to the top of the swing, when you
pause an instant to gather all your energy. Then apply the noun—any you
may fancy—at the same time smiting the ball as if it were the head of a
rattler.
The secret of the method is a maximum of concentration. Your malignant
gaze has never left the ball. It is surprising the distance you get—if
you don’t smash your club. Even that’s better than topping.