Once, when a mere child, I strayed as far away from home as
Pico Street, and followed that thoroughfare westward until the
houses gave way to open country, hedged by a dense forest of
real estate signs.
In the midst of that wilderness I chanced upon a somewhat
chubby gentleman engaged in the pursuit of a small white ball,
which, when he came within striking distance, he beat savagely
with weapons of wood and iron. That, sir, was my first sight of
you, and my earliest acquaintance with the game of golf. I
remember scanning the horizon for your keeper.
Times have changed since then. The old Pico Street course is
covered with bungalows and mortgages. Golf clubs are
everywhere. The hills are dotted with middle-aged gentlemen who
use the same weapons of wood and iron and the same red-hot
adjectives. A man may now admit that he commits golf and the
statement will not be used against him. Everybody is doing it.
The pastime has become popular.
But it took courage to be a pioneer, to listen to the sneers
about "Cow-pasture pool" and to remain cool, calm and collected
when putting within sight of the country road and within
hearing of the comments of the Great Unenlightened. That
courage entitles you to this small recognition, and also
entitles you to purchase as many copies of this book as you can
afford.
Yours as usual,