A Line-o’-Gowf or Two
Hew to the Line, let the divots fall where they may.
The Lady Golfer
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.