The Metaphysicians
Far—far as Arcturus—be it from us to dissipate the mist of theory that envelops the so-called royal and undeniably ancient game, or to diminish by one the methods of its madness. The more the merrier, as Noah remarked when he led the way to the Ark. The fairway is wide, and we had as soon knock a ball through it in one style as another; variety spices the journey, and wards off monotony. It is only when, approaching the green, we require accuracy in direction, that we dismiss theory and resort to the primitive expedient of striking the ball with the club-face at right angles to the line o’ flight—in other words, returning the club-face to the position it was in when the ball was addressed. The trick is so simple, when the mind is disburdened of all other consideration, that we are a little ashamed of the inevitable result; it is so much more interesting to try to reach the pin by the most complicated method, involving a nice consideration of stance and grip, division of labor between the hands, pronation, concentration, pausation, and what not. If every stroke in golf were reduced to its lowest terms, what would the pundits do for an audience?