The Golfer
“The only man who can play a good game of golf is he who has no brains.”—Andrew Lang.
Like Man With Hoe he leans upon his club,
And gazes groundward with a vacant air;
A wretched, brainless, golf-besotted dub—
A brother to the Hatter and the Hare.
Ah, what to him the “swing of Pleiades”
Whose mind is fixed on swinging on the pill,
Whose only mental processes are these:
“I must grip tight, and keep my head quite still.”
Ah, what to him the pull of Jupiter—
This muddy-headed clod, this witless wight—
Who fears that he may “pull,” or, commoner,
Slice off into the bushes on the right.
For aught he knows whom golf hath so besot,
The sky has fall’n, or is about to fall;
For heaven and earth, and time and space are not
To him whose gaze is glued upon the ball.
“The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,”
May all have bumped th’ inevitable hour,
For aught he knows, infatuated slave!
So come away and leave him to his club,
His rubber pill, his fixed and vacant stare.
’Tis but a brainless, golf-besotted dub,
A brother to the Hatter and the Hare.
According to Mr. Jim Barnes, whose new and really valuable book of golf-swing photographs has just left the press, one can get more fun out of golf by knowing what he is about when wielding the various clubs. But according to Capper & Capper, “How to Get More Fun Out of Golf” depends on wearing athletic union suits with swiss-ribbed bottoms.
Observe how easily the Western Golf Association, confronted, like the peace conference, with the problem of the stymie, reverses its perplexity! The player of the ball nearer the hole may play it or lift it, at his option.