The Best Golf Stories Ever Told Read online

  The probabilities of going wrong at golf are too numerous and too serious to permit of any beginner dispensing with guidance. If a man has not the luck to reckon a really good amateur among his friends, he will find a few dollars given to a reliable professional to be money well spent.

  It may also be mentioned that “slow back” and “keep your eye on the ball” are two maxims never to be forgotten. The latter can hardly be misapplied; but the former often suffers misconstruction. It can be too literally obeyed, and then the effect is ludicrous. We have heard more than one beginner alluded to as Mr. Slow Back—the motion of the club being so snail like as to make the most solemn caddie smile, and the frivolous ones go into fits. The point of the maxim is its check to quickness, and not any emphasis on slowness; the object being to obtain ease and grace of style.

  In regard to equipment, we think most players will endorse the counsel to be content with few clubs for some little time. A brassie, cleek, and iron—or mashie—will keep you going quite merrily in every department of the game. Many a fine golfer has begun with less; for it is the correct swing, and not the number of clubs, that must engage the attention of the beginner; and once he is able to do fair execution with what he has, he may venture to enlarge the little set.

  Avoid heavy clubs, unless you are an oldish man, inclined to corpulence, and incapable of more than a half swing; otherwise, such clubs will play you, and convince you of a too common fallacy. We have heard of a workingman, not an adept in the game but a radical in politics, who dislocated his knee cap in making frantic efforts with a heavy club to outdrive a member of the aristocracy who was playing a good game in front. His ambition was painfully thwarted. He kissed the sod, and was carried home. Avoid supple shafts, if you would drive straight and reduce the chances of topping. The longest drivers I have known use clubs of ordinary weight and steely spring. It was not with a heavy club that Mr. F. G. Tait drove his 359 yards at St. Andrews, but with a club he swung with perfect ease, putting arms, body, and legs into the stroke.

  May all beginners in the Great Republic endeavor to emulate the achievements of the mother country, and add new honors to their native land.

  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

  THE STORY OF MY FIRST GOLF LESSON

  TRIPP BOWDEN

  My first official golf lesson takes place in the most unlikely of places on the most unusual of days: the Augusta National Golf Club, the Monday after the Masters.

  Talk about your intimidating stages.

  I’m riding down Magnolia Lane in my mother’s car, brandnew glove on one hand and faded tennis shoes on my feet. Freddie greets us in the members’ parking lot, which is packed with cars and people. Milling about and scrambling for tee times are the chosen ones, lucky stiffs who’ve been granted a once-in-a-lifetime chance to play the most exclusive golf course in the world the day after the conclusion of golf ’s most coveted major. The tees, the pins, even the scoreboards are all exactly as they were only twenty-four hours ago, when a young Tom Watson shot 67 to clip the great Jack Nicklaus by two.

  Much of this is lost on me, however, as I know little of Tom Watson and even less of Nicklaus.

  But I do know Jerry Pate, the defending U.S. Open Champion. Just three days ago I watched him hit practice balls in a driving rain, orange Prostaffs soaring into a gunmetal sky, his caddy holding an umbrella over the champion’s head after each swing was finished.

  I know because I’m standing in the exact same spot.

  “Hey, pahds. I’m Mike Shannon. What’s the good word?”

  He offers a hand and we shake.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Mike, this is Tripp Bowden. My doctor’s son,” says Freddie, smiling. “The kid I told you about. Think you can work a little magic on him?”

  Magic?

  “Shoooot, yeah. He even looks like a player.”

  I do?

  “All right, then. I’ll leave you two to have at it.” Freddie turns to face me. “Listen to him, man. He might not look like it, but this cat knows his stuff.”

  My mom is clutching her pocketbook, jangling her keys.

  “Any chance I could do a little shopping, Freddie? I need to buy a couple shirts and time just got away from me yesterday. We got so caught up in the excitement we never made it past sixteen.”

  “Got caught up in the beer tent, too, I bet,” says Freddie, in a voice only I can hear, before turning to my mother. “Absolutely, Mrs. Bowden. Shop till you drop. Tell them I said give you the Charleston discount, okay?”

  “You’re a dear, Freddie Bennett,” says Mom as she hurries into the pro shop.

  “All right, pahds. You ready?”

  I follow the voice. This Mike guy is young, twenty-five I’m guessing, but he looks like a little kid, not much bigger than me. He’s gonna teach me golf?

  My worries are soon over when Mike launches the first of five towering drives into a big green net at the end of the range. I have no idea how far he’s hitting it, but as I look around at the other golfers, no one is coming close. Some have even stopped what they were doing, unable to take their eyes off Mike.

  “Freddie says you’re the pro here,” I say. What I really want to say is, Wow—you can sure knock the shit out of a golf ball!

  “Assistant pro,” says Mike. “Maybe one day I’ll run with the big dogs.” He props his driver, a big Tony Penna with a blond finish, against my golf bag and looks inside.

  “Say, look at what you’ve got. Real blades. Where’d you get these babies?”

  Mike pulls out my 7-iron, grips it, and sends a ball sailing into the distance. The club is a little short for him, but not by much.

  “Who cut these down for you? Freddie?”

  I shake my head. “They came that way. But yeah, Freddie gave them to me.”

  “Nice,” says Mike. “Birthday gift or something?”

  “Just something, I guess. Freddie showed up at the house one day and handed them over. Shag bag and balls and gloves too.” I hold up my left hand, show him the brand-new glove with the Augusta National logo embroidered on the strap.

  “Look at you,” he says. “All logo-ed up like a member.” He points to my glove and then my shirt, a pink polo with the Augusta logo in full view. “All you’re missing is a Green Jacket!”

  I stop laughing when he looks down at my shoes.

  “No spikes, eh?”

  “Freddie said I had to break fifty before he would get me some. Said he didn’t want to hear about my mama buying me a pair or he’d make her take ’em back.”

  Mike laughs.

  “That Freddie’s a piece of work, no doubt. But he’s a great guy. Good man to have on your team.” Mike grips the 7-iron, brushing the grass as he talks. “Freddie tells me you and him do a lot of fishing out here. Down by the Par 3. Says you catch ’em hand over fist.”

  “I’ve never seen fish like that in my life,” I say.

  “Yeah, this place is something, all right. Got the best of everything—even the fishing. Who would think some of the best fishing in the world is at Augusta National?”

  Mike hands me the 7-iron. I put it back in the bag.

  “No, pahds. I want to see what you got. Freddie said he taught you a few things. Says you got a pretty mean grip. Let’s see it.”

  I pull out the 7-iron, wrap my hands around the tacky rubber handle.

  “Whoa, check you out. You look like Ben Hogan holding that thing. Shoot, man. You don’t need any of my help.” He laughs and tosses a ball at my feet. “Freddie teach you that grip?”

  I nod. “With a fishing pole.”

  “A fishing pole?”

  “Yep”

  “Ain’t that something? But with Freddie Bennett, nothing surprises me. Not anymore.”

  Mike bends down and tees up a Titleist. “All right, pahds. Let’s see what you got.”

  Uh-oh. The last time somebody said that to me the ball went nose-diving into a pond.

  I look away. The practice tee at Augusta Nat
ional is a sea of green. Thick, lush grass as far as the eye can see. Not a drop of water in sight.

  I rare back and swing as hard as I can. The ball dribbles off the tee.

  Mike quickly bends down and pegs up another, though it’s clear he could just take two steps, pick up my shot, and place it back on the tee.

  Another fierce swing and another dribbler. Who said tees make things easier?

  This goes on for what seems like forever, though in reality only a minute or two, because there are only a few balls at my feet, barely outside the cast of my shadow.

  “I see your problem,” says Mike. “You’re standing too close to the ball.”

  I look down. Something drips on my shoes. Sweat? Tears?

  “I’m standing too close to the ball?”

  Mike puts a hand on my shoulder, points to the grouping of balls not six feet away.

  “Yeah, pahds.After you hit it.” He laughs and so do I.

  How can I not?

  “Don’t sweat it, pahds. Golf is a bitch to learn, but it’s a beautiful game and you can play it for the rest of your life. You’ve only been playing for five minutes, man. Don’t worry—we’ll get you straightened out. This is the Augusta National. Magic happens out here.”

  I’m thinking it’s gonna take a lot more than magic to straighten me out. Breaking 50 suddenly seems a thousand miles away.

  “Let’s start with your stance,” says Mike, positioning my feet shoulder width apart. “And let’s bend a little more from the waist, like a basketball player getting ready to guard somebody. Relax those shoulders a little. That’s a 7-iron you’ve got in your hands, not a machete. You’re not trying to kill anything with it.” Mike tees up another, looks at me, and smiles.

  “Now forget everything I just told you and launch that sucker.”

  I wind up and give my 7-iron a rip, clipping the ball off the tee as neat as you please. It flies like a bell curve onto a green some hundred yards out.

  When the ball bounces twice and spins to a stop, I almost fall down.

  “Whoa!” I say.

  Mike is really smiling now.

  “Say, pahds. You ever hear of a guy named Harvey Penick?”

  iStockphoto/Thinkstock

  THE STORY OF THE EARLY DAYS ON THE LINKS

  BY CECIL LEITCH

  JUST beyond Silloth, on the left side of the road that leads to the pretty little village of Skinburness (once a flourishing market town which was washed away by a terrific storm), there used to be a stretch of natural seaside ground remembered by Sillothians as “The Banks”—“used to be,” for gradually the encroaching waters of Solway Firth have eaten it away, until little remains of the bonnie “Banks ” of my childhood.

  Although I love the dear old Solway in all its moods, I can never forgive it for this act of destruction. In devouring “The Banks” it destroyed the actual birthplace of my golf, the spot where I first hit a golf ball, disregarding the sanctity that always attaches to a birthplace. For that, it can never be forgiven.

  It was here on this strip of land, about 200 yards wide and stretching away into the distance, intersected by numerous paths made by those who took their daily walks overlooking the Solway Firth, that I, at the age of about nine, in company with my elder sister May, began my golfing career.

  Had my family or I known at that time that I should one day be called upon to perpetrate a golfing autobiography, a careful record would, no doubt, have been kept of the year, the day, and the hour when I first struck a golf ball and of all later developments.

  Happily we did not know, and memory, though not such an accurate recorder as written memoranda, must be relied upon for the earlier dates and facts.

  Going back to my extreme infancy, to the days beyond the reach of my memory, I was, my elders tell me, just the everyday child, with, however, one unusual predilection for a girl: I preferred whips to dolls. Dolls held no attraction for me—my heart’s affections ran to whips—and at the mature age of two and a half I insisted on being photographed with a whip in my hands. The imaginative will, of course, see in this the germ of the future golfer!

  Between this and the beginnings of my golf, that is between the ages of two and nine, I spent most of my time on the seashore at Silloth, my native place. My father was a Scotsman, a doctor by profession, and my mother English, so that I am an Anglo-Scot. Living in England, we had only to look a few miles across the water to see Scotland, a happy blend which seemed to express our Anglo-Scottish descent.

  Silloth lies in a remote northwest comer of England, on the coast of Cumberland, 20 miles from Carlisle, the capital of the county, and 320 miles from London. Its residential population is under three thousand, but in the summer it is crowded with visitors, for as a seaside resort Silloth is very popular in the North of England. Fishing, a harbour, and a flour mill represent the industrial activities of the place, with the agriculture, which is the chief interest of the district. From Silloth, the coast of Scotland can always be seen, while on super-bright days the Isle of Man, 60 miles away, is clearly visible. But this latter is an evil omen, greatly feared by golfers; for it augurs rain, much rain, within three days. Quite apart from the natural affection one has for one’s birthplace, Silloth is a lovable place, and casts its pleasant spell especially on those who haunt the links. Golfing visitors feel this and return again and again.

  My father was the pioneer of golf at Silloth, laying out a nine-hole course on common land and playing there, with his sister, the first game of golf ever played on the shores of the Solway Firth. The natives of the place regarded them as a pair of lunatics. So there were hereditary reasons why I should not only play golf, but become “mad” on the game. And I may say here that never once since I first took a dub in my hand has there been any doubt about my love for golf; my love for it has never faltered; neither victory nor defeat has made any difference; I have just gone on growing fonder and fonder of the game, and nothing in the whole of my golfing career has been harder to bear than my banishment from the links after returning from America, the result of an injured arm.

  At the age of nine then, I began my golfing career, on a stretch of ground 200 yards wide and a quarter of a mile long; for this was all we made use of for our primitive nine-hole course. Our fairways were the paths made by pedestrians, our putting greens the good patches on these paths, our holes cut by ourselves and lined with treacle tins, and our “trouble” the bents, sand holes, and wiry grass common to seaside links.

  My first club was one of the old-fashioned cleeks, and my first ball—and only one for a long time—a guttie. This was my introduction to the game, and in its independence, it bears a close relationship to the rest of my golfing career. My golf has developed along independent lines; I am entirely self-taught, and I never had a lesson in my life. I watched others of course, and learnt from them, avoiding their faults and, no doubt, assimilating some of the good features of their play. Then I have received many valuable tips from leading players—from Mr. Hilton, who impressed upon me the importance of firmly gripping the ground with my feet; from the late Tom Ball, who taught me a cut shot with an iron; from Arnaud Massy, from whom I learnt an effective approach shot, and from several others, while I know no better corrective for “off one’s game” than having a round with a first-class amateur or professional. Watching his even, rhythmical swing, one soon finds oneself falling into his way of doing it. It is a sort of unconscious mimicry.

  But though I certainly owe a good deal to others, I am essentially a self-taught golfer. This should encourage, rather than discourage young players.

  I think we must have played for about three years on our little makeshift course before joining the Carlisle and Silloth Golf Club. My brother Monie (the family consisted of five girls and two boys) and my sister Edith were already members of the Club, and the former had begun to show himself a player of much promise.

  When I say that the ladies’ annual subscription at that time was only five shillings, it will be seen that
my sisters and I were not very important assets so far as the Club’s income was concerned. Nor did we seem to be important in other respects. Ladies and children were a rare sight on the links, and no one appeared to take much notice of us, or to be troubled by our existence.

  I well remember that my sister May and I (we usually played together) were too timid to drive off from the first tee, which is in full view of the Clubhouse, for some time after we had every right to do so.

  By this time I had been promoted to a bag, and from one club to a set of six, as follows: driver, the favorite and veteran cleek, lofting iron, mashie, niblick and putter.

  My sister May, a left-handed player, had begun her golf with a cleek, a club with which she has always been an adept. Great difficulty was experienced in persuading the professional, at that time, to make a left-handed club for a child. He argued that she ought to be made to play in the ordinary right-handed way.

  May is undoubtedly left-handed and always has been; she plays tennis with the left hand, and invariably uses the left hand when other people would use the right. Many children want to play in a left-handed manner, but few are actually left-handed. The professional, no doubt, had it in his mind that May was one of these. However, he made her her left-handed clubs and, judging from the way she used them, with just as much care as if they had been right-handed.

  It must have been during this very raw stage of our apprenticeship that a male member of the Club witnessed the following incident, which he long after related to us. “I was playing golf at Silloth” (to give it in his own words) “one day many years ago, and, arriving at the 14th, or Heather hole, my partner and I came across two little curly-haired girls dressed alike in white sailor coats, blue serge kilted skirts, white socks and little black patent-leather ankle-strap slippers. One was hacking away in the heather, while the other stood with her legs crossed and looked on. After many fruitless efforts by the smaller to dislodge the ball, she turned round and, in a pathetic voice exclaimed, ‘I can’t get it out!’ To which the other answered, ‘No, it needs strength and you lack it.’ ” This little story certainly has the ring of truth, for Silloth heather is plentiful and thick, terrible stuff to escape from. I paid it frequent visits and also I was not nearly as strong as my sister May.