by Julie Ganz
It was a much augmented gallery that lined the side hill above the contestants. All the other team members were there, our men surprised and skeptical, and the Bellevue players nervous and apprehensive. There was also a troop of idle caddies, who had received the word by some mysterious wireless of their own devising.
“MacNeath is down in four,” whispered one of the youngsters; “and Reddy has got to sink this one.”
Ambrose’s ball was four feet from the cup. He walked up to it, took one look at the line, one at the hole, and made the shot without an instant’s hesitation—a clean, firm tap that gave the ball no chance to waver, but sent it squarely into the middle of the cup. MacQuarrie himself could not have shown more confidence. Mac-, Neath’s caddie replaced the flag in the hole, dropped both hands to his hips, and moved them back and forth in a level, sweeping gesture. His sign language answered the question uppermost in every mind. Still all square! A patter of applause gave thanks for the information and Ambrose looked up at us with a quizzical grin. I caught his eye, and the rascal winked at me.
He was first on the seventeenth tee, and this time there was no sign of nervous tension. After a single powerful practise swing he stepped forward to his ball, pressed the sole of his club lightly behind it, and got off a tremendous tee shot. I noticed that his lips moved; and he did not raise his head until the ball was well down the course.
“He’s countin’ three before he looks up!” whispered a voice in my ear; and there was MacQuarrie, the butt of a dead cigar between his teeth, and his eyes alive with all the emotions a Scot may feel but can never express in words.
“Then he’s really been playing good golf?” I asked.
“Ay. Grand golf! They both have. It’s a dingdong match, an’ just a question which one will crack fir-rst.”
MacNeath’s drive held out no hope that he was about to crack under the strain of an even battle. He executed the tee shot with the ma- chinelike precision of the veteran golfer—stance, swing and follow-through standardised by years of experience.
Our seventeenth hole is a long one, par 5, and the approach to the putting green is guarded by an embankment, paralleled on the far side by a wide and treacherous sand trap, put there to encourage clean mashie pitches. The average player cannot reach the bunker on his second, much less carry the sand trap on the other side of it; but the long drivers sometimes string two tremendous wooden-club shots together and reach the edge of the green. More frequently they get into trouble and pay the penalty for attempting too much.
The two balls were close together; but Ambrose’s shot was the longer one by a matter of feet, and it was up to MacNeath to play first. Would he gamble and go for the green, or would he play short and make sure of a five? The veteran estimated the distance, looked carefully at his lie, and then pulled an iron from his bag. Instantly I knew what was passing in his mind—sensed his golfing strategy: MacNeath intended to place his second shot short of the bunker, in the hope that Ambrose would be tempted into risking the long, dangerous wooden-club shot across to the green.
“Aha!’’ whispered MacQuarrie. “The old fox! He’ll not take a chance himself, but he wants the lad to take one. ‘ “Will ye walk into my parlour?” says the spider to the fly.’ Ay; that’s just it—will he, now?”
Ambrose gave us no time for suspense. MacNeath’s ball had hardly stopped rolling before his decision was made—and a sound one at that! He whipped his mid-iron from the bag.
“ ’Fraid I’ll have to fool you, old chap,” said he airily. “You wanted me to go for the green—eh, what? Well, I hate to disappoint you; but I can’t gamble in an even game—not when the kitty is a sand trap. . . . Ride, you little round rascal; ride!”
The last remark was addressed to the ball just before the blade of the mid-iron flicked it from the grass. Again there were two white specks in the distance, lying side by side. If MacNeath was disappointed he did not show it, but tramped on down the course, silent as usual and absorbed in the game. Both took fives on the hole, missing long putts; and the battle was still all square.
Our home hole is a par 4—a blind drive and an iron pitch to the green; and the vital shot is the one from the tee. It must go absolutely straight and high enough to carry the top of the hill, one hundred and forty yards away. To the right is an abrupt downward slope, ending in a deep ravine. To the left, and out of sight from the tee, is a wide sand trap, with the father of all bunkers at its far edge. The only safe ball is the one that sails over the direction post.
Ambrose drove; and a smothered gasp went up from the gallery. The ball had the speed of a bullet, as well as a perfect line; and, at first, I thought it would rise enough to skim the crest of the hill. Instead of that, it seemed to dudk in flight, caught the hard face of the incline, and kicked abruptly to the left. It was that crooked bound which broke all our hearts; for we knew that, barring a miracle, our man was in the sand trap.
“Hard luck!” said MacNeath; and I think he really meant to be sympathetic.
Ambrose looked at him as a bulldog might look at a mastiff.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that!” he answered, rather stiffly. “I like to play my second shot from over there.”
“You’re welcome!’’ said MacNeath; and completed our discomfiture by poling out a tremendous shot, which carried well over the direction post and went sailing on up the plateam toward the clubhouse.
No man ever hit a longer ball at a more opportune time. As we toiled up the hill I tried to say something hopeful.
“He may have stopped short of the trap.”
“Not a hope!” said MacQuarrie, chewing at his cigar. “He’ll be in—up to his neck.”
Sure enough, when we reached the summit there was the caddie, a mournful statue on the edge of the sand trap. The crowd halted at a proper distance and Ambrose and MacNeath went forward alone. MacQuarrie and I swung off to the left, for we wanted to see how deep the ball was in and what sort of a lie it had found.
“Six feet in from the edge,” muttered Dunn’l, “an’ twenty feet away from the wall. Lyin’ up on top of the sand too. An iron wi’ a little loft to it, a clean shot, a good thir-rd, an’ he might get a four yet. It’s just possible.”
“But not probable,” said I. “What on earth is he waiting for?”
Ambrose had taken a seat on the edge of the trap; and as he looked from the ball to the bunker looming in front of it, he rolled a cigarette.
“You don’t mind if I study this situation a bit?” said he to MacNeath.
“Take your time,” said the veteran. “Because I wouldn’t want to use the wrong dub here,” continued Ambrose.
The caddie said something to him at this point; but Phipps shook his red head impatiently and continued to puff at his cigarette. He caught a glimpse of me and beckoned.
“How do the home boys stand on this cup thing?” he asked.
“All even—two matches to two.”
“That,” said Ambrose after a thoughtful pause, “seems to put it up to me.”
At last he rose, tossed away the cigarette end and, reaching for his bag, drew out a wooden club. Again the caddie said something; but Ambrose waved him away. There was not a sound from his audience, but a hundred heads wagged dolefully in unison. A wooden club—out of a trap? Suicide! Sheer suicide! Am iron might give him a fighting chance to halve the hole; but my last lingering hope died when I saw that club in the boy’s hand. The infernal young lunatic! I believe I said something of the sort to MacQuarrie.
“Sh-h!” he whispered. “Yon’s a baffy. I made it for him.”
“What’s a baffy?”
“Well, it’s just a kind of an exaggerated bulldog spoon—ye might almost call it a wooden mashie, wi’ a curvin’ sole on it. It’s great for distance. The lie is good, the wind’s behind him, an’ if he can only hit it clean—clean!——Oh, ye little red devil, keep your head down—keep your head down an’ hit it dean!”
I shall never forget the picture spread out along the edge of
that green plateau—the redheaded stocky youngster in the sand trap taking his stance and whipping the clubhead back and forth; MacNeath coolly leaning on his driver and smiling over a match already won; the two caddies in the background, one sneeringly triumphant, the other furiously angry; the rim of spectators, motionless, hopeless.
Everybody was watching Ambrose, and I think Old MacQuarrie was the only onlooker who was not absolutely certain that the choice of a wrong club was throwing away our last slender chance.
When the tension was almost unbearable the redhead turned and grinned at MacNeath.
“I suppose you’d shoot this with an iron,” said he; “ but the baffy is a great club—if you’ve got the nerve to use it.”
Ambrose settled his feet firmly in the sand, craned his neck for a final look at the flag, two hundred yards away, dropped his chin on his chest, waggled the clubhead over the ball, and then swung with every ounce of strength in his sturdy body. I heard a sharp click, saw a tiny feather of sand spurt into the air, and against the blue sky I caught a glimpse of a soaring white speck, which went higher and higher until I lost it altogether. The next thing I knew, the spectators were cheering, yelling, screaming; and some one was hammering me violently between the shoulder blades. It was the unemotional Dunn’l MacQuarrie, gone completely daft with excitement.
“Oh, man!” he cried. “He picked it up as clean as a whistle, an’ he’s on the green—on the green!”
“Told you that was a sweet little club!” said Ambrose as he climbed out of the trap. “Takes nerve to use one though. On the green, eh? Well, I guess that’ll hold you for a while.”
His prediction soon had a solid backing of fact. MacNeath, the iron man, the dependable Number One, the match player without nerves, was not proof against a miracle. Ambrose’s phenomenal recovery had shaken the veteran to the soles of his shoes.
MacNeath’s second shot was an easy pitch to the green, but he lingered too long over it; the blade of his mashie caught the turf at least three inches behind the ball and shot it off at an angle into the thick, long grass that guards the eighteenth green. He was forced to use a heavy niblick on his third; but the ball rolled thirty feet beyond the pin. He tried hard for the long putt, but missed, and picked up when Ambrose laid his third shot on the lip of the cup.
By the most fortunate fluke ever seen on a golf course our little red Ishmael had won for us the permanent possession of the Edward B. Wimpus Trophy.
MacNeath was game. He picked up his ball with the left hand and offered his right to Ambrose. “Well done!” said he.
“Thanks!” responded Ambrose. “Guess I kind of jarred you with that baffy shot. It’s certainly a dandy club in a pinch. Better let MacQuarrie make you one.”
MacNeath swallowed hard and nearly managed a smile.
“It wasn’t the club,” said he. “It was just burglar’s luck. You couldn’t do it again in a thousand years!”
“Maybe not,” replied the victor; “but when you get back to Bellevue you tell all the dear chappies there that I got away with it once—got away with it the one time when it counted!”
At this point the gallery closed in and overwhelmed young Mr. Phipps. Inside of a minute he heard more pleasant things about himself than had come to his ears in a lifetime. He did not dispute a single statement that was made; nor did he discount one by so much as the deprecating lift of an eyebrow. For once in his life he agreed with everybody. In the stag celebration that followed—with the Edward B. Wimpus Cup in the middle of the big round table—he was easily induced to favour us with a few brief remarks. He informed us that tin cups were nothing in his young life, club spirit was nothing, but that gameness was everything—and the cheering was led by the Dingbats!
Now you know why we feel that we owe Ambrose something; and, if I am any judge, that debt will be paid with heavy interest. Dunn’l MacQuarrie is also a winner. He has booked so many orders for baffies that he is now endeavouring to secure the services of a first-class club maker.
As Ambrose often tells us, the baffy is a sweet little club to have in the bag—provided, of course, you have the nerve to use it.
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STARTING THE SWING—THE UNIVERSAL METHOD
DAVID SMITH HUNTER
Last winter I spent some months as an instructor in the largest indoor golf school in New York (or America). There were a number (at least a dozen) of other professionals engaged, and I had a splendid opportunity to watch not only their methods of teaching, but also their various styles of play. Some used the open, some the square, stance; some used a flat, some a medium, and others an upright, swing. They had various methods of gripping the club, but whatever their method of doing these various things, they all—without an exception—had the same way of starting the club back from the ball, although the effects were very different, owing to different characteristics and physical make-up.
As already stated, the effects were different but the start of the back swing was always the same—the back movement and the turning of the wrists and forearms always started simultaneously and there was no jerkiness—even though some of them had a very quick swing. Their use of it may have been instinctive or subconscious, but it was there, nevertheless.
The simplicity of this principle and rule in golf is its chief charm. It is applicable to all styles of play, whether upright, flat, or medium, and applies to all the shots in your bag. Analyze everything from the back swing. Never work to improve “effects,” always go back to “cause.”
Briefly, my theory—which is now no longer a theory, but a fact, proved demonstrable, through years of experience—may be summed up as follows:
With grip and stance properly adjusted, be sure you start your club-head back from ball correctly. Do not jerk, start slowly. Let the backward movement and the turn of the wrists and forearms start at exactly the same moment. Keep control in the left hand. Pronate properly. (And to know when you are doing this, notice the position of the club-head when club is horizontal). And finally, when you “go off your game,” no matter in what respect—whether because of slicing, pulling, topping, whatever it may be—do not try to correct the “effect” but go back to first principles and thereby remove the “cause.”
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THE STORY OF PHYSIQUE IN GOLF
HAROLD H. HILTON
I once heard a Scotch professional say: “Yon man’s o’er strong to play.” He was referring to one of those individuals of Samsonlike development who could put the shot an incredible number of feet and who, by pure muscular power, could lift a comparatively heavy man with one hand and hold him up for some considerable period of time. There was much of truth in this professional’s remark, for the Goliath could make nothing of the game of golf. He could not even hit the ball a long way, for the simple reason that he was muscle-bound in every limb in his body, and in consequence could not swing the club with even a relative degree of freedom.
The whole result of his most frantic muscular efforts was to push the ball a distance of about one hundred and fifty yards. I say push advisedly, as his swing was nothing more or less than a species of push, a swing which took the club up with rigid muscles. He did not seem able to relax those abnormal muscles of his, and then tighten them up again on the downward swing, but the mere effort of taking hold of the club seemed to have the effect of bringing his frame into an absolute state of rigidity.
I do not wish to imply by this, however, that actual physical strength is of no avail in the game of golf. If a man who is well blessed with physical power can only apply that power to its best advantage, it must of necessity be a great asset to him, as there are quite a number of strokes to be played in the game which necessitate the use of more than an average degree of strength, and the man who is not blessed with a sufficiency for the occasion must necessarily suffer. But it is better to be blessed with a comparatively limited degree of physical strength and know how to apply it to its fullest advantage than to have the gift of exceptional
physical power and not know how to utilize it advantageously. In the one instance the physical power is in excellent control, while in the other it cannot be.
If there is one muscle, or rather set of muscles, in the human frame which are of no use to man in the pursuit of the game of golf, they are those which act in relation to what is usually termed the biceps. No doubt these muscles have their uses in this world. For instance, one could imagine that they are particularly serviceable in the removal of pianofortes or other heavy domestic material, but for the propulsion of a golf ball they are worse than useless, as they are apt to get in the way and hinder the swing of the player.
That they are of little avail to the golfer is evidenced by the fact that among professionals whose physical exercises are very much limited to the playing of golf there is almost an entire absence of development. Some few years ago I had occasion to receive very emphatic testimony on this point. We were discussing the question of golf and physical development consequent to it, and I expressed the opinion that not only were the biceps of no use to the player, but, moreover, there were very few first-class players who could claim any particular development in this part of the arm and that the majority were almost devoid of such development. These opinions were received with a certain degree of incredulity, not to say unbelief. Just at that moment J. H. Taylor, the four-times champion, arrived on the scene, and I suggested that they should utilize his anatomy as a test.
Now, Taylor is an exceptionally sturdy, strongly built man who looks the very embodiment of physical strength, the kind of man one would on first sight be excused in assuming was something akin to a professional wrestler. On the mere question of appearance, a more unlikely subject could not have been chosen by which to prove the truth of my contention, but I was not in the least alarmed, as I knew that Taylor played golf and no other game. The reply to the query as to the development of his biceps was much as I anticipated, as it came in the most emphatic manner; “Soft as butter, sir, just like a child’s” and a physical demonstration proved this to be correct in every way. John Henry Taylor was almost completely devoid of muscular development in his biceps, and in this respect was only much the same as the majority of men who have made the game of golf their favorite physical pastime.