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Enough already of those weary steam trays of warmed over nuggets about playing one's foul balls, the oldie but goodie Tommy Bolt, Bob Hope and Chi Chi zingers. Belly up instead to this ample smorgasbord. Much of it is fresh and very funny.
This fine collection of unfamiliar quotations is collected by an experienced hand. It is well organized, evinces a distinct British drollness and provides overwhelming evidence for Darwin's (Bernard, not Charles) contention that we comprise "The bravest, stupidest race in the world, the unconvincible, inextinguishable race of golfers."
"You mustn't blow your nose when your partner is addressing the ball. . .otherwise the book of rules is mostly nonsense," harrumphs Henry Longhurst.
"Seve Ballesteros goes after a golf course the way a lion goes after a zebra," observes Jim Murray.
One after another they come, grouped under thoughtfully indexed and inspired headings like shot making, dress code, medical opinions and attitude.
We can marvel at a creative description of Joyce Wethered: "She could hit a ball 240 yards on the fly while standing barefoot on a cake of ice;" consider that the Palmer salad at Bay Hill is 40 cents more than the Caesar ("Caesar may have looked good on a chariot, but he never mounted a charge like Arnie."); or pause and consider, "The greatest of champions have all been ex-chokers."
Delightfully unexpected sources turn up: Captain Beefheart, Alexsandr Solzhenitsyn, and Phil Silvers. ("Be funny on a golf course? Do I kid my best friend's mother about her heart condition?")
There is a beefy section on golf courses, even quotes on individual holes, from Medinah to Royal Melbourne, including this intriguing local rule at Sweden's Bjorkliden Arctic G.C.: "If a reindeer eats your ball, drop another where the incident occurred."
This might be one of the rarest of golf books, one blithely purchased by the non-golfing relative that brings genuine pleasure.
Rating: Whip-Cracker * * * *
Jimmy the Golfing Bear has a nice, full swing. He dresses smartly, smiles easily and has mastered tying his shoes. Which is to say, there is much in Jimmy that my regular game could find instructive. The disappointment in this child's primer comes from - oh, dear! - the ugly specter of political correctness. What we count, it seems, are trophies.
What with children struggling with, among other things, toilet training, let alone the prospects of global warming, one wonders whether Jimmy and his toddler friends might not be better served by spending time on the driving range, or, at the very least, the putting green. Tournament play, can we agree, even in these times of dizzying prodigies, is better left for the more accomplished player of, say, seven or eight?
This is a beautiful book, nonetheless, sequel to the ABC's of Golf, with illustrations by Margaret L. Rose. And, to be fair, later we learn, "There are ten trophies to be won, but what's more important is having FUN!"
Rating: Scooper * *
Our well-traveled, Herringboned-attired essayist harkens back to a time when broadcast journalist didn't seem quite the oxymoron, when the "talent" comprised ink-stained wretches, uncomfortable with the new medium, brought in not so much for their haircuts, or their own sports glory days, but for their reporting skill, their ability to "paint the picture." Who has time for that anymore?
Jack Whitaker has plenty of time for golf, and it's hard not to envy him. He's been everywhere, knew everyone, covered everything. What's more, he often got it right. "The professionals are only part of the game," he reminds us. "They are the public relations department. We are the game of golf. We amateurs who slice with abandon and three-putt promiscuously."
Nicklaus and Hogan tales abound, and many more are included from THE important sporting stages (and backstages) of the modern era, golf included. Thankfully, Jack, despite the foibles of his own game, keeps to the fairway when it comes to his reflections. We're spared the contagion of inveterate proselytizing and a screaming case of the chronic nostalgias. It's been a good long run, a long way from Germantown to Winged Foot and Ballybunion, hopscotching his way along soaking up atmosphere and stories.
To think he's been around so long, Jack called the Philadelphia Eagles games back when they were actually a powerhouse. If that doesn't define venerable, what does? To whit, Jack was honored for his genuine enthusiasm and career covering golf with the PGA's their Lifetime Achievement in Journalism Award in 1997.
Rating: Cat-Stroker * * *
To further his matriculation, the inquisitive young Bradley, now a history professor, became a professional caddie, eventually bungling metric conversions for Bernhard Langer. He also happened, interestingly, to be standing next to Herbert Warren Wind when Tom Watson hit his miraculous chip-in at Pebble Beach. (The distinguished essayist, we learn, "threw his hands up in the air and looked as joyous as a child.")
At turns curmudgeonly and puckish but never reticent in speaking his mind, the longtime Golfweek editor pokes at windmills, buzzes officialdom and generally calls 'em as he sees 'em. The Belfry in England is "…an embarrassment to international golf. Looks like a Florida muni sitting on a potato field."
Yet, given the opportunity, he is not averse to praise when he feels it's warranted. Astoria on the Oregon coast is, "unlike anything to be experienced in this hemisphere," he beams. There are lists, including the "Winner of the Most Meaningless Phrase in Course Design" ("Signature-design") [Not "Championship course"??], and advice ("…golfers who take golf carts deny themselves full access to the architectural experience. They're moving too fast, they don't have a clear sense of the subtle angles of play to the green….").
Despite the author's feigned crustiness, the reader is treated to a perceptive, original look at course architecture and finds far more smooth than rough.
Rating: Cat-Stroker * * *.
There's nothing borderline sadistic, nothing like a young Say Ri Pak being forced to spend nights in cemeteries. Still, it's mildly harrowing to think parents could misconstrue Earl's methods or take this treatise too much to heart in mistaking their child for a potential PGA Tour meal ticket.
There is, for instance, the former Green Beret on developing mental toughness. ". . .I pulled every nasty, dirty, rambunctious, obnoxious trick on my son week after week after week. I dropped a bag of clubs at impact of his swing. I imitated a crow's voice while he was stroking a putt. When he was about ready to hit a shot, I would toss a ball right in front of his, and it would cross his line of vision. I would make sure that I stood in his line of sight and would move just as he was about to execute the shot. I would cough as he was taking the club back. I would say, "Don't hit it in the water." Those were the nice things I did."
Dirty tricks aside, the more sanguine message obviously goes far deeper than golf. That Tiger is cognizant of his place, seemingly, beyond golf, is at least as remarkable as his achievements. "It all begins," pop writes, "with the parent's desire to make the child's life better, to enhance his or her probability of success in life." Tiger never had a job, never even had a baby sitter - he always came with.
As the numerous toddler anecdotes demonstrate - hello dads - there is only one Tiger. One. Whether the prodigy revisits these strident methods in rearing his own children
is one of those things we'll just have to wait and see.
Rating: Scooper * *
Light Reading - Edition I
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