Signature Magazine for the Golfing Lifestyle
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The Golfers: A Grand Match, 1850 1st Edition Print by Charles Lees This is an original, 1st edition, 1850 hand-colored “Proof” steel engraving by Charles E. Wagstaffe after the original 1847 oil by Charles Lees entitled, “The Golfers: A Grand Match Played Over St Andrews Links”. Printed by W. Wolding of Edinburgh, this is an extremely rare version of golf’s most famous depiction of the game. The Grand Match was played upon the Links of St Andrews in 1841, during the annual meeting of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club. Charles Lees’ 1847 painting is the world’s most celebrated piece of art pertaining to the game of golf. In the painting Lee’s renders the landscape of golf’s most famous links subservient to the actual game – depicting over 40 figures gathered together to watch a two-ball foursome match pitting Sir David Baird and Sir Ralph Anstruther against Major Hugh Lyon Mayfair and John Campbell. According to accounts of the time Lees’ was paid 400 pounds sterling to paint The Golfers – recently the original sold to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery for 11 million pounds sterling. From the original, an engraving was done in 1850 – presumably because many of the individuals depicted in the painting wanted a copy of the painting for their homes. The engraver Charles Wagstaff teamed with the Edinburgh publisher Alexander Hill and created an engraved print that numbered 50 titled Artist Proofs, 20 Presentation pieces and 100 First Edition prints – for a total of 170 total pieces. The original AP’s sold for 10 pounds, the presentation pieces for 6 pounds while the rest of the first edition sold for 3 pounds. Before these prints were made – a number of “Proof” prints were made to ensure the plate and print were ready for production – this being one of those prints. Since this print has been hand-colored there is a strong possibility that this was one of the very first prints of this nature. Printed by W. Wolding of Edinburgh, this is an extremely rare version of golf’s most famous depiction of the game. It is the expert opinion of The Great Republic, LLC and our authentication specialist that this print is an original antique of or about the date specified and is unconditionally guaranteed as genuine for life.
FRAMED SIZE: 38”x 50” LOCATION: St Andrews, Scotland CONDITION: This print is in very good condition, with some age appropriate toning to the paper. The print has been cleaned and treated by one of the Nation’s leading conservationist. The print is presented using the very best archival procedures and materials. PROVENANCE: This print was acquired from a private collection in the United Kingdom via auction. No further information about the previous ownership is available. GUARANTEE: The Great Republic proudly stands behind our antique, one-of-a-kind offerings in perpetuity. We want your purchase to be made with confidence, primarily because our reputation is much too important to us to offer an item that has the slightest question regarding authenticity. Contact Edmund R. Papczun, Jr. at epapczun@gmail.com or Visit reat-republic.com
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Volume 2 • Issue 5
The Golf Tournament
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Ralph Henry Barbour produced more than 100 novels and a number of short stories. Most popular were his works of sports fiction for boys that taught the importance of sports, teamwork and school spirit. Here is a chapter from his 1899 classic, The Half-Back.
Not that it Matters 58
Most people know him as the creator of Winnie The Pooh, but some consider his short essays as his finest work. The following are three gems from the collection of short stories entitled “Not That It Matters.” By A.A. Milne
überMobile 66
Purgatory Pines 72
An afterlife on the links might sound wonderful, but is it reward or punishment? By W.A. Beech
The Golfer’s Garland
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Aladdin’s Cave of Golf
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An excerpt from Thomas Mathieson’s mock-heroic epic poem of 1743, “The Goff.” It was the first printed book entirely devoted to golf.
At Tom Stewart’s Old Sport Gallery in the Village of Pinehurst, you’ll find a treasure trove of golf art, collectibles, antiques & memorabilia. By Laurie Bogart Morrow
Marchi Mobile is not only changing the way we travel the earth, but the style in which we do it. By Arthur Farrell
Cover
Reflections – Old Tom Morris, original mixed media painting using oils, silver leaf and inks by Paul Skellett. A limited edition of 50 prints are available and made on 320gsm museum grade archival papers with each one signed by the artist. Unframed, 8” x 10” – $95 USD + $20 post & packaging from the UK. Visit WonderlandGallery.com.
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Castle on the Green
After a long and tumultuous history, Killeen Castle is reemerging as an important golfing venue in Ireland. Oh, and keep an eye out for the fairy tree on No. 12.
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A Round with McQueen From humble beginnings, Steve McQueen rose to become the biggest movie star of his time; and his reign in today’s popular culture only seems to be getting stronger. By Josh Wolfe
Photograph by William Claxton / Courtesy Demont Photo Management, LLC.
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14 The Course Highlands Falls Country Club, Highlands, NC16 Heritage Golf Links, Tucker, Georgia 18 Gear Camelot Collection 32 Style Spirit & Class 38 Audio For Audiophiles Only 54 – A Dave Sansom Portfolio –
Wingpointe Golf Course, Salt Lake City, Utah
Excalibur-quality putters by ARGOLF
Luxury timepieces from Speake-Marin
Vintage-style sound enhancers by Restoration Hardware
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Calling it a ‘water hazard’ doesn’t quite do it justice This is Royal Porthcawl, home of the 2014 Senior Open, Wales’s first-ever Major championship. So a bit of a test. Like all our other world-class but refreshingly unstuffy links courses, Royal Porthcawl rewards accuracy rather than brute force. We think you’ll enjoy the challenge. Even if you do take a shot or two more than usual on some holes. Still, with views like this, you’ll never have a better excuse for three-putting.
For your free 98 page Wales Golf guide visit golfasitshouldbe.com
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Bemused in BEER
Not so fast, before you pop open a cold one, put a bit of thought into the history and many processes of beer-making. By Jameson Parker
108 Art
Natural Wonder
Linda Hartough’s enchanting golf landscapes are alive in texture and depth. Here is a Golf Sport gallery of her finest.
118 Fashion
Grand Slam Fashion
In 1930, Bobby Jones completed the calendar-year Grand Slam. To celebrate his accomplishment, the apparel brand that bears his name has created the 1930 Collection.
128 Parting Shot
Sure Enough! . . . It’s a Baltimore Oriole.
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stitch by stitch The making of a Purdey jacket.
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www.golfsportmag.com
Publisher/Creator-In-Chief – T. Ryan Stalvey • Josh Wolfe – Publisher/Editor-In-Chief Associate Publisher – Laurie Morrow To obtain a Media Kit or for Advertising Inquiries – (803) 767-8290 The Golf Sport is represented by National Publisher Services, LLC Ron Murray • Jim Smolen and Circulation Specialists, Inc. Jared Katzman, Director Business Development • Laurie Levasseur, Consumer Marketing Director Proudly Printed in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania by Fry Communications, Inc. Please Call (888) 315-2472 for Subscription Information The Golf Sport is published bi-monthly by Stalvey & Wolfe Partners LLC., Columbia, S C. All rights reserved, reproduction in whole or in part without the written consent of Stalvey & Wolfe Partners LLC. is prohibited. Subscription prices: One year $39.95; two years, $74.95. (Canada, Mexico and all Foreign – add $42 per year.) Single copy $8.95. Subscription and change of address should be mailed to: The Golf Sport Subscriber Service Center, P.O. Box 23902, Columbia, SC 29224. Allow six weeks for entry of new orders or renewals or change of address. Periodicals postage paid at Columbia, SC and additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Send address changes and inquiries to The Golf Sport, Subscriber Service Center, P.O. Box 23902, Columbia, SC 29224. Printed in the U.S.A.
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10 Masthead
DAVE
SANSOM
PHOTOGRAPHY
Providing the best in professional golf course photography for golf clubs, golf course architects and management groups nationwide. “I photograph golf courses for a very simple reason. If a course is well-designed and well-maintained, there’s no place I’d rather be. I have great respect for the men and women who design, build, maintain and manage golf courses. And I consider it a privilege to help show each property in its best light.”
678 . 362. 5592 DAVE@DAVESANSOM.COM WWW.DAVESANSOM.COM
Dave Sansom is Senior Consulting Photographer with Heritage Charity Auctions and Awards, a licensed photography vendor for The PGA Tour. For information on the full line of products and services Heritage offers golf’s premier clubs, contact: Mark Gibson, Heritage Charity Auctions & Awards, info@heritagecaa.net, (770) 888-7787.
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all. It’s finally here, or almost. For those of us in the South, we’ll endure the heat just a little longer, but no matter. The fall is the revitalization of my life as a sportsman and what it means to be such. It’s the purchase of a hunting license or the new grips on my old irons that get me excited about the coming months. It’s the flicker of a dove’s tail as it balances itself on a tree limb, the worn wood and blued barrel of a favorite shotgun, the graceful evasion of a white-tailed deer, and the ball flight off a sure eight iron that you wish would hold the moment forever. It’s a pretty lady at your side, walking arm in arm, through the streets of a small-town fair, the leaves falling, the cool wind telling you that winter is but weeks, maybe days, away. To describe the feeling of fall I only needed to choose this photograph. It’s the epitome of an autumn afternoon in one of my favorite locales in the world – just a simple little place in southern Tennessee. The leaves have changed, the moon is full and the balance of light is absolutely perfect. I don’t remember exactly what I was doing in and around taking this photo, but I imagine college football is playing on a television somewhere close by. Or perhaps it was a successful morning in the woods and the scene is no more than a restful moment, watching the world go by. Maybe the inspiration came from a game on the links that morning, when I strolled through the trees looking for my ball and coincidentally noticed that even out-of-bounds holds some beauty. I can bet, without a hint of doubt, that somewhere behind the lens stood a good friend, maybe even my mother or father, letting me indulge myself in yet another photograph that so strongly represents my life; where I’m from. Having made it a year, the sixth issue, we now have some sort of perspective as to where we’re going. As always, thank you dear readers for what you’re doing and the foundation you’ve created for us. We continually hope that you’ll find something important to you within the pages of The Golf Sport. That could be a course you’d like to play, a new perspective on wine, beer or whiskey; or just good ol’ entertainment. Don’t forget to renew, tell a friend or just sign them up. Truly yours,
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Josh Wolfe
Editor-In-Chief
From the Publishers
From Our Readers Simply said nailed it, again. Frank U., Hilton Head, South Carolina
For some reason, I look forward to purchasing this magazine off the newsstand. It’s visually pleasing to see it standout among all the other “run-of-the-mill” golf publications. Michael J., San Diego, California
Even though we only play golf for a few months a year, this magazine helps me get buy in the winter. Dave W., Steamboat Springs, Colorado
My wife and I are retiring and looking for a southern location to enjoy our days. Thanks for the information on Brays Island. Walter I., New York, NY
A unique perspective. This is my sixth issue and you can bet I’ll be renewing. Garrett T., Washington, D.C.
My “golfing gals” and I appreciate finally having something from a magazine we can talk about on the course. So tired of everyone telling me how I need to hit it farther. Gina S., Las Vegas, Nevada
From Primland to Chechessee Creek to now Brays Island, I’ve walked with you guys through each adventure! James H., Austin, Texas
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hirty thousand feet over the Mojave Desert and I have writer’s block. You would think leaving such an adulterated and provocative place as Las Vegas would have the creative juices overflowing, but not for me. Ask me to construct a magazine from scratch and I can do it in my sleep, but have me write a 250-word introduction and I go brain-dead. So if it is a heart-wrenching prologue you’re after then I am afraid you are going to be disappointed. I can assure you nothing would please me more than to pen something profound or witty that peaks your, the reader’s, interest, thus setting the mood for the pages to follow. But I am at a loss for words. It is a general rule within a Publisher’s letter when there is nothing interesting to say you gush over the contents of that particular issue. In truth, while this issue has its share of exciting inclusions, all of which can be found within the Table of Contents, this edition does represent a milestone of sorts. This is The Golf Sport magazine number six, and on a bi-monthly schedule puts to bed our first year of work. In retrospect, what a tremendous year it has been. I daresay I ever thought we would’ve made it this far. And while there are so many things I would now have done differently, I can’t argue with the fortuitous string of good luck we have encountered along the way. Don’t get me wrong, we have also had our fair share of bad breaks and challenges. But as they say with boxing, “the sign of a great fighter in the ring is whether or not he can get up from the floor once he has been knocked down.” Dogged and determined we have stayed the course. By no means are we shooting with loaded dice, but with a rapidly growing readership, it is a safe bet The Golf Sport will be around for many issues to come. As for Vegas, having grown up Pentecostal Holiness in small-town South Carolina, you are warned by your elders to beware of the traps and snares of Sin City. They say, “Folks who venture out that way never come back.” Contrary to those concerned back home, we did make it back, all while avoiding the peep shows and the pokey. I must confess, we did spend far too much on drinks and dinner, and won a little/lost a little on the velvet tables. And even though it was a bit tempting to bet it all on red, we did return seemingly unscathed, bank roll and all. Seemingly, but that’s a story best left in Vegas. Yours Truly,
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T. Ryan Stalvey
Creator-In-Chief
From the Publishers
© Drew Myers/Corbis
You have exquisite taste. Your style is refined. Your game is not limited to the course. That’s why you read The Golf Sport.
Subscribe Today. Call 888-315-2472 or visit GolfSportMag.com.
IMAGE COURTESY DAVE SANSOM - DAVESANSOM.COM
Wingpointe Golf Course,
Salt Lake City, Utah
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The Course
Highlands Falls Country Club, Highlands, NC
IMAGE COURTESY DAVE SANSOM - DAVESANSOM.COM
Heritage Golf Links,
Tucker, Georgia
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20 The Course
IMAGE COURTESY DAVE SANSOM - DAVESANSOM.COM
The Golf Tournament
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Over his career, Ralph Henry Barbour produced more than 100 novels as well as a number of short stories. Most popular were his works of sports fiction for boys – creating highly readable and idealistic stories that taught the importance of sports, teamwork and school spirit. Here is a chapter from his 1899 classic, The Half-Back.
was Saturday afternoon. The day was bright and sunny, and in the shelter of the grand stand on the campus, where the little east wind could not rustle, it was comfortably warm. The grass still held much of its summer verdancy, and the sky overhead was as deeply blue as on the mildest spring day. After a week of dull or stormy weather yesterday and to-day, with their fair skies, were as welcome as flowers in May, and gladness and light-heartedness were in the very air. On the gridiron Westvale Grammar School and Hillton Academy were trying conclusions. On the grand stand all Hillton, academy and village, was assembled, and here and there a bright dress or wrap indicated the presence of a mother or sister in the throng. The Westvale team had arrived, accompanied by a coterie of enthusiastic supporters, armed with tin horns, maroon-colored banners, and mighty voices, which, with small hopes of winning on the field, were resolved to accomplish a notable victory of sound. On the sideline, with a dozen other substitutes whose greatest desire was to be taken on the first eleven, sat Joel. Outfield West was sprawled beside him with his caddie bag clutched to his breast, and the two boys were discussing the game. West had arrived upon the scene but a moment before. “We’ll beat them by about a dozen points, I guess,” Joel was prophesizing. “They say the score was twenty to nothing last year, but Remsen
declares the first isn’t nearly as far advanced as it was this time last season. Just hear the racket those fellows are making! You ought to have seen Blair kick down the field a while ago. I thought the ball never would come down, and I guess Westvale thought so too. Their full-back nearly killed himself running backward, and finally caught it on their five-yard line, and had it down there. Then Greer walked through, lugging Andrews for a touch-down, after Westvale had tried three times to move the ball. There’s the whistle; half ’s up. How is the golf getting along?” “Somers and Whipple were at Look Off when I came away. I asked Billy Jones to come over and call me when they got to The Hill. I think Whipple will win by a couple of strokes. Somers is too nervous. I wish they’d hurry up. We’ll not get through the last round before dark if they don’t finish soon. You’ll go round with me, won’t you?” “If the game’s over. They’re playing twentyminute halves, you know; so I guess it will be. I hope Blair will let me on this half. Have you seen Cloud?” “Yes; he’s over on the seats. Who has his place?” “Ned Post; and Clausen’s playing at right. I’m glad that Blair is doing such good work today. I think he was rather cut up about getting beaten this morning.” “Yes; wasn’t that hard luck? To think of his being downed by a cub of a junior! Though that same junior is going to be a fine player some day. He drives just grand. He had too much handicap, he did. Remsen didn’t know anything about him, and allowed him ten. Here they come again.” The two elevens were trotting out on the field once more, and Joel stood up in the hope that Blair might see him and decide to take him on. But Joel was doomed to disappointment, for the second half of the game began with practically the same line-up. The score stood six to nothing in favor of Hillton. The playing had been decidedly ragged on both sides; and Remsen, as he left the team after administering a severe lecture, walked past with a slight frown on his face. “Well, I guess I’ll go over and see if I can hurry those chumps up some.” West swung his bag over his shoulder and turned away. “When the game’s done, hurry over, March. You’ll find us somewhere on the course.” Joel nodded, and West sauntered away toward the links. The second half of the game was similar to the first, save in that Remsen’s scolding had accomplished an awakening, and the first put more snap into its playing. Six more points were scored from a touch-down by the Hillton right end, after a thirty-yard run, followed
football tackle by J. C. Leyendecker
by a difficult goal by Blair. But the Westvale rooters kept up their cheering bravely to the end, and took defeat with smiling faces and upraised voices; and long after the coach containing them had passed from sight their cheers could still be heard in the distance toward the station.
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he bulk of the spectators turned at the conclusion of the match toward the links, and Joel followed in his football togs. At Home Hole he found Whipple and West preparing for the deciding round of the tournament, and the latter greeted him with a shout, and put his clubs into his keeping. Then Whipple went to the tee and led off with a long drive for the first hole, and the round began. West followed with a shorter shot and the march was taken up. The links at Hilton consists of nine holes, five out and four in. The entire length of the course is a trifle over one and a half mile, and although the land is upland meadow and given to growing long grass, yet the course is generally conceded to be excellent. The holes are short, allowing the round to be accomplished by a capable player in thirtytwo strokes. The course has thirteen bunkers of varying sizes, besides two water hazards at the inlet and outlet of the lake. The lake itself is spoiled as a hazard by the thick grove of trees on the side nearest the Academy. Sometimes a poor drive lands a ball in that same grove, and there is much trial and tribulation ere the player has succeeded in dislodging it from the underbrush. While generally level, the course is diversified by slight elevations, upon which are the putting greens, their red and white flags visible from all parts of the links. As has been said, the holes are short, the longest, Lake Hole, being four hundred and ninety-six yards, and the shortest, the first, but one hundred and thirty-three. Outfield West once spent the better part of two weeks, at great cost to his class standing, in making a plan of the links, and, while it is not warranted accurate as to distances, it is reproduced here with his permission as giving a clearer idea of the ground than any verbal description. Play had begun this morning at nine o’clock, and by noon only Somers, Whipple, and West had been left in the match. Blair had encountered defeat most unexpectedly at the hands of Greene, a junior, of whose prowess but little had been known by the handicapper; for, although Blair had done the round in three strokes less than his adversary’s gross score, the latter’s allowance of six strokes had placed him an easy winner. But Blair had been avenged
The Golf Tournament
later by West, who had defeated the youngster by three strokes in the net. In the afternoon Somers and Whipple had met, and, as West had predicted, the latter won by two strokes. And now West and Whipple, both excellent players, and sworn enemies of the links, were fighting it out, and on this round depended the possession of the title of champion and the ownership for one year of the handicap cup, a modest but highly prized pewter tankard. Medal Play rules governed today, and the scoring was by strokes. Whipple reached the first green in one stroke, but used two more to hole-out. West took two short drives to reach a lie, from which he dropped his ball into the hole in one try. And the honors were even. The next hole was forty yards longer, and was played either in two short drives or one long drive and an approach shot. It contained two hazards, Track Bunker and High Bunker, the latter alone being formidable. Whipple led off with a long shot that went soaring up against the blue and then settled down as gently as a bird just a few yards in front of High Bunker. He had reversed his play of the last hole, and was now relying on his approach shot for position. West played a rather short drive off an iron which left his ball midway between the two bunkers. Whipple’s next stroke took him neatly out of danger and on to the putting green, but West had fared not so well. There was a great deal of noise from the younger boys who were looking on, much discussion of the methods of play, and much loud boasting of what some one else would have done under existing circumstances. West glanced up once and glared at one offending junior, and an admonitory “–Hush!– ” was heard. But he was plainly disturbed, and when the little white sphere made its flight it went sadly aglee and dropped to earth far to the right of the green, and where rough and cuppy ground made exact putting well-nigh impossible. Professor Beck promptly laid down a command of absolute silence during shots, and some of the smaller youths left the course in favor of another portion of the campus, where a boy’s right to make all the noise he likes could not be disputed. But the harm was done, and when play for the third hole began the score was: Whipple 7, West 8. Even to one of such intense ignorance of the science of golf as Joel March, there was a perceptible difference in the style of the two competitors. Outfield West was a great stickler for form, and imitated the full St Andrews swing to the best of his ability. In addressing the ball he stood as squarely
to it as was possible, without the use of a measuring tape, and drove off the right leg, as the expression is. Despite an almost exaggerated adherence to nicety of style, West’s play had an ease and grace much envied by other golf disciples in the school, and his shots were nearly always successful. Whipple’s manner of driving was very different from his opponent’s. His swing was short and often stopped too soon. His stance was rather awkward, after West’s, and even his hold on the club was not according to established precedent. Yet, notwithstanding all this, it must be acknowledged that Whipple’s drives had a way of carrying straight and far and landing well. Joel followed the play with much interest if small appreciation of its intricacies, and carried West’s bag, and hoped all the time that the youth would win, knowing how greatly he had set his heart upon so doing. There is no bunker between second and third holes, but the brook which supplies the lake runs across the course and is about six yards wide from bank to bank. But it has no terrors for a long drive, and both the players went safely over and won Academy Hole in three strokes. West still held the odd. Two long strokes carried Whipple a scant distance from Railroad Bunker, which fronts Ditch Hole, a dangerous lie, since Railroad Bunker is high and the putting green is on an elevation, almost meriting the title of hill, directly back of it. But if Whipple erred in judgment or skill, West found himself in even a sorrier plight when two more strokes had been laid to his score. His first drive with a brassie had fallen rather short, and for the second he had chosen an iron. The ball sailed off on a long flight that brought words of delight from the spectators, but which caused Joel to look glum and West to grind the turf under his heel in anger. For, like a thing possessed, that ball fell straight into the very middle of the bunker, and when it was found lay up to its middle in gravel. West groaned as he lifted the ball, replaced it loosely in its cup, and carefully selected a club. Whipple meanwhile cleared the bunker in the best of style, and landed on the green in a good position to hole out in two shots. “Great Gobble!” muttered West as he swung his club, and fixed his eye on a point an inch and a half back of the imbedded ball, “if I don’t get this out of here on this shot, I’m a gone goose!” March grinned sympathetically but anxiously, and the onlookers held their breath. Then back went the club – there was a scattering of sand and gravel, and the ball dropped dead on the green, four yards from the hole.
“Excellent!” shouted Professor Beck, and Joel jumped in the air from sheer delight. “Good for you, Out!” yelled Dave Somers; and the rest of the watchers echoed the sentiment in various ways, even those who desired to see Whipple triumphant yielding their meed of praise for the performance. And, “I guess, Out,” said Whipple ruefully, “you West glanced up once might as well take the and glared at one cup.” But Outfield West only smiled silently in offending junior, and an response, and followed his ball with businesslike admonitory “– Hush! –” attention to the game. was heard. But he was Whipple was weak on putting, and his first plainly disturbed, and stroke with an iron failed to carry his ball when the little white to the hole. West, on the contrary, was a sure sphere made its flight player on the green, it went sadly aglee and and now with his ball but four yards from dropped to earth far to the hole he had just the opportunity he desired the right of the green, to better his score. The and where rough and green was level and clean, and West selected cuppy ground made a small iron putter, and addressed the ball with all exact putting well-nigh the attention to form that the oldest St Andrews impossible. veteran might desire. Playing on the principle that it is better to go too far than not far enough, since the hole is larger than the ball, West gave a long stroke, and the gutta-percha disappeared from view. Whipple holed out on his next try, adopting a wooden putter this time, and the score stood fifteen strokes each. The honor was West’s, and he led off for End Hole with a beautiful brassie drive that cleared the first two bunkers with room to spare. Whipple, for the first time in the round, drove poorly, toeing his ball badly, and dropping it almost off of the course and just short of the second bunker. West’s second drive was a loft over Halfway Bunker that fell fairly on the green and rolled within ten feet of the hole. From there, on the next shot, he holed out very neatly in eighteen. Whipple meanwhile had redeemed himself with a high lofting stroke that carried past the threatening dangers of Masters Bunker and back on to the course within a few yards of West’s lie. But again skill on the putting green was wanting, and he required two strokes to make the
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hole. Once more the honor was West’s, and that youth turned toward home with a short and high stroke. The subsequent hole left the score “the like” at 22, and the seventh gave Whipple, 25, West 26. “But here’s where Mr. West takes the lead,” confided that young gentleman to Joel as they walked to the teeing ground. “From here to Lake Hole is four hundred and ninety-six yards, and I’m going to do it in three shots on to the green. You watch!” Four hundred and ninety-odd yards is nothing out of the ordinary for an older player, but to a lad of seventeen it is a creditable distance to do in three drives. Yet that is what West did it in; and strange to relate, and greatly to that young gentleman’s surprise, Whipple duplicated the performance, and amid the excited whispers of the onlookers the two youths holed out on their next strokes; and the score still gave the odd to West – 29 to 30. “I didn’t think he could do it,” whispered West to Joel, “and that makes it look bad for your uncle Out. But never mind, my lad, there’s still Rocky Bunker ahead of us, and--” West did not complete his remark, but his face took on a very determined look as he teed his ball. The last hole was in sight, and victory hovered overhead.
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ow, the distance from Lake Hole to the Home Hole is but a few yards over three hundred, and it can be accomplished comfortably in two long brassie drives. Midway lies The Hill, a small elevation rising from about the middle of the course to the river bluff, and there falling off sheer to the beach below. It is perhaps thirty yards across, and if the ball reaches it safely it forms an excellent place from which to make the second drive. So both boys tried for The Hill. Whipple landed at the foot of it, while West came plump upon the side some five yards from the summit, and his next drive took him cleanly over Rocky Bunker and to the right of the Home Green. But Whipple summoned discretion to his aid, and instead of trying to make the green on the next drive, played short, and landed far to the right of the Bunker. This necessitated a short approach, and by the time he had gained the green and was “made” within holing distance of the flag, the score was once more even, and the end was in sight. And now the watchers moved about restlessly, and Joel found his heart in his throat. But West gripped his wooden putter firmly and studied the situation. It was quite possible for a skillful player to
The Golf Tournament
hole out on the next stroke from Whipple’s lie. West, on the contrary, was too far distant to possess more than one chance in ten of winning the hole in one play. Whether to take that one chance or to use his next play in bettering his lie was the question. Whipple, West knew, was weak on putting, but it is ever risky to rely on your opponent’s weakness. While West pondered, Whipple studied the lay of the green with eyes that strove to show no triumph, and the little throng kept silence save for an occasional nervous whisper. Then West leaned down and cleared a pebble from before his ball. It was the veriest atom of a pebble that ever showed on a putting green, but West was willing to take no chances beyond those that already confronted him. His mind was made up. Gripping his iron putter firmly rather low on the shaft and bending far over, West slowly, cautiously swung the club above the gutty, glancing once and only once as he did so at the distant goal. Then there was a pause. Whipple no longer studied his own play; his eyes were on that other sphere that nestled there so innocently against the grass. Joel leaned breathlessly forward. Professor Beck muttered under his breath, and then cried “S – sh!” to himself in an angry whisper. And then West’s club swung back gently, easily, paused an instant – and – Forward sped the ball – on and on – slower– slower – but straight as an arrow – and then – Presto! it was gone from sight! A moment of silence followed ere the applause broke out, and in that moment Professor Beck announced: “The odd to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirtythree.” Then the group became silent again. Whipple addressed his ball. It was yet possible to tie the score. His face was pale, and for the first time during the tournament he felt nervous. A better player could scarce have missed the hole from Whipple’s lie, but for once that youth’s nerve forsook him and he hit too short; the ball stopped a foot from the hole. The game was decided. Professor Beck again announced the score: “The two more to Whipple. Thirty-two to thirty-four.” Again Whipple addressed his ball, and this time, but too late to win the victory, the tiny sphere dropped neatly into the hole, and the throng broke silence. And as West and Whipple, victor and vanquished, shook hands over the Home Hole, Professor Beck announced: “Thirty-two to thirty-five. West wins the Cup!”
A Round with
McQueen From humble beginnings and a turbulent childhood, Steve McQueen rose to become the biggest movie star of his time; and his reign in today’s popular culture only seems to be getting stronger. By Josh Wolfe
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pon the world there came a baby, born into nothingness to no one who particularly wanted to take care of it. The result of a onenight stand between an alcoholic, party loving woman (some say she was even a prostitute) and a footloose and fancy-free man, the baby wasn’t given much of a chance from the very beginning. In his early days he was a handsome child, externally beautiful, but emotionally insecure, constantly handed off to any relative that would take him. That boy, who would grow to become the biggest movie star on the planet, was none other than Steve McQueen. Terrence Steven McQueen was born on March 24, 1930, in Beech Grove, Indiana. Steve’s father, William, was said to have been a navy biplane flier turned circus stuntman although many records dictate that he was merely a Merchant Marine. Steve’s mother, Julian, was a blond-haired, blue-eyed partier that William met in a bar one night, just hours before the conception of Steve. Out of honor, which was uncharacteristic of William, he married Julian. Bliss was intermittent, and six months of hell were followed by a hasty divorce. Steve would see the first light with odds already stacked against him. For the next several years, as Julian sauntered from men to bars and more men, Steve would live a life of near solitude and complete disorder, building a barrier to protect him from the outside world. One of Steve’s early breaks in life came when he moved to Slater, Missouri, onto a farm owned by his great-uncle, Claude
Thomson. Claude farmed hogs and row crops, persisted through the Great Depression, and even thrived. And while he was tough on Steve, he was always fair. It was no secret that Claude liked to have a good time and raise a lot of hell, but he never wavered in his duty to run the farm or raise “the boy.” He was up every morning before dawn and rarely came home until after dark. Cain’t see to cain’t see. “He was a very good man,” Steve once said. “Very strong. Very fair. I learned a lot from him.” Claude took to a turbulent Steve very early in their relationship and even thought of him as a son. For the first time in his life, Steve had some sense of security – a roof over his head, food on the table, and a male figure that actually cared about him. It became necessary for Steve to adopt Claude’s hard working habits, habits that would stay with him for the rest of his life. Julian would return from time to time, not necessarily to see Steve, but to recuperate until her notion to leave flamed up. Often she would spend a few days then depart. Then one day she showed up and wanted to take Steve with her. Claude couldn’t bring himself to intervene, thinking a boy should be with his mother. Leaving Claude and the farm behind, Steve would follow Julian yet again, this time for a brief stint in Los Angeles and a world filled with more grief and turmoil. Even though Steve tried to retain some semblance of a relationship with his mother throughout the years, from his early childhood until her death, Julian just never seemed to respond; perhaps she just didn’t know how. His father was long gone, nobody having heard from him (Steve would eventually track him to the town where he’d been living, but William had died just three months before Steve arrived). While Julian bounced from city to city, bar to bar, man to man, Steve was retreating into himself, hating the world for his mother’s abandonment. But it appears that Julian was the unassuming and indirect catalyst for Steve’s acting career. It was her on-again off-again boyfriend, Victor Lukens, who ultimately introduced Steve to the stage, and what would become his greatest passion – racing. Lukens was the director of cinematography for Audio Productions, Inc., as well as a member of the
from the thomas crown affair (1968) – courtesy photofestnyc.com
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Directors Guild of America, an architect, inventor, pilot, artist, racer and furniture maker. As a racer, he competed in the Grand Prix, 12 Hours of Sebring and Le Mans. As a furniture maker, his work was featured in Time, Life and Vogue. Had his mother not met Lukens, who would Steve McQueen have become? The answer doesn’t matter. Another important element to consider in the life of a young Steve McQueen was when he joined Boys Republic in California at the age of 15. It was a period he would look back on fondly. (A little-known fact is that after he became a mega star, Steve would donate a lot of money, clothing and most importantly, his time, to Boys Republic. He would spend hours on end with the boys, playing pool, sitting and listening to their stories and only giving advice when asked.) Initially, it took some time for him to adapt to the rules of the camp. It was up at 5:30 for chores, breakfast at 7:30, school at 8:00, and so on. Steve remained emotionally closed off to everyone during his first few weeks until a guidance counselor named Lloyd Panter took pity on him, seeing Steve for what he was – a battered and confused young man who just needed some direction. Panter, it turned out, reminded Steve a lot of Claude Thomson. He was strict and stern, but always fair. Before long Steve took a 180-degree turn. He became a role model to younger boys and was elected to the Boys Council, which enforced rules for the others to follow and was considered a coveted position. It’s not hard to tell why Steve gave back so graciously to Boys Republic. “It’s damn good for boys,” he once said. “Those years from 12 to 18 are crucial in a boy’s life. I mean, he really shapes up in that time, or he doesn’t. I think it’s a good idea for the boys to run the boys. After all, adults are deadly enemies to the young, especially to kids who have been in some kind of trouble. Believe me, a boy learns to toe the line when he’s got the force of 20 other boys seeing to it that he behaves.” After leaving Boys Republic, Steve worked odd jobs around the United States, and at 16, he joined up with the Merchant Marines on a ship called Alpha that was headed from New York to the West Indies for a load of molasses. Unfortunately, the ship caught fire and had to dock in the Dominican Republic.
A Round with McQueen
By that time, Steve had had enough of the sea life and decided to bail. He assumed he was too young to get into any real trouble with the Merchant Marine service and thought he’d give the beachcomber lifestyle a chance. For about two months he lived down there, enjoying the weather and white-sand beaches, and eventually getting a job as a towel boy in a brothel. This little stint only enhanced the already lust-driven McQueen. “Got to sample some of the wares,” he often told reporters with a wink. “Those ladies treated me real, real fine.” Eventually he drifted back to the states, landing in New Orleans, drifting from odd job to odd job and state to state. At some point he would become a carnie, drift to Canada, work on a chain gang for a 30-day period after being charged with vagrancy, and meet a southern belle in South Carolina whose father was ready to set Steve up in business where he’d never have to worry about money for the rest of his life. That could have been it, but it wasn’t. Steve was born a restless soul and where the wind blew, he went. Except it still wasn’t his time to strike it rich. The next episode would take him back to New York City and into the Marine Corps. This was a strange move for the teenager who had hardly known the words order or conformity. With the exception of his short stint at Claude’s farm and then Boys Republic, he had never stayed in any one place for very long. In the Marines, Steve would go on to find his love for mechanics. He had a natural aptitude for engines and this would further enhance his desire to race cars and motorcycles. During this time, Steve also spent 41 days in confinement after going AWOL and fighting with authorities. During this period, he spent most of his time ripping out ceilings and pipes, both of which were lined with asbestos. Who knows if this was the defining moment, but 30 years later Steve was dead from a rare form of cancer caused by asbestos inhalation. Steve was discharged from the Marines in 1950. Though there’s no clear evidence that he was ever demoted during his duty, Steve would often tell reporters, “I was busted back down to private about seven times. The only way I could have made corporal was if all the other privates in the Marines dropped dead.”
from LeMans (1971) – courtesy photofestnyc.com
He headed back to New York City, which just happened to be the “it” spot for young men and women from around the world. It was a time when people were expressing their creativity as well as their sexuality. Marijuana was becoming popular, as were other drugs that opened and enhanced the mind. Needless to say, the good times were rollin’. And it was during these good times that Steve would join the Neighborhood Playhouse and give acting a shot.
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A Round with McQueen
A few more years came and went while a struggling young actor sought to make it big. In that time, Steve worked more odd jobs, acted in a few plays and live TV shows until his big break that landed him on network TV arrived in the form of Wanted: Dead or Alive, where he played a bounty hunter named Josh Randall. He was working hard to master what is known as Method acting – letting the mood of his character dictate his emotions rather than dialogue. The show was his key to the kingdom and the 28 feature films he would make during the span of his career. He captured the fame, the fortune, the power, the wealth, the women, the cars and motorcycles – anything and everything that comes with being the biggest movie star of the time. McQueen had the world in his hand, but he always wanted more. Perhaps it was the scared little boy in him, afraid he would lose everything if he didn’t squeeze just a little tighter than the rest. The world knows Steve McQueen for who he was – an actor who lit up the silver screen for the world’s delight, a ladies’ man, a man’s man, a racer and daredevil, the King of Cool. He once praised Humphrey Bogart for being the actor that did it for him. “I first saw Bogart on the screen when I was a kid,” McQueen said. “He nailed me pronto, and I’ve admired him ever since. He was the master and always will be.” Steve McQueen’s name and image will reign on for years to come and his stature in popular culture will most likely never wane. But what we often never hear about anyone who has “made it,” is his or her origins. McQueen was called the anti-hero, always giving the standoffish, tough guy persona. However, after a relatively short career, building his empire from nothing with hardly any support, before his untimely death at the young age of 50, Steve was more of a tragic hero, a leading character from a Shakespeare play in which only he could have written, directed and starred. Somewhere out there, fresh upon this earth, is a young man preparing for his rise. Most of us are bound to the earth by the gravity that keeps us in our shoes. But for the next Steve McQueen, wherever he might be, the world is limitless and it’s the world that will set him upon its shoulders to look down upon the rest who never dared take a chance. Willingly or not, he must return, and for now only we have to wait.
from the great escape (1963) – courtesy photofestnyc.com
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Bemused in
BEER By Jameson Parker
“Teetotalers seem to die the same as others, so what’s the use of knocking off the beer?” – Sir Alan Patrick Herbert (novelist, humorist,
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Member of Parliament)
y father was a wine connoisseur and a whisky lover (note the spelling of “whisky;” he drank that form and that only) and those were the only drinks I associated with him, so when he made a mention of beer one day while telling me a ghost story, it stuck with me. There were any number of odd and inexplicable occurrences in the old haunted house we lived in before we moved to Europe, one of which I witnessed and for which I have, still to this day, no rational explanation. But the one my father told me involved his putting up a children’s safety gate at the head of the stairs of this particular house, intended to keep his newborn and already accidentprone only son from killing himself. It was an August day in the pre-air-conditioned tidewater South, and my father had mounted the hinges of the gate on one side and had to screw an eye-screw into the newel post on the other side. The screw hit a knot and refused to budge. My father put the screwdriver into the eye and promptly bent the screwdriver. Frustrated, he went down to the basement to get another tool, and on the way back, he and my mother sat in the kitchen and had a beer, enjoying the quiet of an empty house and napping children. When they got back upstairs, the eye-screw had been screwed all the way in, and the gate was hung. But it was the image of my parents, still young
then, enjoying a cold beer on a hot summer day in the kitchen of a quiet old haunted house that stays with me, an image that shaped my thinking about beer for many years. Beer and wine are equivalent to the chicken and the egg: no one knows which came first, but both have been around since long before the beginnings of recorded history. Osiris, the god of agriculture, is supposed to have taught the pre-historic Egyptians how to make beer, though in actuality it probably came as an accidental by-product of bread-making, or possibly – less likely – the other way around. Practically any cereal grain that contains sugars can interact with wild yeast and start to ferment, though in the ancient, pre-historic middle-eastern cradle of civilization those grains were primarily barley and wheat. And both beer and risen bread depend on yeast, whether natural or cultivated, to create the fermentation that in turn creates the final product. The difference is that while bread is still made essentially the same way it was made by the Egyptians and ancient Sumerians, beer sparked the evolution of a dizzying array of styles and methods and ingredients and final products and national and regional variations, leading to the obvious conclusion that man prefers the comfort and conviviality of drink to the necessity of the staff of life. Today, almost all beer is made from barley, though there is a relatively rare German wheat-based beer called Weizenbier, from Weizen, the German word for wheat. It would take a book and a degree in chemistry for me to properly explain, and for you to properly understand, the process of beer-making, so I shall put it into baby talk. Since I flunked chemistry, it’s the only way I can put it or understand it. Most beers are made through a process called bottom fermentation, which is just that: the yeast settles to the bottom of the vat after it has completed its fermentation. Those are the beers we call lagers, from the German word meaning (among many other things) dregs or sediment. Lager beers have a longer shelf life than other beers, and in Germany Lagerbier is beer brewed for keeping. Ale is a top-fermented beverage more often associated with Great Britain, also more often associated with a stronger taste of hops; think of stout or porter. (The latter got its name from London’s Covent Garden porters, a group who,
Only Ballantine Ale Brews “Brewer’s Gold” by MIKE LUDLOW – image courtesy heritage auctions, ha.com
like many Englishmen, like a robust drink with a higher than normal alcoholic content.) Ale has a shorter shelf life than lagers, and in the case of porter and stout, it doesn’t travel well. A good example is Guinness: the closer you get to Dublin, the better (smoother and sweeter) the stout, as good a reason as any for visiting Ireland. There is also a beer called bock beer, traditionally made from the sediments collected out of the fermenting vats when they are cleaned in the spring, hence only available at that time of year. The biggest difference between beers, however, is geographical. What you will be served in an English country pub is a very different beverage than what you will get in an American bar. In fact, the Brits have a very obscene joke that expresses their opinion of American beer. “Why is drinking American beer like making love in a canoe? Because it’s (insert here the adverb declension of a fine old Anglo-Saxon verb of Germanic origin meaning “to copulate”) close to water.” It should be noted that the national and regional differences in beer are a function of climate as much as they are of taste. In Great Britain and Ireland, beer is served at room temperature, or slightly cooler. In Europe, it is usually served cooler still, but only in America is it traditionally served crackling cold, but American summers are also substantially different from northern European summers, and beer in America is used as my young parents used it on that hot summer day so long ago, as a refreshing pick-me-up. Historically, beer is also a reflection of climate to the extent that the regions where beer has traditionally always been made are regions where wine cannot be produced. Great Britain is a good example. In countries like Germany, where both are produced, the regions famous for their beer are the regions where grapes are not grown. Today, of course, with modern conveniences such as refrigeration and rapid transportation, such regional delineations are no longer as valid.
“Why is drinking American beer like making love in a canoe? Because it’s (insert here the adverb declension of a fine old Anglo-Saxon verb of Germanic origin meaning “to copulate”) close to water.”
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Bemused in Beer
Which brings me to how beer should be drunk. In one of his books, the late Alec Waugh, novelist, gourmet and gourmand, talks about the pleasures of sipping a pint slowly through a pleasant evening in a pub, while Maurice Healy, Irish author, lawyer, and wine connoisseur, once wrote: “. . . there are few things in this life as revolting as sipped beer. But let it go down your throat as suds go down the sink, and you will quickly realize that this is a true friend, to be admitted to your most secret counsels.” Talk about a difference of opinion. To weigh in with an alternate point of view, I would suggest that sipping a pint slowly is all very well with the heartier, heavier, warmer beers of the British Isles, but in America, on a hot summer day, follow Maurice Healy’s advice and swill. Swill with a will. On the other hand, I do not suggest following all of Mr. Healy’s advice. He quotes a Jesuit priest who studied in Munich and who was advised on his arrival there – by the Master of Novices, no less – to enjoy the local beer, but to set a sensible limit for himself, a limit the Master suggested should not exceed seventeen liters a day. I should have become a Jesuit. After too many years of offering only a limited number of beers from mega-breweries, in the 1980s America saw the beginnings of a microbrewery explosion, and today you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a brewery. There are approximately three thousand breweries of varying sizes across the country, in major metropolitan areas, and in towns as isolated as Moab, Utah, and as small as Thomas, West Virginia (population 567). There are even breweries nowhere near any town. About ten years ago I was driving down the Owens Valley, the long narrow valley that separates the Sierra Nevada Mountains and the White Mountains (to the north) and the Sierra Mountains and the Inyo Mountains a little farther south, on California’s eastern edge. Where the valley begins to open out into the Mojave Desert, right there on Highway 14 about ten miles away from Inyokern (population 1099) there was a sign advertising the Indian Wells Brewery. My pickup truck is like Barry Fitzgerald’s horse in the movie The Quiet Man; it stops automatically in front of every pub, and in any place as thirsty as the Mojave Desert, a brewery qualifies as a genuine oasis. Also a very good restaurant, the Indian Wells Brewery offers, like most micro-breweries, a wide
Schlitz Beer, ad illustration – image courtesy heritage auctions, ha.com
Saturday Football Over the Radio, “Beer Belongs” campaign advertisement, 1947 by STEVAN DOHANOS – image courtesy heritage auctions, ha.com
selection of beers of different types, and like many micro-breweries, these have wonderful, imaginative names: Mojave Red (a snake); Amnesia; Blackout Stout; Death Valley Pale Ale; Lobotomy Bock; Whiskey Barrel Amber; many others. I like to think these names are picked after a hearty – very hearty – sampling. But the fact that a place as small and as obscure as Indian Wells (the restaurant and brewery are the only things there) has its own brewery tells you much about how far beer has come in America since the early eighties. Some, indeed many, of these breweries place great emphasis –some of us might say too much emphasis – on large amounts of hops (the very small blossoms of the hop vine, added to the brew for a short time, and used for flavoring), giving the beer a distinctive bitter taste, but there are so many beers produced by so many micro-breweries that you would need to be a fussy person indeed if you couldn’t find a beer you like. Beer is normally considered either as a thing unto itself – a pickme-up on a hot August day in a haunted house – or as an aperitif. It is rarely intended to be used in the same manner wine is, as an adjunct – a compliment – to a meal. There are obvious exceptions. Highly spiced foods (chili, curried dishes, any food with an emphasis on peppers) will invariably overpower wine and those are better accompanied by beer. Certain traditional American barbequed foods (hamburger, hotdogs) would insult any self-respecting wine. And even certain traditional American occasions (the Fourth of July, the Super Bowl, the World Series) seem to call for beer, though I suppose if you’re the kind of person who celebrates the Super Bowl with Broiled Salmon a la Roasted Tomatoes and Basil topped with a caviar garnish, you probably aren’t the kind of guy who is inclined to drink beer. But we have come a long way since the days when beer was considered nothing more than a drink for the blue-collar working stiff taking a much-needed idle moment in his hammock on a Sunday after Little League. Certainly it can provide a quiet moment of solace for all of us, but with the vast array of world-class microbreweries all over the country, beer has evolved into a much more sophisticated beverage. All it needs now is for you to discover your personal favorite. To quote (apocryphally) the late Paul Newman, extraordinary actor, humanitarian, and famed beer lover: “Twenty-four hours in a day. Twenty-four beers in a case. Coincidence? Maybe.”
Jameson Parker was a working actor for more than a quarter century, best known for his starring role as A.J. in the long-running ‘80’s series Simon & Simon. He now makes his living as a writer for a variety of hard-copy and on-line magazines, and is the author of the critically acclaimed memoir, An Accidental Cowboy. He is also the editor of the anthology, To Absent Friends. You can read more of his writing on his website, www.readjamesonparker.com. He is married to the actress and singer Darleen Carr.
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Not That It Matters
Most people know him as the creator of Winnie The Pooh, but some consider his short essays as his finest work. The following is three gems from the collection of short stories entitled “Not That It Matters.” By A.A. Milne
Smoking as a Fine Art ady Nicotine was at the innocent age of eight, when, finding a small piece of somebody else’s tobacco lying unclaimed on the ground, I decided to experiment with it. Numerous desert island stories had told me that the pangs of hunger could be allayed by chewing tobacco; it was thus that the hero staved off death before discovering the bread-fruit tree. Every right-minded boy of eight hopes to be shipwrecked one day, and it was proper that I should find out for myself whether my authorities could be trusted in this matter. So I chewed tobacco and have never practiced it since. At eighteen I went to Cambridge, and bought two pipes in a case. One of the pipes had an amber stem and the other a vulcanite stem, and both of them had silver belts. That also was compulsory. In the last four years there has grown up a new school of pipe-smokers, by which (I suspect) I am hardly regarded as a pipe-smoker at all. This school buys its pipes always at one particular shop; its pupils would as soon think of smoking a pipe without the white spot as of smoking brown paper. So far are they from smoking brown paper that each one of them has his tobacco specially blended according to the colour of his hair, his taste in revues, and the locality in which he lives. The first blend is naturally not the ideal one. It is only when he has been a confirmed smoker for at least three months, and knows the best and worst of all tobaccos, that his exact requirements can be satisfied. However, it is the pipe rather than the tobacco
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which marks him as belonging to this particular school. He pins his faith, not so much to its laboursaving devices as to the white spot outside, the white spot of an otherwise aimless life. This tells the world that it is one of THE pipes. For whereas men of an older school, like myself, smoke for the pleasure of smoking, men of this school smoke for the pleasure of pipe-owning – of selecting which of their many white-spotted pipes they will fill with their specially-blended tobacco, of filling the one so chosen, of lighting it, of taking it from the mouth to gaze lovingly at the white spot and thus letting it go out, of lighting it again and letting it go out again, of polishing it up with their own special polisher and putting it to bed, and then the pleasure of beginning all over again with another white-spotted one. They are not so much pipe-smokers as pipe-keepers; and to have spoken as I did just now of their owning pipes was wrong, for it is they who are in bondage to the white spot. A pipe in the mouth makes it clear that there has been no mistake – you are undoubtedly a man. But you may be excused for feeling after the first pipe that the joys of smoking have been rated too high, and for trying to extract your pleasure from the polish on the pipe’s surface, the pride of possessing a special mixture of your own, and suchlike matters, rather than from the actual inspiration and expiration of smoke. In the same way a man not fond of reading may find delight in a library of well-bound books. They are pleasant to handle, pleasant to talk about, pleasant to show to friends. But it is the man without the library of well-bound books who generally does most of the reading. So I feel that it is we of the older school who do most of the smoking. We smoke unconsciously while we are doing other things; THEY try, but not very successfully, to do other things while they are consciously smoking. No doubt they despise us, and tell themselves that we are not real smokers, but I fancy that they feel a little uneasy sometimes. For my young friends are always trying to persuade me to join their school, to become one of the white-spotted ones. I have no desire to be of their company, but I am prepared to make a suggestion to the founder of the school. It is that he should invent a pipe, white spot and all, which smokes itself. His pupils could hang it in the mouth as picturesquely as before, but the incidental bother of keeping it alight would no longer trouble them.
Opposite: The young swell – Print of a tobacco label showing a head-and-shoulders portrait of a dog dressed as a man, facing front, wearing monocle, with a bottle of champagne, a pipe, and a bag of pipe tobacco in the foreground. – image courtesy the library of congress, loc.gov
A Misjudged Game
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has this in common with making poetry, that the desire for it comes upon the amateur in gusts. It is very easy for him not to make poetry; sometimes he may go for months without writing a line of it. But when once he is delivered of an ode, then the desire to write another ode is strong upon him. A sudden passion for rhyme masters him, and must work itself out. It will be all right in a few weeks; he will go back to prose or bills-of-parcels or whatever is his natural method of expressing himself, none the worse for his adventure. But he will have gained this knowledge for his future guidance – that poems never come singly. Every two to three years I discover the game of chess. In normal times when a man says to me, “Do you play chess?” I answer coldly, “Well, I know the moves.” “Would you like a game?” he asks, and I say, “I don’t think I will, thanks very much. I hardly ever play.” But once in two years, or it may be three, circumstances are too strong for me. I meet a man so keen or a situation so dull that politeness or boredom leads me to accept. The board is produced, I remind myself that the queen stands on a square of her own color, and that the knight goes net to the castle; I push forward the kings’ pawn two squares, and we are off. Yes, we are off; but not for one game only. For a month at least I shall dream of chess at night and make excuses to play it in the day. For a month chess will be even more to me than golf or billiards – games which I adore because I am so bad at them. Among the small boys with no head for the game, I should probably be described as a clever player. If my opponent only learnt yesterday, and is still a little doubtful as to what a knight can do, I know one or two rather good tricks for removing his queen. My subtlest stroke is to wait until Her Majesty is in front of the king, and then to place my castle in front of her, with a pawn in support. Sometimes I forget the pawn and he takes my castle, in which case I try to look as if the loss of my castle was the one necessary preliminary to
Not That It Matters
my plan of campaign, and that now we were off. When he is busy on one side of the board, I work a knight up on the other, and threaten two of his pieces simultaneously. To the extreme novice I must seem rather resourceful. You will agree with me, will you not, that it is a splendid game? People mock at it. They say that it is not such good exercise as cricket or golf. How wrong they are. That is brings the same muscles into play as does cricket I do not claim for it. Each game develops a different set of sinews; but what chess-player who has set with an extended forefinger on the head of his queen for five minutes, before observing the enemy’s bishop in the distance and bringing back his piece to safety –what chess-player, I say, will deny that the muscles of the hand ridge up like lumps of iron after a month at the best of games? What chess-player who has stretched his arm out in order to open with the Ruy Lopez gambit, who has then withdrawn it as the possibilities of the Don Quixote occur to him, and who has finally, after another forward and backward movement, decided to rely upon the bishop’s declined pawn – what chess-player, I ask, will not affirm that the biceps are elevated by this noblest of pastimes? No; say what you will against chess, but do not mock at it for its lack of exercise. Yet there is this against it. The courtesies of the game are few. I think that this must be why the passion for it leaves me after a month. When at cricket you are bowled first ball, the wicketkeeper can comfort you by murmuring that the light is bad; when at tennis your opponent forces for the sedans and strikes you heavily under the eye, he can shout, “Sorry!” when at golf you reach a bunker in 4 and take 3 to get out, your partner can endear himself by saying, “Hard luck;” but at chess, everything that the enemy does to you is deliberate. He cannot say “Sorry!” as he takes your knight; he does not call it hard luck when your king is surrounded by vultures eager for his death; and though it would be kindly in him to attribute to the bad light the fact that you never noticed his castle leaning against your queen, yet it would be quite against the etiquette of the game. Indeed, it is impossible to win gracefully at chess. No man yet has said “Mate!” in a voice which failed to sound to his opponent bitter, boastful and malicious. It is the tone of that voice which, after a month, I find it impossible any longer to stand.
Cavaliers Playing Chess, c. 1890, by P.H. ANDREIS – image courtesy heritage auctions, ha.com
The Charm of Golf
hen he reads of the notable doings of famous golfers, the eighteen-handicap man has no envy in his heart. For by this time he has discovered the great secret of golf. Before he began to play he wondered wherein lay the fascination of it; now he knows. Golf is so popular simply because it is the best game in the world at which to be bad. Consider what it is to be bad at cricket. You have bought a new bat, perfect in balance; a new pair of pads, white as driven snow; gloves of the very latest design. Do they let you use them? No. After one ball, in the negotiation of which neither your bat, nor your pads, nor your gloves came into play, they send you back into the pavilion to spend the rest of the afternoon listening to fatuous stories of some old gentleman who knew Fuller Pilch. And when your side takes the field, where are you? Probably at long leg both ends, exposed to the public gaze as the worst fieldsman in London. How devastating are your emotions. Remorse, anger, mortification, fill your heart; above all, envy – envy of the lucky immortals who disport themselves on the green level of Lord’s. Consider what it is to be bad at lawn tennis. True, you are allowed to hold on to
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your new racket all through the game, but how often are you allowed to employ it usefully? How often does your partner cry “Mine!” and bundle you out of the way? Is there pleasure in playing football badly? You may spend the full eighty minutes in your new boots, but your relations with the ball will be distant. They do not give you a ball to yourself at football. But how different a game is golf. At golf it is the bad player who gets the most strokes. However good his opponent, the bad player has the right to play out each hole to the end; he will get more than his share of the game. He need have no fears that his new driver will not be employed. He will have as many swings with it as the scratch man; more, if he misses the ball altogether upon one or two tees. If he buys a new niblick he is certain to get fun out of it on the very first day. And, above all, there is this to be said for golfing mediocrity – the bad player can make the strokes of the good player. The poor cricketer has perhaps never made fifty in his life; as soon as he stands at the wickets he knows that he is not going to make fifty to-day. But the eighteen-handicap man has some time or other played every hole on the course to perfection. He has driven a ball 250 yards; he has made superb approaches; he has run down the long putt. Any of these things may suddenly happen to him again. And therefore it is not his fate to have to sit in the club smoking-room after his second round and listen to the wonderful deeds of others. He can join in too. He can say with perfect truth, “I once carried the ditch at the fourth with my second,” or “I remember when I drove into the bunker guarding the eighth green,” or even “I did a three at the eleventh this afternoon”– bogey being five. But if the bad cricketer says, “I remember when I took a century in forty minutes off Lockwood and Richardson,” he is nothing but a liar. For these and other reasons golf is the best game in the world for the bad player. And sometimes I am tempted to go further and say that it is a better game for the bad player than for the good player. The joy of
Opposite: The sort of durned silly thing that’s bound to happen when you want to make a good show. by W. heath robinson – photographed by Justin Benttinen, pbagalleries.com
Not That It Matters
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Ahoy Cruises Travel by Liner
driving a ball straight after a week of slicing, the joy of putting a mashie shot dead, the joy of even a moderate stroke with a brassie; best of all, the joy of the perfect cleek shot – these things the good player will never know. Every stroke we bad players make we make in hope. It is never so bad but it might have been worse; it is never so bad but we are confident of doing better next time. And if the next stroke is good, what happiness fills our soul. How eagerly we tell ourselves that in a little while all our strokes will be as good. What does Vardon know of this? If he does a five hole in four he blames himself that he did not do it in three; if he does it in five he is miserable. He will never experience that happy surprise with which we hail our best strokes. Only his bad strokes surprise him, and then we may suppose that he is not happy. His length and accuracy are mechanical; they are not the result, as so often in our case, of some suddenly applied maxim or some suddenly discovered innovation. The only thing which can vary in his game is his putting, and putting is not golf but croquet. But of course we, too, are going to be as good as Vardon one day. We are only postponing the day because meanwhile it is so pleasant to be bad. And it is part of the charm of being bad at golf that in a moment, in a single night, we may become good. If the bad cricketer said to a good cricketer, “What am I doing wrong?” the only possible answer would be, “Nothing particular, except that you can’t play cricket.” But if you or I were to say to our scratch friend, “What am I doing wrong?” he would reply at once, “Moving the head” or “Dropping the right knee” or “Not getting the wrists in soon enough,” and by to-morrow we should be different players. Upon such a little depends, or seems to the eighteen-handicap to depend, excellence in golf. And so, perfectly happy in our present badness and perfectly confident of our future goodness, we long-handicap men remain. Perhaps it would be pleasanter to be a little more certain of getting the ball safely off the first tee; perhaps at the fourteenth hole, where there is a right of way and the public encroach, we should like to feel that we have done with topping; perhaps – Well, perhaps we might get our handicap down to fifteen this summer. But no lower; certainly no lower.
端berMobile By Arthur Farrell
Marchi Mobile is not only changing the way we travel the earth, but the style in which we do it.
Mario Marchi’s stylish and futuristic designs have opened our eyes to a new way to travel.
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earing an eerie grind in the back wheel-well, we quickly pulled over for a look. The inside tire of the dual axle vehicle was rubbing the outside tire causing friction and the chance of a flat absolutely imminent. The slide-out extended floor had already quit working a week ago, as had the running water, toilet and most of the lights. A day later the Check Engine light would come on and the motor would buck anytime our speed touched 55. For The Golf Sport, our first taste of traveling by RV hadn’t been good by any means, and we swore up and down that we wouldn’t try it again. But when the opportunity arose to review Marchi Mobile – studying the photographs, researching the designs, chatting with Herbert Klein, President and CEO of the company’s U.S. subsidiary – the same old adventurous feeling rose again, daring us to dive in, especially for a couple of guys who favor the freedom of terra firma and our own schedule. Because let’s face it – air travel for the general public has become more a glorified cattle drive than a glorious occasion. And adventures consisting of breakdowns, detours and lost time precipitates more cussing than laughing. Founded in late 2011 by Mario Marchi, this unique automotive brand from the Austrian-based Marchi Mobile GmbH is more like riding in a private condo – a mode of ground travel unlike anything we’ve ever seen. Innovation creates excitement, fascination. And what Marchi has done to complement the automotive world is nothing short of extraordinary. The roots of Mario Marchi’s idea to found a new-to-the-world (some even say “futuristic”) automotive brand goes back to his other
überMobile
company – the marketing agency mm Promotion, founded in 2002. In the course of this business he came across the Colani-designed trucks, recognizing their great potential, and had the foresight to buy all design rights, take the original product and invest in its continuous improvement. This made it what it is today: an outstanding design vehicle with great functionality. “Our team of designers has been working to translate Mario’s vision for this luxurious, large vehicle that in addition to all its other remarkable features has this sports car look he was envisioning,” said Klein. “With the 2015 model, we’ve achieved that quality.” It so happens that the history of the Recreational Vehicle has evolved for nearly 200 years, although
its exact origins aren’t particularly clear. Perhaps it started in Europe in the early 1800s, used by carnies as they jounced from place to place in pursuit of fame and fortune and whatever else carnies do. Some say the covered wagon that carried so many pioneers into the obscure west of America in the 1700s was a main player in the invention of the Recreational Vehicle. Or maybe this mode of travel didn’t really kick in until a man and his dog hit the road in 1960 to witness a new and ever-changing country that he’d written about for years, but had seemingly lost touch with. (John Steinbeck’s GMC pickup truck, fitted with a custom camper shell for his journey, was named Rocinante, after Don Quixote’s horse). The trend has really seemed to taken hold of the world – largely the United States – in the past 20 to
With its new design, the 2015 models finally have that sports car ‘feel’ the company has been striving for, both inside and out.
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With pre-set light and temperature controls you can make your vehicle comfortable before returning for the night to impress friends and clients on the roof-top terrace, available on the 2015 models.
30 years, with companies who not only specialize in building or selling RVs, but also renting them and creating specialized parks that litter our nation’s interstate system. A high percentage of the large recreational vehicles we see rolling down the highway today, gently rocking across the open road, sometimes swerving into our lane without rhyme or reason, have always appeared outdated and on the verge of breaking down; their operators included. In the modern age of the Recreational Vehicle, Marchi Mobile seems to be way ahead of its time. After many years of development, they have sparked a fire in luxury mobility that is quickly turning into a roaring flame. It’s their exclusivity and extravagance that has created an automotive brand heralded by the world as the new, and stylish, way to cover a lot of territory in complete comfort. The eleMMent series from Marchi Mobile is a new class within the premium segment of vehicles they offer, and is targeted to those who are thrill-seeking enthusiasts choosing to always remain en vogue. Only the finest companies and partners have been chosen to contribute to these German masterpieces. When it comes to automotive design and innovation, Germany has been hitting the proverbial nail on the head for a long time, and in this case, it’s another home run. The eleMMent series in particular offers mobility tailored to your needs. Whether it’s the palazzo motorhome, the viva shuttle for personal or commercial use, or the visione flagship store, you are bound to impress your passengers and visitors with the high level of design both inside and out. While it does come to suit the taste of even the most discriminating individual, there are standard features and component functions, many of which have never been seen before, including luminescent coating that allows the eleMMent to shine on the darkest night – a first in the automotive world. Some of the features on the eleMMent series vehicles include, but are not limited to, a full bar on one of the fully automatic liftable fly bridge lounges, a couch area that turns into stylish bar furniture at the push of a button (great for the private party), a master bedroom with its own integrated bathroom (great for after the private party), a programmed central control that provides all essential information at a glance, and remote video access to your vehicle while it’s parked or stored (this function also allows you to pre-set the lighting and temperature of the vehicle’s interior for your return). All of this is done using a graphic interface via touch screen. Pretty cool. Both the eleMMent and MMpro offer reduced
fuel consumption of up to 25% by its advancement in aerodynamics, thus creating economical and ecological harmony. And despite its eco-friendly values, they are truly sportive with engines running up to 600 horsepower using a unique carbon-fiber rear diffuser and double tube exhaust. The vehicles’ cockpit offers a superior seating position providing the driver an unrivaled view of the road. For commercial use – to have your business located anywhere and everywhere – Marchi vehicles have become some of the most luxurious mobile offices on the planet by allowing you to gain access to customers and adding the priceless value of being in locales amidst a target audience. Their simple modular construction system for its flagship store visione model allows you to easily implement improved store layouts and new communication technologies with up to 550 square feet of interior space. Not to mention the capability to add a second floor or roof terrace to provide your guests with a complete VIP experience. From New York to Beverly Hills, Monaco to Moscow, stay abreast of those who not only have the means and power to purchase your products, but are also well-to-do globetrotters and trendsetters. These vehicles represent a new era in luxury mobility. From the distinctive exterior design to the plush interior, the engineers at Marchi Mobile will tailor your next vehicle to fit your needs. The experience is a lifestyle within itself. And while you only get one shot at a first impression, better make it count. Welcome to a new era in travel. Visit Marchi-Mobile.com.
Left to Right: Tim Carpenter (head of Sales Marchi Mobile, Inc.), Mario Marchi, South Carolina Governor Nikky Haley and Herbert Klein (President/CEO).
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An afterlife on the links might sound wonderful, but is it reward or punishment? By W.A. Beech
Purgatory Pines Veteran Pines by BIRGER SANDZEN – image courtesy heritage auctions, ha.com
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arold cursed the dark. He cursed the road. But most of all Harold Bailey cursed himself for nodding off at the wheel and losing control of his car, crashing it headlong into a brick pillar. Despite the terrible collision, he rose from the wreckage seemingly unscathed but for the exception of an aching head which had rendered his mind even foggier than the night air. The vehicle stopped half-buried beneath a hoary overgrowth of ivy and hedge, and it occurred to Harold that it would likely be daylight before anyone noticed his precarious situation. In the visionless gloom, the beam of a cracked headlight shown through the rusty bars of a timeworn iron gate revealing a stone path. Curiously, he followed the pathway through brier, over vine and onto an age-old property, whereby he faintly saw the glow from a distant window. As he continued on his way towards the direction of the beacon he thought he heard voices. Fantasy and reality became so obscure that Harold could not sensibly distinguish the one from the other. Apprehension stole over him as silhouettes took shape in the gray vapor. Harold called out to them. “Help!” But the forms disappeared and emerged aimlessly in and out of the mist as if they were ghosts. The light and my mind are playing tricks on me, thought Harold. Again Harold called out, “I need help!”
Purgatory Pines
But the apparitions continued on their way, oblivious to Harold’s cries. Just then a golf cart rumbled out of the heavy mist and up to Harold, and a large gruff man with a large gruff voice said, “Get in.” Harold was transfixed by the large man, equally so by the cart in which he rode, as it was of the three-wheel variety, Harold thought it resembled a gilded chariot. “Your name?” questioned the imposing man. “Harold, Harold Bailey, but you see, I’ve been in . . .” “Bailey . . you’re early!” He was dressed all in white from collar to cleat, and he ran his big thumb down a list of sorts which he held clutched in his heavy hands. “Early, what . . . you don’t understand,” explained Harold, “but I’m injured, I’ve been in an accident. I need help!” The large man just drove on, Harold riding alongside, hopelessly pleading. As they approached the building with the lighted window, the brighter the night seemed to become and the more obvious the surroundings., There was a golf course. And the figures Harold thought he had seen were, in fact, golfers. I apparently hit my head harder than I realized, thought Harold, all of this is impossible. That’s when Harold looked upon his chauffeur and saw the wings – magnificent, feathered wings stemming from his shoulder blades and flapping in the breeze. Harold felt faint. Would he ever escape this state of disillusionment? “I’m really not well,” he gasped. They wheeled into the turnabout of the building with the illuminated window. “Let’s go!” the large man demanded as he escorted Harold, his feathered appendage nudging Harold along. The inside of the clubhouse, from ceiling to floor – furniture, fixtures and all, was adorned in white. From across the room a small saintly man with a gentle face sat behind an ivory desk. “That’s Nick.” said the large man, “He’ll see you now.”
But before Harold could step forward, two men, each attired in exceptionally fine tweeds, entered from the back door and rushed to the counter. “Well?” Nick quizzed. “Forty-four front and fifty-six back,” one man answered handing over a scorecard. “Very good Jim, very good indeed,” affirmed Nick. “Well played, we’ll forward this performance upstairs.” “Thank you,” nodded the demure man. He exited the room and proceeded down a marble hallway toward what appeared to be the locker room. It too, was furnished all in white. “How about you, Carl?” Nick inquired with a leer. “Thirty-eight Out/fifty-one In,” he averred. “But I tried, I tried really hard. It had started out such a nice round,” the poor soul sobbed. “I really did!” “Hmm . . . Let’s see,” said Nick, studying the scorecard. “Boasting on the front nine – I give you, and you may keep it, a word of advice, as if you had anything to do with that score,” he scolded. “Yes, ahem, a thrown club on ten, swearing on twelve and thirteen.” Nick peered his tiny eyes over the thin rim of his round glasses. “Tsk-tsk, now Carl, this just won’t do. We’ll have to schedule you back in. You can go ahead off number one now.” “But please. PLEASE!” Carl begged. The large man intervened, tapping Carl on the shoulder with his feathered appendage. “Tee time Carl,” he gruffly demanded in an austere tone. “Yes, yes, thank you, thank you,” Carl bleated as the large man ushered him to the door. “See you post round, Carl,” snickered Nick. “And you?” he then asked, inquisitively looking Harold’s way. “I . . . I was in an accident, I need h-help,” Harold stuttered. “Nonsense. Harold you say?” “But wait, you’ve got this wrong . . .” Harold pleaded. “Ah yes, here you are, Harold Bailey. Why, we have been expecting you.” “Wait, what?” Harold asked bewilderedly. “You’re a tad early, but we can still fit you in,” Nick atoned. “Fit me in? Huh? What? No, an accident, I was in an . . . “ “Nonsense, now off with you to the first tee, Fitzpatrick will be caddying for you.” Suddenly, Harold became aware that he
was wearing full tweeds. How can this happen? thought Harold. It isn’t conceivable. I’ve gone totally mad. Fitzpatrick, resplendent with white beard, leather bag and clubs, stood waiting. “Come Laddie,” he requested, “Let’s take to the course, it’ll help clear things up for ya.” “But my car!” Harold again pleaded frantically. “My accident!” “Now, let’s just forget about that for now. Come, Laddie.” Fitzpatrick’s reassurring voice took possession of Harold, who was at last reduced to despair, and he followed Fitzpatrick out the door and on to the first tee. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Laddie,” Fitzpatrick said, handing Harold a brassie. “But it has been a while since last I played,” said Harold. “The club will remind you,” encouraged Fitzpatrick. “Take hold, Laddie.” Harold took the club in his hands. He regarded the craftsmanship of the wood-shafted beauty. “It . . . why it’s lovely.” “Indeed, now take a look around,” requested Fitzpatrick. At once Harold realized that the unsufferable throbbing of his head had suddenly discharged itself and he lifted his eyes in awe. All around, the course was a pastoral masterpiece, a lush and shimmering emerald green. “On with it Laddie, there’s others to be taking the box after you,” pushed Fitzpatrick. So Harold took a swing and hit a drive the likes of which he had never before claimed. And his approach shots found the greens, and his putts the cups. By the seventh hole, he had become completely absorbed in the round and two-under par to boot. He had just placed yet another stellar drive in the splitcenter of the fairway when he spied the
I apparently hit my head harder than I realized, thought Harold, all of this is impossible. That’s when Harold looked upon his chauffeur and saw the wings – magnificent, feathered wings stemming from his shoulder blades and flapping in the breeze.
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orange and red flashing lights. “Pay no mind to that,” Fitzpatrick said. “But it, it’s an ambulance. They’ve found me . . . I mean they found . . . I need to go to them.” “Nay.” said Fitzpatrick. “I need to go back!” “Nay, Harold. There’s no going back.” “But I have to . . . I must.” “Nay.” “You mean?” “Aye . . . c’mon, Laddie. Two more to go before the turn.” Harold paused, he recalled the occurrences of the night – the accident. Now it all made sense. His shoulders slumped. His eyes gazed beyond the spectacular 8th and 9th fairways and to the 10th, where the loveliness ended against an impenetrable wasteland of thorny gorse and head-high rough where but a sliver of short grass was visible. Fitzpatrick put his hand upon Harold’s shoulder and gave it a pat. “Aye, Laddie, the course, she gets a wee bit tougher on the back.” Resigned to his fate, Harold sighed somberly and turned to give a final glance back towards the distant entranceway and the scene of the accident. Then he noticed something he hadn’t before. It was a large alabaster marker, reflecting the crimson rays of the rising sun and engraved upon it, “PURGATORY PINES – Eighteen Holes Of Golf – Heaven On The Outward Nine – Hell On The In.”
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THE GOLFER’S GARLAND Of rural diversions, too long has the chase All the honours usurped, and assumed the chief place; But truth bids the muse from henceforward proclaim, That Golfing of field sports stands foremost in fame. With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
At Golf we contend without rancour or spleen, And bloodless the laurels we reap on the green; From vig’rous exertions our pleasures arise, And to crown our delight no poor fugitive dies. With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. O’er the green see our heroes in uniform clad, In parties well matched how they gracefully spread, Whilst with long strokes, and short strokes, they tend to the goal, And with putt well directed plump into the hole. With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. From exercise keen, from strength active and bold, We traverse the green, and forget to grow old; Blue devils, diseases, dull sorrow and care, Are knock’d down by our balls as they whiz through the air. With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. The strong-sinew’d son of Alcmena would drub, And demolish a monster when armed with a club; But what were the monsters which Hercules slew, To those fiends which each week with our balls we subdue? With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. Health, happiness, harmony, friendship, and fame, Are the fruits and rewards of our favourite game: A sport so distinguished the fair must approve; So to Golf give the day and the evening to love. With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
Our first standing toast we to Golfing assign, No other amusement so truly divine; It has charms for the aged, as well as the young, Then as first of field sports let its praises be sung. With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
The next we shall drink to our friends far and near; To the mem’ry of those who no longer appear, Who have play’d their last round, and passed over that bourne From which the best Golfer can never return. With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
And to crown our devotion, and grateful goodwill, A bumper brimhigh to their healths let us fill; Our charming instructresses—blessings attend them, And cursed be the clown who would dare to offend them! With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
Then fill up your glass, and let each social soul Drink to the putter, the balls, and the hole; And may every true Golfer invariably find His opponent play fair, and his fair one prove kind. With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
From Mathieson’s Poem “The Goff” 1743, with the exception of the 5th verse, which was copied by a member of the Burgess Club from a version of the song found on an old bookstall. Image: Golfer and His caddy in the rough by john barclay photographed by Justin Benttinen, pbagalleries.com
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Aladdin’s Cave of Golf the
At Tom Stewart’s Old Sport Gallery in the Village of Pinehurst, you’ll find a treasure trove of golf art, collectibles, antiques & memorabilia. By Laurie Bogart Morrow
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he Village of Pinehurst, North Carolina, is known the world over as “the cradle of golf.” Here, in 1895, a Bostonian named James Walker Tufts, who made his fortune manufacturing soda fountains, purchased the first 500 of eventually 6,000 acres of pineforested land in the sandhills of central North Carolina. He then engaged Olmsted, Olmsted and Eliot of Brookline, Massachusetts, the nation’s first landscape architecture business; to lay out a village he called Tuftstown. Whether Frederick Law Olmsted, the master craftsman of New York’s Central Park, actually planned the village himself has never been absolutely established. He was seriously ill when Tufts set out to build upon his dream of a New England village south of the Mason-Dixon Line. It’s more probable that Olmsted’s son, Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., and adopted son and nephew, John Charles Olmsted, would have executed their father’s trademark “organic” plan for a village in which no two roads ran parallel and very few were straight. By 1901, “Tuftstown” was changed to “Pinehurst,” a golf course had been carved out of the sandhills, and upon its rolling greens, the first North and South Men’s Amateur Golf Championship was played. A few years later, a young professional golfer named Donald Ross, who hailed from Dornoch, Scotland, designed a second course at Pinehurst – appropriately named Pinehurst No. 2. And the rest, as they say, is history. It’s that history that, almost a century later, lured another professional golfer to these hallowed sandhills. His name is Tom Stewart and he has dedicated his entire life to golf – the past 15 years of which he has sold golf memorabilia, art, and books from his shop, Old Sport & Gallery. And it just happens to be as famous to collectors as Ross’ Pinehurst No. 2 is to golfers.
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golf professional and life member of the PGA since 1969, Tom has taught and competed in over 20 countries. Author of
The Nature of Golf (Stewart, Tabori and Chang, Canada, 1999) and two other best-selling books about the game, he is currently at work on his fourth. But the Michigan-born golf personality is best known as the proprietor of the matchless golf memorabilia shop he founded in 1999 in Pinehurst with his wife, Ilana. The Old Sport & Gallery has been acclaimed by Golf Digest, Sports Illustrated, Travel & Leisure, Golf Week, The Golf Channel, Fine Living Channel and The New York Times as housing one of the finest private collections of its kind. It occupies six sprawling, first-floor rooms in the old Harvard Hotel building – built in 1898 in the geographical center of Pinehurst Village – and just down the road from Pinehurst No. 2, site of this year’s backto-back Men’s and Women’s U.S. Opens. Fifty years in the making, this enviable collection of golf paraphernalia and collectibles dates from the early 19th century and includes autographed photographs, fine art, and original paintings by Bernard Willington, Bill Williams and Richard Chorley. “Today, Linda Hartough is one of our biggest artists,” Tom said. “Then there’s this guy who painted a picture with his eight iron named Thomas LeGault who only does original paintings and they’re stunning. We also represent two sculptors, Brad Pearson and Michael Roche, who are among the best in the world.” And then there are the rare books. Books, in fact, built the foundation of Old Sport’s unmatched collection. During a visit to St Andrews in 1970, Tom happened upon a book sale at the local library and for a significant donation, acquired 240 volumes, many of them rare first editions. The road that led Tom Stewart to Pinehurst has been a long and adventuresome one. His love affair with golf began at the Petoskey-Bay View Country Club in northern Michigan. “I was ten years old and used to hitchhike ten miles from home to the club to caddie,” he recalled. After caddying, Tom worked as a night
“Fishing Set,” made by W. B. & Company England. Hallmarked, sterling silver, engraved, showing golfer with “gutty” golf ball. Stag Horn handles. Made in 1890.
The ‘Aladdin’s Cave’ of Golf
A guy walked into my shop one day and said, ‘I just bought this signed Ben Hogan ball for $200 on-line.’ “I replied, ‘No, you didn’t. That’s not Ben Hogan’s signature.’ “He said, ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ “And I said, ‘No, I’m calling the guy who sold it to you a liar. Ben Hogan was dead before the (Titleist) Pro V1 was made.’
The Old Sport Gallery is home to a marvelous collection of rare golf books, antique equipment and advertising memorabilia. Opposite: Pinehurst No. 2 by Thomas LeGault, exclusively represented by Tom Stewart.
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waterman at Walloon Country Club, where Walter Hagen was the first club professional. “After I got done watering, I’d mow the greens. All I wanted was to be around golf.” On many early mornings, two brothers would show up to play a round. “I usually joined them,” Tom said, smiling at the memory of Tom Watson and his older brother, Ridge. “Most clubs back then wouldn’t allow kids to play but Ed Kelbel, who managed the club, was ahead of his time. He encouraged young kids to play. We played every day – ten or twelve of us, ages 14 to 18. A lot of the guys were really, really good players. Tom Watson won the club championship when he was 14. Even then, he was one of the best putters. We built our competitive spirit at that club where we’d play for each other’s pocket change. Amazingly, we all went on to play golf in college, quite the incredible feat for a small club. Those summers helped shaped my career. It was great fun and I was lucky to be a part of it.” “We had members from all over – Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi, Florida, out west, downstate,” Ed Kelbel remembered. “And
Tom Stewart, who later became the pro at Lakewood Shores, Bay Valley, and PetoskeyBay View, and the Adios Club in south Florida, and became president of the Michigan PGA, started out working for me!” Tom Stewart’s athletic abilities in golf and basketball in high school won him a scholarship to Aquinas College in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where he earned a degree in business administration. “I had a job every summer, so I wasn’t a full-time tour player. All of us young guys could plunk down $50 to try to qualify for a spot in the tournament. In those days, there were around 120 guys vying for eight spots so you had to come out shooting at the flags. Qualifiers were Monday mornings and I was a ‘rabbit,’ jumping from tournament to tournament trying to get in, trying to find places to go play. Nothing ever came easy.” Tom tried playing the PGA tour in the early 1970s during the winter months and then set out to comb the world for adventure, golfing along the way with his friend Fred Muller, the current head pro at
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Crystal Downs Country Club near Frankfort, Michigan. According to Mueller, they “would grow beards, throw all our stuff in backpacks and disappear.” Muller would later say, “Golf has been an important avenue for Tom’s social activism. It has been a way for him to express his lust for life, and now through his shop he has become this Renaissance figure. His has been a unique journey.” In 1984, Stewart shifted his focus from the golf business and entered politics though his unsuccessful bid for a seat in Michigan’s 11th Congressional District failed to dampen his enthusiasm. In 1988, he traveled to the Soviet Union, where he helped organize the first golf course in Russia, Tumba Golf Club in Moscow, and co-founded the non-profit organization Sport Promotes Friendship, which provided opportunities for Russian teenagers to further their golfing skills and broaden their understanding of the game. It was around this time he met Ilana Starodubskaya, a Russian living in Kiev, who worked as a flight attendant and translator. They married in 1991 and the following year, their son, Bryan, was born. After moving back to the United States, Tom became the golf professional at two seasonal clubs, the Adios Golf Club in Boca Raton, Florida, and the Bay View Country Club in his hometown of Petoskey, Michigan. Then, in 1997, the Stewart family moved to Pinehurst and opened the Old Sport & Gallery. Ilana’s influence in the shop is clear with a charming and exclusive collection of unique hand-carved and hand-painted Russian Santas, collectible Christmas figurines, angels, traditional Russian nesting dolls and Nativity scenes. And naturally, there are carved figures of Santa playing golf. “Our wood carvings are made from solid linden wood by Russian artists and craftsmen,” Ilana explains. “We specialize in custom work and special orders.”
Golf-themed figurines, place card holders, broaches and sports coat buttons, The Old Sport Gallery is a cornucopia of golf antiques and collectibles.
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im Dodson is one of the golf world’s most prolific and prestigious writers. A contributor to over fifty publications, he is Writer-in-Residence for The Pilot newspaper and editor of three regional North Carolina magazines. Among the many books he has written are Faithful Travelers, The Road to Somewhere, A Golfer’s Life (with Arnold Palmer), Ben Hogan – An American Life, Final Rounds, A Son of the Game and American Triumvirate: Sam Snead, Byron Nelson, Ben Hogan and the Age of Modern Golf. Jim is a longtime friend of Tom Stewart and his family. “I call him the Lord Mayor of Pinehurst,” Dodson began. “In some ways, he perfectly summarizes the spirit of the place. He’s a lifetime PGA member and has been a golf pro at several of the nation’s leading clubs. Tom understands golf at the grass roots of the game. He also has a ‘celebrational’ spirit of the game and you can see that in his shop. On one shelf he has the greatest collection of golf books, and on the other side of the shop, you have memorabilia and stuff that no one else has. Tom’s also the reason I moved down here. I grew up in Greensboro, but played a lot of golf here. “Tom has a ‘whole earth’ love of golf. He’s this jolly spirit of the game. Tom does this kind of Irish door dance – he’s never too far from the front door and always regaling someone with a story. I once heard him say, ‘Golf and life change without notice, so do today what you may regret not doing tomorrow – go play golf.’” What is the key to Tom and Ilana’s success? “The whole thing about our business is credibility, and you earn that credibility one relationship and one business transaction at a time. For example, a guy walked into my shop one day and said, ‘I just bought this signed Ben Hogan ball for $200 on-line.’ “I replied, ‘No, you didn’t. That’s not Ben Hogan’s signature.’ “He said, ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ “And I said, ‘No, I’m calling the guy who sold it to you a liar. Ben Hogan was dead before the
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(Titleist) Pro V1 was made.’ “He smacks his forehead and says, ‘I have a certificate of authenticity!’ “And I said, ‘But Ben Hogan was still dead.’ Of course, he was embarrassed. It’s a tricky thing. Because I have a 45-year reputation to uphold, and have a bricks-and-mortar store anyone can walk into six days a week, I must have full faith and confidence in an item. If not, I don’t even of think of selling it.” Keeping inventory fresh and in front of customers has also been instrumental in the Stewarts’ success – as well as keeping an eye on the times. “We are going to start doing auctions in late fall on our new website, PureGolfAuctions. com. We’re taking consignments from all over the world, including our own stuff.” Unlike most companies that launch website businesses with hopes for success, there’s no question that this new enterprise will succeed. After all, Tom’s reputation precedes him. “It would be difficult to put all this together today. It’s taken me over 40 years, traveling all over the world. Let’s just say, Old Sport is oneof-a-kind.” So is Tom Stewart.
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ou can get a first edition of Golf Architecture by Dr. Alister MacKenzie for $1,200 (this coveted book, if you can even find a copy, let alone a first edition, sells for over $300 more anywhere else.) Or a one-of-a-kind triptych of Bobby Jones and his three Grand Slam trophies, complete with Jones’ autograph, for $3,500. Visit OldSportGallery.com. LAURIE BOGART MORROW recently moved to Pinehurst from Freedom, New Hampshire, her home of thirty-five years, where her longtime neighbor was Lillian Ross Pippitt, the only child of the legendary Donald Ross. She is a well-known outdoor writer and author of over a dozen books, including The Hardscrabble Chronicles (Penguin Putnam) and The Giant Book of Dog Names (Simon and Schuster).
Sterling silver trophy for the Del Monte Tournament, the first major golf tournament on the West Coast, won by Mr. C.E. Maud, president of the Southern California Golf Association, played at the Riverside Polo and Golf Club, which existed before Pebble Beach.
The ‘Aladdin’s Cave’ of Golf
Castle
After a long and tumultuous history, Killeen Castle is reemerging as an important golfing venue in Ireland. Oh, and keep an eye out for the fairy tree on No. 12.
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a walk by the river, in the woods, the dew dampening your cleats. Your ball lies dead-solid-perfect in the middle of the fairway, but you stroll down through the grove just find a few minutes of solitude and further surround yourself by nature. Plus, you want witness the fairy tree, standing silent and mysterious; perhaps the fairies will grant you some birdies along the way. Turning once again, the old castle always seems to be watching, marshalling its newest addition, the golf course. For over 800 years, Killeen Castle has stood as a silent sentinel in the heart of Royal Meath, ancient home to the High Kings of Ireland. The history of Killeen Castle dates back to 1811, when it was built by Hugh de Lacy as part of the strategic castle defense system for north Leinster. From the late seventeenth to the late eighteenth centuries, Killeen Castle became dilapidated, due to the enforced absence of the Earls following the various uprisings and natural unrest. Located near the picturesque village of Dunsany just north of Dunshaughlan, the spectacular 600-acre estate offers all the joys of country living with easy access to the city, being only 25 minutes from both Dublin City Centre and the International Airport. In the early 19-century, the 8th and 9th Earls engaged renowned architects Francis Johnson and then James Sheil to modernize the castle, thus creating the design for the building that stands today. The 12th and last Earl of Fingall sold the Castle in 1951, and its new owners ran the estate as a stud farm. In 1981, Killeen Castle fell victim to fire, an arson attack, and lay dormant and in ruins until 1997 when Snowbury Ltd. purchased the castle and its grounds with a vision to create the magnificent estate that exists today. An early recorded description of the castle and its interior reads - The date is Aug 1st (the feast of St. Peter’s Chains). As we approach the castle we are faced by four tall battlemented
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The history of Killeen Castle dates back to 1811 and is located near the picturesque village of Dunsany just north of Dunshaughlan, the spectacular 600-acre estate offers all the joys of country living with easy access to the city.
towers with five storeys of slit openings linking the curtain walls of the building. The castle is set on a slight mound. We enter by a steep wooden stairway, and find ourselves, having passed through the considerable thickness of the wall from the narrow doorway, into the Great Hall on
the first floor. Rushes cover the stone flags, and besides the usual furniture, such as a trestle-table, benches and the straight-backed, carved, oaken armchair of the Lord of the Manor, we note on our left a heavy green and white curtain covering one wall of the Hall. Opposite us with its sloping
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Views of the clubhouse at Killeen Castle Golf Club.
stone hood is the fireplace with logs burning in the grate. The right hand wall is hung with the Lord’s war harness, his morion, hunting trophies and feathered lure used in falconry. It is a costly piece with a perch and gilt borders. With an unmatched 18 major championships, as well as some 300 golf courses around the world the he has designed, Jack Nicklaus is considered by many to be the greatest golfer of all time. During his career he has also designed many fantastic golf courses and the 18-hole, Jack Nicklaus Signature Design course at Killeen Castle is no exception. The course, which opened for play in 2008, runs over a 350-acre wooded section of the estate, and while it can be set up for a tough championship challenge, it also remains playable and enjoyable for the average golfer. Club officials were so impressed, they raised a statue of the Golden Bear on the first tee to honor Jack’s contributions to the game; not to mention their relief when he didn’t cut down the fabled fairy tree on the 12th hole, which would, as they say, bring great misfortune to whoever wielded the ax. “I didn’t know what a fairy tree was, but I do now,” Nicklaus told Irish radio host Matt Cooper with a laugh. “And I assume it’s still in place on the 12th hole.”
The 2011 Solheim Cup (the highest profile international event in women’s golf) organizing committee was so impressed by the plans of Killeen Castle that they named it as host venue for the 2011 Solheim Cup before construction of the golf course was completed. When construction began Jack was on-site to oversee each stage of development, and his hands-on approach has led to yet another majestic golf course. With
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beautiful views of the County Meath countryside throughout the 600-acre estate, players also have magnificent views, not to mention testing their skills on the tough course. Every green and tee has been seeded and drained to meet USGA specifications, making the course playable in just about any weather. In fact, the greens feature the same unique blend of grasses you’d find at Augusta, or Jack’s home course at Muirfield in Ohio. Killeen Castle also features the Dave Pelz
Scoring Game School, and is the first place in Europe to do so. Pelz, who coaches the likes of Phil Mickelson, has teamed up with Killeen Castle to build a world-class, eleven-acre teaching facility with USPGA-standard greens, bunkers, aprons and hitting areas designed by Pelz to perfectly simulate championship golf conditions. Dave Pelz has dedicated the past 35 years to studying the game, revealing better ways for golfers to practice and play, and coaching
some of the best players in the world on their short game and putting. Today, a community has been established on the estate that continues to thrive. The first phase of the property, which consists of 25 units and six additional luxury homes, has completely sold out. A local planning permit has been granted for the second phase of construction and is due to begin in early 2015 and will consist of some 40 homes. As the recession begins to loosen its grip,
investors have shown renewed interest in the property surrounding Killeen Castle. Turning the estate into a five-star luxury hotel and golf course is now more of a reality than ever. So, next time the urge for a more exotic golf outing strikes, check out the course at Killeen Castle. Explore Ireland and all it has to offer. We’d suggest you might even raise a Guinness to the greatest of game! Visit KilleenCastle.com.
The course, which opened for play in 2008, runs over a 350-acre wooded section of the estate, and while it can be set up for a tough championship challenge, it also remains playable and enjoyable for the average golfer.
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stitch by stitch Traditional British craft skills are at the heart of Purdey Clothing. Their goods are never hurried and care is taken in every step of their time-honoured process. The following is a look at the making of a Purdey jacket.
Marking & Cutting Purdey tweeds come from small Scottish mills, and are hand-worked in the borders as they have been for generations to exclusive Purdey designs.
Once they reach the cutting bench in England, they are carefully marked out. Every element must marry beautifully, so each chalk-stroke must be precise.
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Traditional cutting shears are used, still working with tweeds as in the days of James Purdey.
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Tailoring
Fresh-cut fabrics are handed to tailors. Each piece will pass through several pairs of hands, as every specialism is enacted. First, a shell is constructed. Then an internal canvas chest-piece, which gives the jacket life and shape. To that, the lining is fit.
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Pressing & The Finish
Although the jackets are pressed ‘in line,’ at each stage of their making, the finished garment is also steam pressed, using special blocks or ‘forms.’ This helps set the jacket’s natural drape. Horn buttons are sewn in by hand, and the Purdey Made in England label. The jacket is given one last press, and then sent on its way to South Audley Street in London.
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Warm, windproof and immune to fashion’s whims, a Purdey jacket is timelessly elegant. The ideal accoutrement for your shooting weekend. Visit Purdey.com.
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Natural
Wonder Linda Hartough’s enchanting golf landscapes are not static, they are alive in texture and depth. And if you look closely you just might spot a bevy of gamebirds. Here is a Golf Sport gallery of her finest.
1998 U.S. Open Championship, The 18th Hole, Lake Course Olympic Club
The 17th Hole, Royal St George’s Golf Club
The 9th Hole, Turnberry Golf Club
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2008 U.S. Open Championship, The 3rd Hole, South Course, Torrey Pines Golf Course
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The 9th Hole, Royal County Down
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2002 U.S. Open Championship, The 4th Hole, Black Course, Bethpage State Park
2012 U.S. Open Championship, The 8th Hole, Lake Course, The Olympic Club
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The 9th Hole, 2014 U.S. Open and U.S. Women’s Open Championships, Pinehurst No. 2, Pinehurst Resort & Country Club
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Grand Slam Fashion
In 1930, Bobby Jones completed what many believe is the greatest individual sporting feat of all time, the calendaryear Grand Slam. To celebrate his accomplishment, the apparel brand that bears his name has created the 1930 Collection, offering elegantly-designed men’s sportswear featuring the world’s most luxurious materials.
The Vardon Print 1-piece collar woven shirt features a brown tonal floral pattern printed on luxurious Italian Flannel ($225). It is paired with the Lux Argyle sweater, in cashmere and extra fine mercerized merino wool blend ($425). The ensemble is completed with the Bobby Jones Shearling Duffle coat. Constructed of Spanish lamb shearling, this piece features a combination toggle set/zipper front closures and upper “hand warmer” pockets. For an added touch of distinction, the toggle closures are constructed from Icelandic reindeer horns. ($2,495). Topping off the look, is the Snead Driver Cap in grey flannel ($45).
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The Satin Stripe woven shirt is made from fine Italian cotton and features a white spread collar for a chic modern take on the classic Bengal stripe ($225). Here it is paired with the Fine Cashmere Plaid Vest ($395). This winning combination is paired with the Emory Flat Front Trouser constructed of 120’s Barberas Worsted Wool in classic charcoal grey ($285). The outfit is finished off with Bobby Jones’ Glossy Alligator Belt in black, harvested from wild Louisiana gators ($695).
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The Herringbone Check woven shirt is constructed of a fine Italian cotton and features a brown tonal herringbone check with small multi-colored Donegal texture ($225). The Herringbone Check is perfectly complemented by the DB Cardigan which is embellished with hand-painted horn buttons ($495). The ensemble is paired with the Emory Flat Front Corduroy Pant in brown ($225). The perfect accessories to this outfit are the Matte Crocodile Tail belt in Dark Brown ($495) and the Faldo Duckbill cap in Brown.
The Fine Cashmere Herringbone Turtle sweater is constructed of 100% cashmere utilizing a 16-gauge herringbone float jacquard pattern in front and 16-gauge micro pattern at sleeves and back, shown in black ($495). The Turtle is perfectly paired with Bobby Jones Double Pleated Trousers. The Double Pleated Trousers are constructed from 120’ Barberas Grey flannel with a refined white/grey windowpane pattern ($285). The look is completed with the 19th Hole Blazer made from authentic British Millerain Oilcloth in Blackwatch Tartan plaid. The blazer features unique hollow, dome crested antique nickel buttons to add to the authenticity ($395). The outfit is finished off with the Glossy Alligator Belt in black ($695).
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The Donegal Check woven shirt showcases a mini-Buffalo Check pattern in a fashionable spread collar design ($225). It is paired with the Cashmere Vest. The outside of the 100% cashmere vest features a suede trim and Argyle stitch suede hunting patch, the interior of the vest is a 12-gauge oxford face plaid ($995). Also shown is the Fine Cashmere Herringbone Turtle sweater. Here the 100% cashmere garment is shown in Natural color ($495). Finishing off the outfit is the Emory Flat Front Pant in Off White ($185). The Glossy Alligator Belt in Cognac ($695).
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Sure Enough! . . . It’s a Baltimore Oriole.
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By Harry Beckhoff – Courtesy Heritage Auctions, HA.com