The golf sport issue 3 by Ryan Stalvey

Signature Magazine for the Golfing Lifestyle

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APRIL/MAY 2014

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Volume 2 • Issue 2

Heart of a Goof 18

The Oldest Member himself, P.G. Wodehouse, once again sits us down for a life lesson encompassing the game of golf. Indeed, there is a bit of Ferdinand Dibble in all of us, a character whose affable yet determined manner demonstrates what the love of a woman will do to the spirit of a man.

2 Contents

a drink of the ages 40

Though it’s been around since Biblical times, wine is still a mysterious libation. By Jameson Parker

Next Stop, Wonderland

Simon Weitzman & Paul Skellett have created a masterpiece delivering golf to popular culture.

On the Cover: Bob Crofut’s wonderful painting of Ben Hogan entitled Up from the Shadows.

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Great expectations

In thEye Model Management revisits the chic and cool styles of the 1920s. By Amy M. Phillips & Fairlight Hubbard

A Shop for all Seasons

A Beretta Gallery will outfit you for your next driven shoot or night on the town. By Arthur Farrell

Chechessee Creek Club

Beyond the Spanish moss and the palmettos of South Carolinaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Lowcountry lies a special place where golf, tradition and hospitality blend for a perfect getaway when life gets too fast. By Josh Wolfe

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12 Ko’olau Golf Club14 Cascata Golf Club16 El Legado Golf Resort

The Course

Gear

32 golden Touch Exquisite Epsilon Putters by Valgrine.

Style

Entertainment

Sexy, Safe & Sound Luxury protection from Döttling.

skills challenge

Vintage games from Restoration Hardware.

4 Contents

Advertising Space Full-Page Ad

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92 Art Hilfiger’s heritage116 Fashion

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The canvases of Bob Crofut are time capsules of reverence and remembrance.

Tommy Hilfiger’s preppy-styled spring collection features heritage golf fabrications, which creates a luxurious feel from breathable fibers.

128 Parting Shot

Handle with Care.

Contents

}120

leather & laces

For footwear company Allen Edmonds, true style starts from the ground up.

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Publisher/Creator-In-Chief – T. Ryan Stalvey • Josh Wolfe – Publisher/Editor-In-Chief 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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Masthead

utting together this magazine – the concept as a whole – has been much like concocting a recipe, a particular dish of our own making. At least that’s our intention as we continue serving our faithful readers issue after issue. Indeed, it is a business and when it’s time to work, there’s no force great enough to fracture our tunnel vision as we focus on the future. But from time to time it’s important we take off our blinders and enjoy the sights, sounds and smells around us. Together, over the last several months, we’ve worked hard and played hard as our own recipe, what you’re holding in your hands at this very moment, continues as an ever-evolving dish of the most unique ingredients we can come up with; something our readers will come back to time and time again as a comforting component within a complex life. Sure, you’ll enjoy some issues more than others, but as a whole, I think you’ll say, “This is one hell of a meal, I can’t wait for the next course.” From radio show interviews and expositions, to visiting and playing golf courses throughout this great country, we’ve taken some pretty lengthy strides in the right direction. Spring is just around the corner, and if this third issue of The Golf Sport doesn’t get you fired up, then perhaps somebody needs to check your pulse. Tell a friend, sign them up and help us continue to grow this grassroots following in the purest sense. We are a family business and I often think about the importance of friends and loved ones beyond the depths of our personal lives. Sitting back and watching during a recent dinner with all the shareholders of this magazine and our families, I realized just how lucky I am to be a part of something so special. Camaraderie among wives and children, serious thoughts put on hold as everyone let their hair down just a bit more to take in and celebrate what we have accomplished thus far. We don’t do that too often, but it would be even less without the readers and advertisers that make this venture possible. I am eternally grateful even for the little things. As always, we hope you enjoy what you see page after page. I can’t tell you what pairs best with issue number three, perhaps a subtle Pinot Noir or a smooth bourbon. Whatever your flavor friend, enjoy it to the last drop.

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Josh Wolfe

Editor-In-Chief

From the Publishers

Special Thanks

A very special thanks to all who took the time to meet with us at the PGA Show. Talented artist David O’Keefe, Chris Garrett of FootJoy, super cool fashion designer Kevan Hall, Agatha Sapak of Daily Sports & Cutler Bags, Jeff Esposito of in fiamme – fine Italian golf apparel, Jenna Markovich and Brendan Tracey with Dunning Golf, Kirk Johnson of the Oxford Golf company, Rui Castro Oliveira with Kankura Footwear, Clément Brochon with Toowap International, Millionaire Gallery owner Bruce Matthews, Rick and Biion Footwear – redesigning the Oxford Brogue style, Susan Hess and the red hot Golftini line of women’s wear, Sabul Sabih with Cutter & Buck, Millie Graham of Peter Millar, Nathan Hoffman with Donald Ross Sportswear, Liz Melo, CEO of the Mexican Caribbean Golf Course Association; Annmarie Dodd with ever-stylish J. Lindeberg Golf, Joseph Parisi, President of the slick and classic GolfKnickers.com; Miguel Couto with Lambda & Omega footwear, Martina Pavan with the excellent Italian sports apparel company Colmar, Kaitlyn Axelrod with fashion-forward Bonobos’ Maide Golf, Chet Sikorski, owner of Turtleson;

Elizabeth Timmis representing FairwayGreene, Mike Ingram with the southern sporting paradise Brays Island Plantation, Joseph Puskarich of Aristo Eighteen, Seth Cohn of Tauer & Johnson golfing footwear, Kangol’s Mark Harris, who by the way has the best beard in the business; Tom Morris marketing manager Lisa Cameron, Jared Klein with Perry Ellis, Teri Martin of Martin Golf, surf-tanned Rachel of John O’Donnell’s Johnnie-O, Fairway Fox founder Katie O’Connor, Michael Morton with MD Golf For Aston Martin, Straight Down Clothing’s Spencer Rowley, Scott Smith with River’s End Trading Company, Catwalk Co-owner Sima Anvari, the dapper Eddie Papczun of Alister MacKenzie, Vanessa Price of Read The Greens, David Dezur, excellent designer at Allen Edmonds; John Slack of Leupold, gifted landscape photographer Russell Kirk, Larissa Lopez-Ibanez with Bermuda Sands – wear it . . . live it, Jan Myers with Waterford Crystal, Robert Stewart of Hole19Golf.com, Golf Channel’s Charlie Rymer and our new friends Tracy and Darren Arakelian of Kings Cross golf apparel.

am a blueblood. Not by wealth, rather from the printer’s ink coursing through my veins. For as far back as I can remember, I have been enthralled by magazines and was an early graduate from Boy’s Life to men’s interest publications. Countless hours I’d spend, engrossed in the pages of Sports Afield and Esquire, studying the editorial and longing to one day emulate the dapperly dressed gent who knows how to hold his drink and how to handle himself when confronted by a charging rhino or frisky female. Years later, I am still fashioning my own style and would probably fair better against the rhino than the latter, nevertheless, those early magazines have left their indelible mark on my psyche and have helped to mold me, for better or worse, into the man I am today. Neville Goddard, in his enlightening book The Power of Awareness, writes “that which you feel yourself to be you are. And you are given that which you are . . . So live in the feeling of being the one you want to be and that you shall be.” Subsequently, we can only hope The Golf Sport will have had even the slightest impact on society. For now, we will strive to give our readers not only a better magazine, but an escape from this gimmick- and gadgetridden genre. To identify the golfer as sophisticated and intelligent and not some gullible puppet who is being led to believe his sole purpose in life is to break 90. While also providing the advertiser with the exclusivity of a voice and a role in a very special and unique initiative for not only the enjoyment, but the advancement of this, the grandest of games. With a desire that someone, someday might look back with a smile and remember The Golf Sport for impressing upon them the qualities to become a golfer worthy the title of gentleman. Won’t You Join Us,

T. Ryan Stalvey Creator-In-Chief

From the Publishers

El Legado Golf Resort

Guayama, Puerto Rico

Image courtesy tid griffin â&#x20AC;&#x201C; elitegolfcourses.com

The Course

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The Course

Ko`olau Golf Club

Kaneohe, Hawaii

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The Course

Cascata Golf Club

Boulder City, Nevada

Image courtesy tid griffin â&#x20AC;&#x201C; elitegolfcourses.com

goof heart of a

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was a morning when all nature shouted “Fore!” The breeze, as it blew gently up from the valley, seemed to bring a message of hope and cheer, whispering of chip shots holed and brassies landing squarely on the meat. The fairway, as yet unscarred by the irons of a hundred dubs, smiled greenly up at the azure sky; and the sun, peeping above the trees, looked like a giant golf ball perfectly lofted by the mashie of some unseen god and about to drop dead by the pin of the eighteenth. It was the day of the opening of the course after the long winter, and a crowd of considerable dimensions had collected at the first tee. Plus fours gleamed in the sunshine, and the air was charged with happy anticipation. In all that gay throng there was but one sad face. It belonged to the man who was waggling his driver over the new ball perched on its little hill of sand. This man seemed careworn, hopeless. He gazed down the fairway, shifted his feet, waggled, gazed down the fairway again,

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shifted the dogs once more, and waggled afresh. He waggled as Hamlet might have waggled, moodily, irresolutely. Then, at last, he swung, and, taking from his caddie the niblick which the intelligent lad had been holding in readiness from the moment when he had walked on to the tee, trudged wearily off to play his second.

he Oldest Member, who had been observing the scene with a benevolent eye from his favourite chair on the terrace, sighed. “Poor Jenkinson,” he said, “does not improve.” “No,” agreed his companion, a young man with open features and a handicap of six. “And yet I happen to know that he has been taking lessons all the winter at one of those indoor places.” “Futile, quite futile,” said the Sage with a shake of his snowy head. “There is no wizard living who could make that man go round in an average of sevens. I keep advising him to give up the game.” “You!” cried the young man, raising a shocked and startled face from the driver with which he was toying. “You told him to give up golf! Why, I thought – ” “I understand and approve of your horror,” said the Oldest Member, gently. “But you must bear in mind that Jenkinson’s is not an ordinary case. You know and I know scores of men who have never broken a hundred and twenty in their lives, and yet contrive to be happy, useful members of society. However badly they may play, they are able to forget. But with Jenkinson it is different. He is not one of those who can take it or leave it alone. His only chance of happiness lies in complete abstinence. Jenkinson is a goof.” “A what?” “A goof,” repeated the Sage. “One of those unfortunate beings who have allowed this noblest of sports to get too great a grip upon them, who have permitted it to eat into their souls, like some malignant growth. The goof, you must understand, is not like you and me. He broods. He becomes morbid. His goofery unfits him for the battles of life. Jenkinson, for example, was once a man with a glowing future in the hay, corn, and feed business, but a constant stream of hooks, tops, and slices gradually made him so diffident and mistrustful of himself, that he let opportunity after opportunity slip, with the result that other, sterner, hay, corn, and feed merchants passed him in the race. Every time he had the chance to carry through some big deal in hay, or to execute some flashing coup in corn and feed, the fatal

diffidence generated by a hundred rotten rounds would undo him. I understand his bankruptcy may be expected at any moment.” “My golly!” said the young man, deeply impressed. “I hope I never become a goof. Do you mean to say there is really no cure except giving up the game?”

he Oldest Member was silent for a while. “It is curious that you should have asked that question,” he said at last, “for only this morning I was thinking of the one case in my experience where a goof was enabled to overcome his deplorable malady. It was owing to a girl, of course. The longer I live, the more I come to see that most things are. But you will, no doubt, wish to hear the story from the beginning.” The young man rose with the startled haste of some wild creature, which, wandering through the undergrowth, perceives the trap in his path. “I should love to,” he mumbled, “only I shall be losing my place at the tee.” “The goof in question,” said the Sage, attaching himself with quiet firmness to the youth’s coat button, “was a man of about your age, by name Ferdinand Dibble. I knew him well. In fact, it was to me – ” “Some other time, eh?” “It was to me,” proceeded the Sage, placidly, “that he came for sympathy in the great crisis of his life, and I am not ashamed to say that when he had finished laying bare his soul to me there were tears in my eyes. My heart bled for the boy.” “I bet it did. But – ” The Oldest Member pushed him gently back into his seat. “Golf,” he said, “is the Great Mystery. Like some capricious goddess.” The young man, who had been exhibiting symptoms of feverishness, appeared to become resigned. He sighed softly. “Did you ever read The Ancient Mariner?” he said. “Many years ago,” said the Oldest Member. “Why do you ask?” “Oh, I don’t know,” said the young man. “It just occurred to me.”

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olf (resumed the Oldest Member) is the Great Mystery. Like some capricious goddess, it bestows its favours with what

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would appear an almost fat-headed lack of method and discrimination. On every side we see big two-fisted he-men floundering round in three figures, stopping every few minutes to let through little shrimps with knock knees and hollow cheeks, who are tearing off snappy seventy-fours. Giants of finance have to accept a stroke per from their junior clerks. Men capable of governing empires fail to control a small, white ball, which presents no difficulties whatever to others with one ounce more brain than a cuckoo clock. Mysterious, but there it is. There was no apparent reason why Ferdinand Dibble should not have been a competent golfer. He had strong wrists and a good eye. Nevertheless, the fact remains he was a dub. And on a certain evening in June I realized that he was also a goof. I found it out quite suddenly as the result of a conversation which we had on this very terrace. I was sitting here that evening thinking of this and that, when by the corner of the clubhouse I observed young Dibble in conversation with a girl in white. I could not see who she was, for her back was turned. Presently they parted and Ferdinand came slowly across to where I sat. His air was dejected. He had had the boots licked off him earlier in the afternoon by Jimmy Fothergill, and it was to this that I attributed his gloom. I was to find out in a few moments that I was partly but not entirely correct in this surmise. He took the next chair to mine, and for several minutes sat staring moodily down into the valley. “I’ve just been talking to Barbara Medway,” he said, suddenly breaking the silence. “Indeed?” I said. “A delightful girl.” “She’s going away for the summer to Marvis Bay.” “She will take the sunshine with her.” “You bet she will!” said Ferdinand Dibble, with extraordinary warmth, and there was another long silence. Presently Ferdinand uttered a hollow groan. “I love her, dammit!” he muttered brokenly. “Oh, golly, how I love her!” I was not surprised at his making me the recipient of his confidences like this. Most of the young folk in the place brought their troubles to me sooner or later. “And does she return your love?” “I don’t know. I haven’t asked her.” “Why not? I should have thought the point not without its interest for you.”

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erdinand gnawed the handle of his putter distractedly. “I haven’t the nerve,” he burst out at length. “I simply can’t summon up the cold gall to ask a girl, least of all an angel like her, to marry me. You see, it’s like this. Every time I work myself up to the point of having a dash at it, I go out and get trimmed by someone giving me a stroke a hole. Every time I feel I’ve mustered up enough pep to propose, I take ten on a bogey three. Every time I think I’m in good midseason form for putting my fate to the test, to win or lose it all, something goes all blooey with my swing, and I slice into the rough at every tee. And then my self-confidence leaves me. I become nervous, tongue-tied, diffident. I wish to goodness I knew the man who invented this infernal game. I’d strangle him. But I suppose he’s been dead for ages. Still, I could go and jump on his grave.” It was at this point that I understood all, and the heart within me sank like lead. The truth was out. Ferdinand Dibble was a goof. “Come, come, my boy,” I said, though feeling the uselessness of any words. “Master this weakness.” “I can’t.” “Try!” “I have tried.” He gnawed his putter again. “She was asking me just now if I couldn’t manage to come to Marvis Bay, too,” he said. “That surely is encouraging? It suggests that she is not entirely indifferent to your society.” “Yes, but what’s the use? Do you know,” a gleam coming into his eyes for a moment, “I have a feeling that if I could ever beat some really fairly good player – just once – I could bring the thing off.” The gleam faded. “But what chance is there of that?” It was a question which I did not care to answer. I merely patted his shoulder sympathetically, and after a little while he left me and walked away. I was still sitting there, thinking over his hard case, when Barbara Medway came out of the clubhouse.

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he, too, seemed grave and preoccupied, as if there was something on her mind. She took the chair which Ferdinand had vacated, and sighed wearily. “Have you ever felt,” she asked, “that you would like to bang a man on the head with something hard and heavy? With knobs on?” I said I had sometimes experienced such a

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desire, and asked if she had any particular man in mind. She seemed to hesitate for a moment before replying, then, apparently, made up her mind to confide in me. My advanced years carry with them certain pleasant compensations, one of which is that nice girls often confide in me. I frequently find myself enrolled as a father confessor on the most intimate matters by beautiful creatures from whom many a younger man would give his eyeteeth to get a friendly word. Besides, I had known Barbara since she was a child. Frequently – though not recently – I had given her her evening bath. These things form a bond. “Why are men such chumps?” she exclaimed. “You still have not told me who it is that has caused these harsh words. Do I know him?” “Of course you do. You’ve just been talking to him.” “Ferdinand Dibble? But why should you wish to bang Ferdinand Dibble on the head with something hard and heavy with knobs on?” “Because he’s such a goop.” “You mean a goof?” I queried, wondering how she could have penetrated the unhappy man’s secret. “No, a goop. A goop is a man who’s in love with a girl and won’t tell her so. I am as certain as I am of anything that Ferdinand is fond of me.” “Your instinct is unerring. He has just been confiding in me on that very point.” “Well, why doesn’t he confide in me, the poor fish?” cried the high-spirited girl, petulantly flicking a pebble at a passing grasshopper. “I can’t be expected to fling myself into his arms unless he gives some sort of a hint that he’s ready to catch me.” “Would it help if I were to repeat to him the substance of this conversation of ours?” “If you breathe a word of it, I’ll never speak to you again,” she cried. “I’d rather die an awful death than have any man think I wanted him so badly that I had to send relays of messengers begging him to marry me.” I saw her point. “Then I fear,” I said, gravely, “that there is nothing to be done. One can only wait and hope. It may be that in the years to come Ferdinand Dibble will acquire a nice lissom, wristy swing, with the head kept rigid and the right leg firmly braced and – ” “What are you talking about?” “I was toying with the hope that some sunny day Ferdinand Dibble would cease to be a goof.”

“You mean a goop?” “No, a goof. A goof is a man who – ” And I went on to explain the peculiar psychological difficulties which lay in the way of any declaration of affection on Ferdinand’s part. “But I never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life,” she ejaculated. “Do you mean to say that he is waiting till he is good at golf before he asks me to marry him?” “It is not quite so simple as that,” I said sadly. “Many bad golfers marry, feeling that a wife’s loving solicitude may improve their game. But they are rugged, thick- skinned men, not sensitive and introspective, like Ferdinand. Ferdinand has allowed himself to become morbid. It is one of the chief merits of golf that non-success at the game induces a certain amount of decent humility, which keeps a man from pluming himself too much on any petty triumphs he may achieve in other walks of life; but in all things there is a happy mean, and with Ferdinand this humility has gone too far. It has taken all the spirit out of him. He feels crushed and worthless. He is grateful to caddies when they accept a tip instead of drawing themselves up to their full height and flinging the money in his face.” “Then do you mean that things have got to go on like this for ever?” I thought for a moment. “It is a pity,” I said, “that you could not have induced Ferdinand to go to Marvis Bay for a month or two.” “Why?” “Because it seems to me, thinking the thing over, that it is just possible that Marvis Bay might cure him. At the hotel there he would find collected a mob of golfers – I used the term in its broadest sense, to embrace the paralytics and the men who play left-handed – whom even he would be able to beat. When I was last at Marvis Bay, the hotel links were a sort of Sargasso Sea into which had drifted all the pitiful flotsam and jetsam of golf. I have seen things done on that course at which I shuddered and averted my eyes – and I am not a weak man. If Ferdinand can polish up his game so as to go round in a fairly steady hundred and five, I fancy there is hope. But I understand he is not going to Marvis Bay.” “Oh yes, he is,” said the girl. “Indeed! He did not tell me that when we were talking just now.” “He didn’t know it then. He will when I have had a few words with him.”

nd she walked with firm steps back into the clubhouse. It has been well said that there are many kinds of golf, beginning at the top with the golf of professionals and the best amateurs and working down through the golf of ossified men to that of Scotch University professors. Until recently this last was looked upon as the lowest possible depth; but nowadays, with the growing popularity of summer hotels, we are able to add a brand still lower, the golf you find at places like Marvis Bay. To Ferdinand Dibble, coming from a club where the standard of play was rather unusually high, Marvis Bay was a revelation, and for some days after his arrival there he went about dazed, like a man who cannot believe it is really true. To go out on the links at this summer resort was like entering a new world. The hotel was full of stout, middle-aged men, who, after a misspent youth devoted to making money, had taken to a game at which real proficiency can only be acquired by those who start playing in their cradles and keep their weight down. Out on the course each morning you could see representatives of every nightmare style that was ever invented. There was the man who seemed to be attempting to deceive his ball and lull it into a false security by looking away from it and then making a lightning slash in the apparent hope of catching it off its guard. There was the man who wielded his midiron like one killing snakes. There was the man who addressed his ball as if he were stroking a cat, the man who drove as if he were cracking a whip, the man who brooded over each shot like one whose heart is bowed down by bad news from home, and the man who scooped with his mashie as if he were ladling soup. By the end of the first week Ferdinand Dibble was the acknowledged champion of the place. He had gone through the entire menagerie like a bullet through a cream puff. First, scarcely daring to consider the possibility of success, he had taken on the man who tried to catch his ball off its guard and had beaten him five up and four to play. Then, with gradually growing confidence, he tackled in turn the Cat-Stroker,

“I wish to goodness I knew the man who invented this infernal game. I’d strangle him. But I suppose he’s been dead for ages. Still, I could go and jump on his grave.”

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the Whip-Cracker, the Heart Bowed Down, and the Soup-Scooper, and walked all over their faces with spiked shoes. And as these were the leading local amateurs, whose prowess the octogenarians and the men who went round in bath chairs vainly strove to emulate, Ferdinand Dibble was faced on the eighth morning of his visit by the startling fact that he had no more worlds to conquer. He was monarch of all he surveyed, and, what is more, had won his first trophy, the prize in the great medalplay handicap tournament, in which he had nosed in ahead of the field by two strokes, edging out his nearest rival, a venerable old gentleman, by means of a brilliant and unexpected four on the last hole. The prize was a handsome pewter mug, about the size of the old oaken bucket, and Ferdinand used to go to his room immediately after dinner to croon over it like a mother over her child. You are wondering, no doubt, why, in these circumstances, he did not take advantage of the new spirit of exhilarated pride which had replaced his old humility and instantly propose to Barbara Medway. I will tell you. He did not propose to Barbara because Barbara was not there. At the last moment she had been detained at home to nurse a sick parent and had been compelled to postpone her visit for a couple of weeks. He could, no doubt, have proposed in one of the daily letters which he wrote to her, but somehow, once he started writing, he found that he used up so much space describing his best shots on the links that day that it was difficult to squeeze in a declaration of undying passion. After all, you can hardly cram that sort of thing into a postscript. He decided, therefore, to wait till she arrived, and meanwhile pursued his conquering course. The longer he waited the better, in one way, for every morning and afternoon that passed was adding new layers to his self-esteem. Day by day in every way he grew chestier and chestier.

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eanwhile, however, dark clouds were gathering. Sullen mutterings were to be heard in corners of the hotel lounge, and the spirit of revolt was abroad. For Ferdinand’s chestiness had not escaped the notice of his defeated rivals. There is nobody so chesty as a normally unchesty man who suddenly becomes chesty, and I am sorry to say that the chestiness which had come to Ferdinand was the aggressive type of chestiness which breeds enemies. He had developed a habit of holding the game up in order to give his opponent advice. The Whip-Cracker had not forgiven, and

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never would forgive, his well-meant but galling criticism of his backswing. The Scooper, who had always scooped since the day when, at the age of sixty-four, he subscribed to the Correspondence Course which was to teach him golf in twelve lessons by mail, resented being told by a snip of a boy that the mashie stroke should be a smooth, unhurried swing. The Snake-Killer – But I need not weary you with a detailed recital of these men’s grievances; it is enough to say that they all had it in for Ferdinand, and one night, after dinner, they met in the lounge to decide what was to be done about it. A nasty spirit was displayed by all. “A mere lad telling me how to use my mashie!” growled the Scooper. “Smooth and unhurried my left eyeball! I get it up, don’t I? Well, what more do you want?” “I keep telling him that mine is the old, full St. Andrew’s swing,” muttered the WhipCracker between set teeth, “but he won’t listen to me.” “He ought to be taken down a peg or two,” hissed the Snake-Killer. It is not easy to hiss a sentence without a single s in it, and the fact that he succeeded in doing so shows to what a pitch of emotion the man had been goaded by Ferdinand’s maddening air of superiority. “Yes, but what can we do?” queried an octogenarian, when this last remark had been passed on to him down his ear-trumpet. “That’s the trouble,” sighed the Scooper. “What can we do?” And there was a sorrowful shaking of heads. “I know!” exclaimed the Cat-Stroker, who had not hitherto spoken. He was a lawyer, and a man of subtle and sinister mind. “I have it! There’s a boy in my office – young Parsloe – who could beat this man Dibble hollow. I’ll wire him to come down here and we’ll spring him on this fellow and knock some of the conceit out of him.” There was a chorus of approval. “But are you sure he can beat him?” asked the Snake-Killer, anxiously. “It would never do to make a mistake.” “Of course I’m sure,” said the Cat-Stroker. “George Parsloe once went round in ninetyfour.” “Many changes there have been since ninetyfour,” said the octogenarian, nodding sagely. “Ah, many, many changes. None of these motorcars then, tearing about and killing – ” Kindly hands led him off to have an egg-andmilk, and the remaining conspirators returned to the point at issue with bent brows.

“Ninety-four?” said the Scooper, incredulously. “Do you mean counting every stroke?” “Counting every stroke.” “Not conceding himself any putts?” “Not one.” “Wire him to come at once,” said the meeting with one voice. That night the CatStroker approached Ferdinand, smooth, subtle, lawyer-like. “Oh, Dibble,” he said, “just the man I wanted to see. Dibble, there’s a young friend of mine coming down here who goes in for golf a little. George Parsloe is his name. I was wondering if you could spare time to give him a game. He is just a novice, you know.” “I shall be delighted to play a round with him,” said Ferdinand, kindly. “He might pick up a pointer or two from watching you,” said the Cat-Stroker. “True, true,” said Ferdinand. “Then I’ll introduce you when he shows up.” “Delighted,” said Ferdinand. He was in excellent humor that night, for he had had a letter from Barbara saying that she was arriving on the next day but one. It was Ferdinand’s healthy custom of a morning to get up in good time and take a dip in the sea before breakfast. On the morning of the day of Barbara’s arrival, he arose, as usual, donned his flannels, took a good look at the cup, and started out. It was a fine, fresh morning, and he glowed both externally and internally. As he crossed the links, for the nearest route to the water was through the fairway of the seventh, he was whistling happily and rehearsing in his mind the opening sentences of his proposal. For it was his firm resolve that night after dinner to ask Barbara to marry him. He was proceeding over the smooth turf without a care in the world, when there was a sudden cry of “Fore!” and the next moment a golf ball, missing him by inches, sailed up the fairway and came to a rest fifty yards from where he stood. He looked round and observed a figure coming towards him from the tee. The distance from the tee was fully a hundred

The faces of all those who hewed divots on the hotel course were familiar to him, and the fact that this fellow was a stranger seemed to point with dreadful certainty to his being the man he had agreed to play.

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and thirty yards. Add fifty to that, and you have a hundred and eighty yards. No such drive had been made on the Marvis Bay links since their foundation, and such is the generous spirit of the true golfer that Ferdinand’s first emotion, after the not inexcusable spasm of panic caused by the hum of the ball past his ear, was one of cordial admiration. By some kindly miracle, he supposed, one of his hotel acquaintances had been permitted for once in his life to time a drive right. It was only when the other man came up that there began to steal over him a sickening apprehension. The faces of all those who hewed divots on the hotel course were familiar to him, and the fact that this fellow was a stranger seemed to point with dreadful certainty to his being the man he had agreed to play. “Sorry,” said the man. He was a tall, strikingly handsome youth, with brown eyes and a dark mustache. “Oh, that’s all right,” said Ferdinand. “Er – do you always drive like that?” “Well, I generally get a bit longer ball, but I’m off my drive this morning. It’s lucky I came out and got this practice. I’m playing a match tomorrow with a fellow named Dibble, who’s a local champion, or something.” “Me,” said Ferdinand, humbly. “Eh? Oh, you?” Mr. Parsloe eyed him appraisingly. “Well, may the best man win.” As this was precisely what Ferdinand was afraid was going to happen, he nodded in a sickly manner and tottered off to his bathe. The magic had gone out of the morning. The sun still shone, but in a silly, feeble way; and a cold and depressing wind had sprung up. For Ferdinand’s inferiority complex, which had seemed cured for ever, was back again, doing business at the old stand.

ow sad it is in this life that the moment to which we have looked forward with the most glowing anticipation so often turns out on arrival, flat, cold, and disappointing. For ten days Barbara Medway had been living for that meeting with Ferdinand, when, getting out of the train, she would see him popping about on the horizon with the lovelight sparkling in his eyes and words of devotion trembling on his lips. The poor girl never doubted for an instant that he would unleash his pent-up emotions inside the first five minutes, and her only worry was lest he should give an embarrassing publicity to the sacred scene by falling on his knees on the station platform.

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“Well, here I am at last,” she cried gaily. “Hullo!” said Ferdinand, with a twisted smile. The girl looked at him, chilled. How could she know that his peculiar manner was due entirely to the severe attack of cold feet resultant upon his meeting with George Parsloe that morning? The interpretation which she placed upon it was that he was not glad to see her. If he had behaved like this before, she would, of course, have put it down to ingrowing goofery, but now she had his written statements to prove that for the last ten days his golf had been one long series of triumphs. “I got your letters,” she said, persevering bravely. “I thought you would,” said Ferdinand, absently. “You seem to have been doing wonders.” “Yes.” There was a silence. “Have a nice journey?” said Ferdinand. “Very,” said Barbara. She spoke coldly, for she was madder than a wet hen. She saw it all now. In the ten days since they had parted, his love, she realized, had waned. Some other girl, met in the romantic surroundings of this picturesque resort, had supplanted her in his affections. She knew how quickly Cupid gets off the mark at a summer hotel, and for an instant she blamed herself for ever having been so ivoryskulled as to let him come to this place alone. Then regret was swallowed up in wrath, and she became so glacial that Ferdinand, who had been on the point of telling her the secret of his gloom, retired into his shell and conversation during the drive to the hotel never soared above a certain level. Ferdinand said the sunshine was nice and Barbara said yes, it was nice, and Ferdinand said it looked pretty on the water, and Barbara said yes, it did look pretty on the water, and Ferdinand said he hoped it was not going to rain, and Barbara said yes, it would be a pity if it rained. And then there was another lengthy silence. “How is my uncle?” asked Barbara at last. I omitted to mention that the individual to whom I have referred as the Cat-Stroker was Barbara’s mother’s brother, and her host at Marvis Bay. “Your uncle?” “His name is Tuttle. Have you met him?” “Oh yes. I’ve seen a good deal of him. He has got a friend staying with him,” said Ferdinand, his mind returning to the matter nearest his heart. “A fellow named Parsloe.” “Oh, is George Parsloe here? How jolly!” “Do you know him?” barked Ferdinand, hollowly. He would not have supposed that

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anything could have added to his existing depression, but he was conscious now of having slipped a few rungs farther down the ladder of gloom. There had been a horribly joyful ring in her voice. Ah, well, he reflected morosely, how like life it all was! We never know what the morrow may bring forth. We strike a good patch and are beginning to think pretty well of ourselves, and along comes a George Parsloe. “Of course I do,” said Barbara. “Why, there he is.” The cab had drawn up at the door of the hotel, and on the porch George Parsloe was airing his graceful person. To Ferdinand’s fevered eye he looked like a Greek god, and his inferiority complex began to exhibit symptoms of elephantiasis. How could he compete at love or golf with a fellow who looked as if he had stepped out of the movies and considered himself off his drive when he did a hundred and eighty yards? “Geor-gee!” cried Barbara, blithely. “Hullo, George!” “Why, hullo, Barbara!” They fell into pleasant conversation, while Ferdinand hung miserably about in the offing. And presently, feeling that his society was not essential to their happiness, he slunk away. George Parsloe dined at the Cat-Stroker’s table that night, and it was with George Parsloe that Barbara roamed in the moonlight after dinner. Ferdinand, after a profitless hour at the billiard table, went early to his room. But not even the rays of the moon, glinting on his cup, could soothe the fever in his soul. He practiced putting somberly into his tooth glass for a while; then, going to bed, fell at last into a troubled sleep.

arbara slept late the next morning and breakfasted in her room. Coming down towards noon, she found a strange emptiness in the hotel. It was her experience of summer hotels that a really fine day like this one was the cue for half the inhabitants to collect in the lounge, shut all the windows, and talk about conditions in the jute industry. To her surprise, though the sun was streaming down from a cloudless sky, the only occupant of the lounge was the octogenarian with the ear trumpet. She observed that he was chuckling to himself in a senile manner. “Good morning,” she said, politely, for she had made his acquaintance on the previous evening. “Hey?” said the octogenarian, suspending his chuckling and getting his trumpet into position. “I said ‘Good morning!’ ” roared Barbara into the receiver.

“Hey?” “Good morning!” “Ah! Yes, it’s a very fine morning, a very fine morning. If it wasn’t for missing my bun and glass of milk at twelve sharp,” said the octogenarian, “I’d be down on the links. That’s where I’d be, down on the links. If it wasn’t for missing my bun and glass of milk.” This refreshment arriving at this moment, he dismantled the radio outfit and began to restore his tissues. “Watching the match,” he explained, pausing for a moment in his bun mangling. “What match?” The octogenarian sipped his milk. “What match?” repeated Barbara. “Hey?” “What match?” The octogenarian began to chuckle again and nearly swallowed a crumb the wrong way. “Take some of the conceit out of him,” he gurgled. “Out of who?” asked Barbara, knowing perfectly well that she should have said “whom.” “Yes,” said the octogenarian. “Who is conceited?” “Ah! This young fellow, Dibble. Very conceited. I saw it in his eye from the first, but nobody would listen to me. Mark my words, I said, that boy needs taking down a peg or two. Well, he’s going to be this morning. Your uncle wired to young Parsloe to come down, and he’s arranged a match between them. Dibble – ” Here the octogenarian choked again and had to rinse himself out with milk, “Dibble doesn’t know that Parsloe once went round in ninetyfour!” “What?” Everything seemed to go black to Barbara. Through a murky mist she appeared to be looking at a Negro octogenarian, sipping ink. Then her eyes cleared, and she found herself clutching for support at the back of a chair. She understood now. She realized why Ferdinand had been so distrait, and her whole heart went out to him in a spasm of maternal pity. How she had wronged him! “Take some of the conceit out of him,” the octogenarian was mumbling, and Barbara felt a sudden sharp loathing for the old man. For two pins she could have dropped a beetle in his milk. Then the need for action roused her. What action? She did not know. All she knew was that she must act. “Oh!” she cried.

“Hey?” said the octogenarian, bringing his trumpet to the ready. But Barbara had gone. It was not far to the links, and Barbara covered the distance on flying feet. She reached the clubhouse, but the course was empty except for the Scooper, who was preparing to drive off the first tee. In spite of the fact that something seemed to tell her subconsciously that this was one of the sights she ought not to miss, the girl did not wait to watch. Assuming that the match had started soon after breakfast, it must by now have reached one of the holes on the second nine. She ran down the hill, looking to left and right, and was presently aware of a group of spectators clustered about a green in the distance. As she hurried towards them they moved away, and now she could see Ferdinand advancing to the next tee. With a thrill that shook her whole body she realized that he had the honor. So he must have won one hole, at any rate. Then she saw her uncle. “How are they?” she gasped. Mr. Tuttle seemed moody. It was apparent that things were not going altogether to his liking. “All square at the fifteenth,” he replied, gloomily. “All square!” “Yes. Young Parsloe,” said Mr. Tuttle with a sour look in the direction of that lissom athlete, “doesn’t seem to be able to do a thing right on the greens. He has been putting like a sheep with the botts.” From the foregoing remark of Mr. Tuttle you will, no doubt, have gleaned at least a clue to the mystery of how Ferdinand Dibble had managed to hold his long-driving adversary up to the fifteenth green, but for all that you will probably consider that some further explanation of this amazing state of affairs is required. Mere bad putting on the part of George Parsloe is not, you feel, sufficient to cover the matter entirely. You are right. There was another very important factor in the situation – to wit, that by some extraordinary chance Ferdinand Dibble had started right off from the first tee, playing the game of a lifetime. Never had he made such drives, never chipped his chips so shrewdly.

bout Ferdinand’s driving there was as a general thing a fatal stiffness and overcaution which prevented success. And with his chip shots he rarely achieved accuracy owing to his habit of rearing his head like the lion of the jungle just before the club struck the ball. But today he had been swinging with a careless freedom, and his chips had been true and clean. The thing had puzzled him all

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the way round. It had not elated him, for, owing to Barbara’s aloofness and the way in which she had gamboled about George Parsloe, like a young lamb in the springtime, he was in too deep a state of dejection to be elated by anything. And now, suddenly, in a flash of clear vision, he perceived the reason why he had been playing so well today. It was just because he was not elated. It was simply because he was so profoundly miserable. That was what Ferdinand told himself as he stepped off the sixteenth, after hitting a screamer down the center of the fairway, and I am convinced that he was right. Like so many indifferent golfers, Ferdinand Dibble had always made the game hard for himself by thinking too much. He was a deep student of the works of the masters, and whenever he prepared to play a stroke he had a complete mental list of all the mistakes which it was possible to make. He would remember how Taylor had warned against dipping the right shoulder, how Vardon had inveighed against any movement of the head; he would recall how Ray had mentioned the tendency to snatch back the club, how Braid had spoken sadly of those who sin against their better selves by stiffening the muscles and heaving. The consequence was that when, after waggling in a frozen manner till mere shame urged him to take some definite course of action, he eventually swung, he invariably proceeded to dip his right shoulder, stiffen his muscles, heave, and snatch back the club, at the same time raising his head sharply as in the illustrated plate (Some Frequent Faults of Beginners – No. 3 – Lifting the Bean) facing page thirty-four of James Braid’s Golf Without Tears. Today, he had been so preoccupied with his broken heart that he had made his shots absently, almost carelessly, with the result that at least one in every three had been a lallapaloosa. Meanwhile, George Parsloe had driven off and the match was progressing. George was feeling a little flustered by now. He had been given to understand that this bird Dibble was a hundredat-his-best man, and all the way round the fellow had been reeling off fives in great profusion, and had once actually got a four. True, there had been an occasional six, and even a seven, but that did not alter the main fact that the man was making the dickens of a game of it. With the haughty spirit of one who had once done a ninety-four, George Parsloe had anticipated being at least three up at the turn. Instead of which he had been two down, and had had to fight strenuously to draw level. Nevertheless, he drove steadily and well, and

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would certainly have won the hole had it not been for his weak and sinful putting. The same defect caused him to halve the seventeenth, after being on in two, with Ferdinand wandering in the desert and only reaching the green with his fourth. Then, however, Ferdinand holed out from a distance of seven yards, getting a five; which George’s three putts just enabled him to equal. Barbara had watched the proceedings with a beating heart. At first she had looked on from afar; but now, drawn as by a magnet, she approached the tee. Ferdinand was driving off. She held her breath. Ferdinand held his breath. And all around one could see their respective breaths being held by George Parsloe, Mr. Tuttle, and the enthralled crowd of spectators. It was a moment of the acutest tension, and it was broken by the crack of Ferdinand’s driver as it met the ball and sent it hopping along the ground for a mere thirty yards. At this supreme crisis in the match Ferdinand Dibble had topped. George Parsloe teed up his ball. There was a smile of quiet satisfaction on his face. He snuggled the driver in his hands, and gave it a preliminary swish. This, felt George Parsloe, was where the happy ending came. He could drive as he had never driven before. He would so drive that it would take his opponent at least three shots to catch up with him. He drew back his club with infinite caution, poised it at the top of the swing. “I always wonder – ” said a clear, girlish voice, ripping the silence like the explosion of a bomb. George Parsloe started. His club wobbled. It descended. The ball trickled into the long grass in front of the tee. There was a grim pause. “You were saying, Miss Medway,” said George Parsloe, in a small, flat voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Barbara. “I’m afraid I put you off.” “A little, perhaps. Possibly the merest trifle. But you were saying you wondered about something. Can I be of any assistance?” “I was only saying,” said Barbara, “that I always wonder why tees are called tees.” George Parsloe swallowed once or twice. He also blinked a little feverishly. His eyes had a dazed, staring expression. “I am afraid I cannot tell you off-hand,” he said, “but I will make a point of consulting some good encyclopedia at the earliest opportunity.” “Thank you so much.” “Not at all. It will be a pleasure. In case you were thinking of inquiring at the moment when

I am putting why greens are called greens, may I venture the suggestion now that it is because they are green?” And, so saying, George Parsloe stalked to his ball and found it nestling in the heart of some shrub of which, not being a botanist, I cannot give you the name. It was a close-knit, adhesive shrub, and it twined its tentacles so lovingly around George Parsloe’s niblick that he missed his first shot altogether. His second made the ball rock, and his third dislodged it. Playing a full swing with his brassie and being by now a mere cauldron of seething emotions he missed his fourth. His fifth came to within a few inches of Ferdinand’s drive, and he picked it up and hurled it from him into the rough as if it had been something venomous. “Your hole and match,” said George Parsloe, thinly.

erdinand Dibble sat beside the glittering ocean. He had hurried off the course with swift strides the moment George Parsloe had spoken those bitter words. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. They were mixed thoughts. For a moment joy at the reflection that he had won a tough match came irresistibly to the surface, only to sink again as he remembered that life, whatever its triumphs, could hold nothing for him now that Barbara Medway loved another. “Mr. Dibble!” He looked up. She was standing at his side. He gulped and rose to his feet. “Yes?” There was a silence. “Doesn’t the sun look pretty on the water?” said Barbara. Ferdinand groaned. This was too much. “Leave me,” he said, hollowly. “Go back to your Parsloe, the man with whom you walked in the moonlight beside this same water.” “Well, why shouldn’t I walk with Mr. Parsloe in the moonlight beside this same water?” demanded Barbara, with spirit. “I never said,” replied Ferdinand, for he was a fair man at heart, “that you shouldn’t walk with Mr. Parsloe beside this same water. I simply said you did walk with Mr. Parsloe beside this same water.” “I’ve a perfect right to walk with Mr. Parsloe beside this same water,” persisted Barbara. “He and I are old friends.” Ferdinand groaned again. “Exactly! There you are! As I suspected. Old friends. Played together as children, and what not, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“No, we didn’t. I’ve only known him five years. But he is engaged to be married to my greatest chum, so that draws us together.” Ferdinand uttered a strangled cry. “Parsloe engaged to be married!” “Yes. The wedding takes place next month.” “But look here.” Ferdinand’s forehead was wrinkled. He was thinking tensely. “Look here,” said Ferdinand, a close reasoner. “If Parsloe’s engaged to your greatest chum, he can’t be in love with you.” “No.” “And you aren’t in love with him?” “No.” “Then, by gad,” said Ferdinand, “how about it?” “What do you mean?” “Will you marry me?” bellowed Ferdinand. “Yes.” “You will?” “Of course I will.” “Darling!” cried Ferdinand. “There is only one thing that bothers me a bit,” said Ferdinand, thoughtfully, as they strolled together over the scented meadows, while in the trees above them a thousand birds trilled Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. “What is that?” “Well, I’ll tell you,” said Ferdinand. “The fact is, I’ve just discovered the great secret of golf. You can’t play a really hot game unless you’re so miserable that you don’t worry over your shots. Take the case of a chip shot, for instance. If you’re really wretched, you don’t care where the ball is going and so you don’t raise your head to see. Grief automatically prevents pressing and over-swinging. Look at the topnotchers. Have you ever seen a happy pro?” “No. I don’t think I have.” “Well, then!” “But pros are all Scotchmen,” argued Barbara. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure I’m right. And the darned thing is that I’m going to be so infernally happy all the rest of my life that I suppose my handicap will go up to thirty or something.” Barbara squeezed his hand lovingly. “Don’t worry, precious,” she said, soothingly. “It will be all right. I am a woman, and, once we are married, I shall be able to think of at least a hundred ways of snootering you to such an extent that you’ll be fit to win the Amateur Championship.” “You will?” said Ferdinand, anxiously. “You’re sure?” “Quite, quite sure, dearest,” said Barbara. “My angel!” said Ferdinand. He folded her in his arms, using the interlocking grip.

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ages

a drink of the Though it’s been around since Biblical times, wine is still a mysterious and intimidating libation to many Americans. By Jameson Parker

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ine is the oldest alcoholic drink in the world. One of the very first things Noah did after the ark landed was to plant a vineyard. He then proceeded to take a drop too much, but under the circumstances, after all his travails, who can blame him? Wine is a critical part of the New Testament. The ancient Egyptians and Greeks revered the wine they made from cultivated grapes. Romans were the first to date their wine. All throughout modern history wine has been part and parcel of daily life in European countries. In Elizabethan times it even replaced water for quenching one’s thirst, which was probably a wise choice, given the sanitary conditions then. So why is a drink that has been around at least since The Flood such a mysterious and intimidating beverage for the average American? When you take the wife out to celebrate your anniversary, and the sommelier at that fancy restaurant hands you the wine list, do you make your choice based on the prices on the right and then pray that the waiter and the sommelier don’t start giggling? Do your armpits get wet when you try to ask for a “Pichon-Longueville-Baron?” When you order a “Trockenbeerenauslese” do you have to use your handkerchief? If so, you’re not alone. While the French have a saying that a meal without wine is like a day

Substance

without sunshine, many Americans think of wine as something solemn and frighteningly formal. Beer with pork ribs, no problem. Choosing between Pinot Grigio or Chardonnay with the salmon makes investing your lifesavings in the right dot com company look easy. Not only that, but there are so many different kinds of wines from so many different countries, and they all have different names in different languages. Is a French Burgundy heavier than an Italian Barbaresco or a Californian Zinfandel? How does a Spanish Rioja compare? And what about Argentina? Chile? Australia? Before you just grab a six-pack and forget the whole thing, let’s try to simplify.

one of the early James Bond novels, the urbane Bond twigs to the identity of the communist assassin sent to kill him because the villain is crude enough to order red wine with his fish. I have to admit I’m a product of a Cold War childhood myself. My father, who knew a thing or two about wine, didn’t drink red wine with his fish, and while I’m not in his league as a wine connoisseur – or possibly because I’m not is his league – I follow his lead, though unlike Bond, I probably wouldn’t kill someone just for that. In recent years the new rule for matching wine to food says: Forget the rules, drink what you like with anything you please. I don’t agree simply because I don’t like certain combinations of tastes, but that’s the point. That’s my subjective taste. If you really like your Aunt Edna’s elderberry wine, then go for it. There are only three serious mistakes anyone can make when it comes to choosing the right wine. One is not to be adventurous, because think of all the pleasure you may be missing. The second is not to be willing to ask advice. I started drinking wine (diluted) at my father’s table when I was still in short pants, but I’ve yet to meet a sommelier, or a wine merchant, who doesn’t know more than I do. That’s their business, and they’re always happy to share their knowledge. Who doesn’t like to show off a little? And the third is wasting your money on a good wine with foods that will ruin the taste or nullify it altogether: vinegar, mustards, very spicy doors such as chilies, citrus, chocolate – none of them work with wine. The function of wine is to enhance your enjoyment of the meal, to stimulate conversation and to encourage the celebration of life that comes

with a shared meal. That said, here are some simple guidelines that can be summed up with the words “balance,” “tannin,” “acidity” and “sweetness.” Balance is the most important. Balance is easy. You don’t want the wine to overpower the food or vice versa. A hearty venison roast or stew is going to call for a hearty wine. While there are some full-bodied white wines, a big red would probably be a better choice. Conversely, that trout you caught this morning is light and delicate and would go better with a light and delicate wine. After balance, everything else is a refinement geared to helping you enjoy your meal. Tannin is a word a lot of people use without really understanding what it means. It refers to a group of organic substances found in the skins and seeds of grapes. But tannin is also found in the oak casks in which wine is aged. The amount of tannin in a wine influences how well it will age. Fine, but what does all that mean to you? Tannin is astringent and has a high pucker factor, so drinking a young Cabernet Sauvignon without any food might not be very enjoyable. On the other hand, wines with high tannin content are great with fatty meats such as certain cuts of beef or lamb. Acidity refers to the natural fruit acids found in wine. Some wines, particularly those grown in cooler climates, and particularly Italian wines, have relatively high acidic contents. That means they would be good choices either to match certain foods, such as tomato-based dishes, or to counter-balance certain foods, such as the olive oil used in many tomato-based dishes. Either way, the next time you order pasta with tomato sauce, order Chianti to go with it. Hannibal Lector tells me Chianti also goes well with human liver and lava beans. Sweet wines are better with sweet foods, and the sweeter the food, the sweeter the wine needed. Dessert wines have a high sugar content precisely to avoid the pucker factor. But sweet wines can also be a good balance for salty dishes such as certain kinds of cheese; think of your mother serving melon with Smithfield ham. Champagne also goes well with salty foods; think of the traditional pairing of champagne and caviar. So when the sommelier recommends a certain wine with your meal, if you like it, ask him about the qualities that made that wine enjoyable – sweetness, dryness, level of acidity, tannin content. Make a mental note, and the next time you take your wife out to dinner, you can impress the heck out of her by telling the sommelier that you prefer wines with a high tannin content, and asking if that will go well with your cheeseburger.

photo by T. ryan stalvey

skills challenge

Vintage games from Restoration Hardware.

asketball, they say, began with a soccer ball being tossed into a hanging peach basket. And golf, during the fifteenth century from Scots hitting pebbles around the coastal sand dunes using sticks and canes. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s true, give us enough idle time and we will create challenging entertainment from the most mundane and unlikely of sources. Restoration Hardware, a luxury brand in the home furnishings marketplace, who is known best for collections of timeless, updated classics and authentic reproductions, recognizes our sporty ingenuity in this gallery of vintage games. Visit RestorationHardware.com.

VINTAGE ARCADE SKEEBALL An arcade and carnival mainstay, the classic alley bowler is everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favorite game. Invented in Philadelphia in 1909, the Centennial Edition pairs a 1930s retro oak exterior with state-of-the-art functionality, boasting an authentic flip display and pull-handle activation lever. $6995

Entertainment

TOURNAMENT DARTBOARD SET A pub staple on both sides of the pond, darts demands concentration, coordination and no small amount of accuracy. This handsome set encases a self-healing sisal fiberboard, feather-fletched darts and a chalkboard for keeping score, all within an iron-latched oak cabinet. $279

Entertainment

COMPETITION FOOSBALL TABLE Americans call it Foosball. The French call it Baby-Foot. And in Spain, where this deluxe game table is made, they call it Futbolin. Enduringly built of stainless steel and durable iroko wood, this table promises to become a family favorite for years to come. Its handsome design and minimalist palette lend it uncommon sophistication, while its electropolished steel top makes it rugged enough for outdoor use. $3995

Entertainment

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Entertainment

DELUXE POKER SET A solid wooden chest holds a treasure trove for the poker aficionado â&#x20AC;&#x201C; everything needed to host a proper game of cards. Crafted to tournament-quality standards, it includes two decks of deluxe playing cards, a set of dice and four trays of classic clay-composite chips. Now all you need is a bit of luck and a great poker face. $279

un Synonymous with words like “cool” and “hip,” Matchless, Britain’s oldest motorcycle manufacturer, is on the forefront of developing safe riding gear with style. From Marlon Brando and James Dean to such legendary racers as Malcolm Smith and the Collier brothers themselves, they are Matchless – In Name and Reputation. Today, Matchless outwear is still a forerunner in motorcycle-wear elegance.

Kate Moss models for photographer Terry Richardson during a photoshoot for Matchless Londonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s new advertising campaign.

atched

atchless is the oldest British brand of motorcycles, clothing and accessories, founded in 1899 by competitive rider, design-engineer and entrepreneur, Henry Collier. Their first motorcycle was made that year and production began in 1901. Like many motorcycle manufacturers, they had started out making bicycles before eventually evolving into a company synonymous with words like “hip” and “cool,” their advertisements from the 1940s stressing the alliance between motorcycling and elegance. (James Dean and Marlon Brando owned Matchless motorcycles.) Charles Collier, Henry’s son, in 1907 won the Tourist Trophy, a race that is still run today on the Isle of Man, on his Matchless

The production factory in Plumstead Road grew quickly thanks to the huge success of its motorcycles, projecting Matchless to the forefront of exclusivity in riding.

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Motorcycle. His other son, Harry, won the race in 1909 and 1910. Following their success and ultimately putting the company on the map, the two brothers then acquired some other famous brands in the industry such as AJS, Sunbeam and Norton and in 1912, saw Matchless begin making their own motors. Famous riders from all disciplines, as well as amateur motorcyclists, were choosing Matchless for its mix of design, performance, elegance and safety. Luckily for the rest of the world, the Collier brothers were far-sighted businessmen as Matchless was in fact the very first motorcycle company to consider riders’ safety. They opened a special department to develop garments and other gear to protect riders in case of a crash. In the 1920s and again in the 1940s, the company developed leather gear to be worn in speed races and in the post-war period, expanded production to technical fabric for off-road outerwear. The most famous riders tested garments then known as “Matchlesswear,” which were constantly updated and universally appreciated for not only their safety aspects, but also their style. On the bikes, Monocross rear shock absorbers and telehydraulic forks were used for the first time. Matchless was not given a contract to make motorcycles for the army during World War I though production resumed in 1919, concentrating at first on V-twins

for sidecar use and neglecting singles until 1923. Henry Collier died in 1926, but the company was on the brink of designs far ahead of its time. The Silver Arrow, launched in 1929 and designed by Charlie Collier, was a side valve V-twin with 54mm x 86mm dimensions and 394cc. The two cylinders were set at 18 degrees within a single casting under a single head. The result looked odd, rather like a single that was too long, and with the exhaust emerging from the manifold at its right corner and the carburetor in the middle of the block on the left. The odd appearance was accentuated, and in 1930 they launched a 593cc OHC V-four called the Silver Hawk that was designed by the youngest brother, Bert. Approximately 60 out of the 500 made still survive today.

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Matchless was the first motorcycle company to develop outwear for riders’ safety, much like the Wild One Blouson leather jacket. Opposite: Marlon Brando owned a custom Matchless 600cc Scrambler. You’ll notice the iconic M was flipped upside down on Brando’s orders as a sign of independence and rebellion.

unMatched

Matchless technology made great strides on the single-cylinder and twin-cylinder V-engines, which were supplied as original equipment to renowned companies such as Morgan and Brough Superior, the Rolls Royce of motorcycles. As it turned out, the four-cylinder Silver Hawk truly was a masterpiece. The Second World War saw Matchless manufacturing some 80,000 G3 and G3L models for the British Army and in the post-war period, the company reached the pinnacle of motorcycle technology, leading to further success. Shortly before the war, recognizing that motorcycling was becoming wildly popular, Matchless acquired AJS, Sunbeam and Norton and in 1938 established the Associated Motorcycles Company (AMC) group, becoming the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s leader in the motorcycle market. Post-war landmarks started with the production of Matchless/ AJS 350cc and Matchless G80 500cc singles, developed from the legendary wartime Matchless G3 produced for the army. Competition models of the singles were produced from 1948, which gave the company some memorable wins and in 1949 the first Matchless/AJS vertical twin, a 500cc, was produced; later to be joined by 600cc and 650cc vertical twins in 1956 and 1959, respectively. On the racing front AMC were fielding the supercharged AJS Porcupine and the AJS 7R alongside the Matchless G50, a 500cc variant of the 7R, and the 1951 Matchless G45 500cc vertical twin. Even when supercharging was banned, Les Graham, a British road racer, won the 1949 500cc world championship on a normally aspirated Porcupine. The Boston Blazer, made of calf-aged leather treat with natural waxes are strong and durable and meant to last under the worst conditions. Opposite: James Dean and the great rider John McLaughlin discuss the intricacies of a super fast Matchless.

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oday, the Matchlesswear Heritage Collection consists of clothing made from wax cotton, military linen, triple cotton, professional cotton, leather, a hybrid consisting of professional cotton matched to Matchless Leather with a special treatment and coloring, quilted nylon and techno jersey, which is a pure cotton fleece with a very fine waterproof membrane that makes the cotton all the more comfortable. The wax cotton, a high-quality cotton treated with a natural wax,

unMatched

makes the fabric waterproof while maintaining breathability, comfort and pleasant to the touch. The leather comes in several different styles including Matchless Leather, which is calf-aged leather treated with natural waxes and is very strong and resistant to the elements. Visit MatchlessLondon.com.

The beautiful Kate Moss is the star of Matchlessâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; new FW13 ADV campaign. Opposite (L to R): The Soho Lady Blouson and Notting Hill Lady Jacket.

Next Stop,

wonderland “We began our quest with no real knowledge or experience of the game. Our tools being an aging, beaten up grey Nissan Micra for transportation, two rusting, woodworm ridden sets of clubs, (one left handed, one right handed) purchased from a local car boot sale (combined value £45 at a push).” -Simon Weitzman and Paul Skellett

T Editor’s Note:

here are so many ways to go about describing this book. The sheer awesomeness of its entirety does not merely revolve around its considerable size, a piece of artwork or a single written word, but the overall concept that golf is a sport that can be appreciated and enjoyed by popular culture – on and off the course. Imagine an artist walking up to a blank canvas with paints in hand. He has no centralized idea to the direction he will head though the outcome will no doubt have his signature and style. It’s the autonomy of an artist – the freedom and independence to do as he sees fit throughout the process. Then comes the ultimate sacrifice when he relinquishes ownership for the public’s perception. In this case, The Bible of GOLF not only reads like a book that perpetually skirts the outer limits of the game of golf, but is a unique collection of art that the world has never seen before.

The talented collaboration of Paul Skellett and Simon Weitzman has created a monumental book which skirts the limitations of golf as we know it.

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The Bible of GOLF

One would never guess that two artists like Simon Weitzman and Paul Skellett just recently took up golf. And it’s not that they combined Simon’s powerful prose and Paul’s dynamic graphics and artistic illustrations as a destructive instrument with the sharp edge pointed toward the stuffiness and straight-line rules of many of today’s clubs. Rather, it was a coherent and conscious recognition that golf is a game with the ability to be enjoyed by all. For this book is not just something to browse through and then set on the coffee table or place on the shelf. No, we’re here to tell you that The Bible of GOLF is an experience! From Simon Weitzman’s Foreword: For all the books detailing golf ’s history, it has ultimately been a gentle evolution of leisure instincts that eventually became a pastime, a game and then a sport, but that still manages to exist as all

In addition to being a visual masterpiece, The Bible of GOLF features excellent writing by Simon Weitzman along with anecdotes and quotes from the legends of the game.

The Bible of GOLF

Sex, golf and rock n’ roll, The Bible of GOLF is pop art to the maximum, tempting and testing the boundaries and principle beliefs of the most sacred of sports.

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three. On a good day, when you are playing off scratch, or as near as you get to it, it’s a sport, and on a bad day, when you are playing off a hundred, it’s a pastime. The joy is that it can be different things to most of us on different days. So much of what makes golf unique is its irresistible simplicity, and unerring free spirit. Golf intrigues us because it seemed to be shrouded in ceremony and rules, whilst somehow remaining a free spirit. For many it has the image of being an exclusive pursuit, played by Lords and Ladies across private

The Bible of GOLF

lands, patrolled by crow bar moustache laden, grey haired gentlemen, brandishing shotguns. The term ‘Off my land’ seemed appropriate to the game at first glance. And yet, although Kings and Queens have played the game down the ages, it has always managed to remain a game of the people. Take our own 1970s upbringings. Now many hardened golfers may faint, or even take to their beds, but we were perhaps at the tail of the crazy golf and council pitch and putt era. You paid hard earned cash, you got a putter

A presentation like none other, The Bible of GOLF contains an imaginative collision of hard-edged design effects and historical imagery.

The Bible of GOLF

and an iron (on the pitch courses) and you either spent the day slipping the ball through a plastic windmill, or clopping it a hundred yards towards a fairly poorly kept green, that invariably overlooked a motorway, a block of flats, or a donkey ride, and perhaps if you’re lucky, all three. It was usually quality time spent with your dad, striding out across the land being soundly thrashed on a regular basis at a sporting pursuit by your elder. But we loved it because it was a social challenge, and despite the fact that we lost every time it really didn’t matter because it was a chance to spend time with a parent. Does anyone remember why playing golf with a parent was so special all those years ago? Is there the same relationship out on the courses between parents and children today? Occasionally, beyond the holiday crazy golf and the local mud bound pitch and putt was the chance to haul (drag) a more substantial bag of clubs around for your dad, when he somehow managed to ‘blag’ a round on a grown up course, beyond the high fences that few mortals got to see over. – Simon Weitzman

T This monumental book might be a bit oversized for bedside reading, but it is quite the showpiece and demands one hell of a presence when placed on a coffee table.

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The Bible of GOLF

he Bible of GOLF is available in three exquisite limited editions. The ‘Captain’s Edition’ (Limited to just 2,100 worldwide) is a collector’s dream. Measuring 28cm by 33cm, this luxurious leather bound folio publication is held in the personal collections of Palmer, Nicklaus, Jacklin etc. It comprises of 18 chapters, expressed through 584 pieces of uniquely selfcontained and editorialized fine art pieces. This edition costs $2,000. The ‘Elite Numbers Collectors Editions’ are special one off numbered cased editions, aligned to key dates in golf history. Each unique edition comes in a gold blocked archive case, containing the numbered edition of GOLF and a unique print. The ‘Tom Morris Captain’s Edition,’ numbered 1821 (his birth year) includes a unique, signed one-of-a-kind Tom Morris print for only $2,000/£1,200/€1,500 (plus packaging and shipping). Also available are originals and limited edition prints by artist Paul Skellett. Visit WonderlandPublications.com.

Seasons A Shop for all

A Beretta Gallery will outfit you for your next driven shoot in Scotland or a night out in New York City. By Arthur Farrell

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ve never been there, but I can put myself in that place. Quite easily, in fact. Because perhaps I have followed the likes of Ernest Hemingway down Fifth Avenue in the heyday of Abercrombie & Fitch as he prepared to join Phillip Percival in the African bush where he’d become bwana to a hunting camp. Or maybe I need outfitting for my next driven shoot in Scotland or a dove hunt down in Argentina. It could even be any number of sporting events stateside. You see, my mind’s eye is constantly wandering to those faraway places. I mention Abercrombie & Fitch solely because

Beretta Gallery

The Beretta Gallery in London is located in a renovated former bank building, and sits on the corner of historic Jermyn Street, known for its prestigious Gentlemanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Clubs and custom shops.

of what they represented at one time. As the tide turns, businesses fail and the torch is passed, another leader in the industry has taken the place of a heralded store that is more concerned with making board shorts and shell necklaces. Today, Beretta Gallery has emerged as the goto shop for outfitting high-end hunting and shooting sportsmen. Bartolomeo Beretta could not have possibly known the magnitude to which his name is recognized and accepted as a leader in the shooting sports today. Referred to as a maestro da canne, or master gun-barrel maker for the

republic of Venice around 1526 (there are documents still in existence to prove this fact), Beretta was a renaissance craftsman whose family business, initially inherited by his son Giovanni while living in Gardone Val Trompia (a town in the province of Brescia, in Lombardy, Italy, and still the home base of Beretta) has been handed down to sons and nephews for nearly five centuries. After furnishing gun barrels for Napoleonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s army, Pietro Beretta (1791-1853) decided in 1815 to start manufacturing whole firearms, rather than just barrels, and diversify the company into sporting arms. Pietro was actually

Beretta Gallery

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the first to bring the Beretta name into the family as the business began to rapidly expand. His son Giuseppe (1840-1903) opened new international horizons and in turn Giuseppe’s son, another Pietro Beretta (1870–1957), transformed the artisan business by introducing modern production techniques and more than tripled the company’s factory space. Under the guidance of Pietro’s sons Giuseppe (1906-1993) and Carlo (1908-1984), the firm became multinational and achieved brilliant success in the military and sporting sectors. Now in the 21st century, the company is under the direction of the 15th generation of the Beretta family. Almost 500 years of business have enriched Beretta with enormous experience and knowledge that has allowed it to develop superior technology in the field of precision mechanics. The company manufactures and markets, worldwide, arms for hunters, competition shooters, law-enforcement officers, and military personnel. The products include field and highgrade sporting shotguns, rifles, pistols, military arms, knives, and such accessories as sights,

Beretta Gallery

scopes and binoculars. Beretta has always manufactured weapons, and as we all know, they are pretty good at it. However, the company did not stop there. In the past few decades, Beretta has branched out into another major facet of the outdoor and sporting-life business that encompasses a certain lifestyle associated with the brand. In the early 1990s, Beretta added to its traditional sporting guns a complete line of hunting apparel and accessories, clay-target shooting and outdoor sports items, which rapidly earned it a reputation for high-tech content and understated elegance. The first Beretta Gallery was inaugurated in New York in 1995. Other galleries were opened in Dallas, Buenos Aires, Paris and Milano. In December 2005, a new Beretta Gallery in the center of London was opened. Fine clothing, accoutrements and accessories are now being manufactured and sold at Beretta Gallery worldwide. Refined and elegantly refurbished, these stores have been enriched with years of tradition and style. Discerning clients will find the entire range of Beretta

products: from the most exclusive shotguns entirely crafted by hand to the complete line of clothing and accessories.

ith the addition of these unique stores to the company, Beretta is able to provide an experience and create an environment that allows it to establish how they want the products to be seen, using specialized sales associates that live and breathe the Beretta lifestyle, rather than a retailer, which gives the company no control over how the brand is displayed. “When the customer comes to Beretta Gallery, they will find a wide range of products from our premium firearms to clothing and accessories needed for the shooting sports,” said Robert Booz, International Director for Beretta Gallery.

Opposite: Beretta Gallery in Paris. From top: Beretta Gallery Buenos Aires’ store front, Dallas’ storefront and its magnificent gunroom.

“The people that work here, they live the Beretta lifestyle and are therefore able to customize the client’s experience.” A lot can be said about customer service in business. I can say firsthand that I’ve never had a bad experience with Beretta. I bought a tweed jacket from Beretta at last year’s Safari Club International convention that I really didn’t need, but what can I say, they just wouldn’t let me leave without it. My Beretta Silver Pigeon III, a college graduation gift from a very close family friend, has not once, under the worst conditions, failed me in the field.

Many have likened Beretta Gallery to what Abercrombie & Fitch represented the in the Golden Era of our country. After going bankrupt and closing its flagship store in Manhattan in 1977, the need for a store selling fine guns and durable apparel suddenly arose. “We’ve been making guns for five centuries now,” said Robert. “Twenty five years ago, the owners of the company saw an opportunity to provide apparel that shooters and hunters need. From soft cases and chokes to vests and field jackets, even dog collars and walking sticks, we have it and are always looking, listening,

Beretta Gallery’s New York storefront and the beautiful, well-stocked gunroom features Beretta’s full line of firearms, from pistols to shotguns to Premium Grade side-by-side Express rifles.

Beretta Gallery

The Beretta Gallery in Milano exemplifies the traditional sportsman’s wear with a wide collection of tweeds and trousers and the full line of fine shotguns and rifles.

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attending trade shows and developing new products for our customers.” Beretta Gallery and the apparel side of Beretta has been the fastest growing part of the company. As we move further into the 21st century, what is old is now becoming new again. Tweeds and trousers are coming back into style as well as vintage side by sides. Even hickory golf clubs, which ties into the dress of your driven grouse shooter, are seeing a resurgence throughout the United States. Perhaps we are following a path created by our cousins across the pond, but one thing is for sure – they’ve been doing it for a long time and know how to look good in the process. Just as Americans have started participating in driven shoots, like the ones held in the United Kingdom and Scotland, Beretta Gallery has diversified its stores to fill that growing desire. Each store, given its market, focuses on how the products they sell

Beretta Gallery

are relative to the people in that area. Thanks to the courage, vision and skills of its lineage, its name has earned international status for its high-tech content, performance and the Italian style that distinguishes its products from the rest of the sporting world. In 2015, Beretta will open another manufacturing facility in Tennessee, expanding on their current U.S.-based plant in Maryland, which will remain a major factor within the company due to its proximity to Washington, D.C., and the numerous Department of Defense contracts already in place. Plans are also coming together for more Beretta Gallery openings within the U.S. as they are recognizing a growing desire among this country’s citizens to become part of Beretta’s global brand. From fine clothing, shotguns and accoutrements, Beretta truly is a household name to those who appreciate a fine double and a good glass of Scotch. Visit BerettaGallery.com.

Chechessee

Creek Club Beyond the Spanish moss and the palmettos of South Carolinaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Lowcountry lies a special place where golf, tradition and hospitality blend for a perfect getaway when life gets too fast. By Josh Wolfe

No. 7 at Chechessee Creek Club provides the full range of Lowcountry landscapes with hardwoods down the right side and coastal marsh on the left.

all is my favorite time of the year to play golf. Yet this notion has only occurred to me just now as I think about the other pastimes that have brought me happiness from September until closing time in or around the first week of January â&#x20AC;&#x201C; hunting, for anything really. To be honest, dead grass and a stiff wind through my light golf pants have never appealed to me like the cold steel of a shotgun and the aromatic smell of gunpowder to compliment a brace of ducks. And to be more honest, during the drive to Chechessee Creek Club in Okatie, South Carolina, I resented the valuable time wasted when I could have

been skirting the deer woods or warming a duck blind. All that, you will soon find out, turned out to be a grave misconception as Ryan Stalvey and I pulled into the front gates and up through the canopy of Spanish mossladen live oaks to the clubhouse. I often, perhaps even once a day, think of the opening lines from the first stanza of the poem “Endymion” by the English Romantic, John Keats, which reads: A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness…

I’m here to tell you that Chechessee Creek deserves all of the above and more. Throw in a thing or two about Southern hospitality (even though staff and members range from all parts of the country), fine table fare, and a natural elegance that is even recognizable to a common eye like mine, and we’re getting closer to what this little point on the map represents. But that poem not only defines the people at Chechessee. It is clear that when Bill Coore and Ben Crenshaw got together to design the course they kept an important goal in mind, a sound practice adopted by many of the great golfcourse architects – if the people were to go away, and golf was no longer played on the course, nature would have no problem in reclaiming what is rightfully hers. Something like that. After checking in to our separate rooms, which, upon walking out of the door, left you standing near an outdoor fire pit not a stone’s throw from the 18th green, we made our way over to the clubhouse restaurant for a quick lunch before warming up and teeing off. Bernie the Bartender, how could I forget? Walked away from the blustery north – Massachusetts – and sought refuge in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. He served me a hearty beef stew that ran wild through my body until it landed in my stomach where it dug in until dinner that night. Perhaps a bit too good as golf ’s mental edge is of substantial value like the physical traits that make the body move in one fluid motion. Before lunch was completed, our host for the coming round and the club’s new Director of Marketing and Sales, John Patterson, met us in the bar. Young and energetic with a magnetic personality, JP, as he is known around Chechessee, played professionally for several years before the calling to his wife and family became too strong not to answer. “You guys take your time, go hit some practice balls and I’ll meet you out there,” John said before making his way to greet other guests and members. We gathered our clubs and headed out to the range for a little warm up and a prolonged dusting of our equipment, literally. It took several minutes for my mind to comprehend that the practice balls were in fact Titleist Pro V1’s. Brand new with not a mark among them. So be it, the place is first rate. Tom Cunneff, senior editor at Links magazine would complete our foursome. Perhaps another symbol of Chechessee Creek that I have failed

Chechessee Creek Club

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to mention is the caddies. No golf carts, no trolleys, just good ol’ human beings (caddies) to tote your bag. I’m not going to go into great detail about the round of golf we played that afternoon, assuming there is a myriad of information about each hole of the course in a plethora of publications and online. For that’s not really what we do – lay out a description of each hole; those particulars are for you to find out and if there’s any way I can help, I’ll happily oblige. I’m merely trying to cover the peripheries. I will tell you that John played wonderfully, as did Tom, and Ryan wasn’t so bad either. I neared the likes of a one Ferdinand Dibble in P.G. Wodehouse’s story just a few pages back down on the left, one of a couple good shots having come on my approach to the 18th green after spotting several large does grazing on acorns this side of an adjoining fairway. The course was wonderfully laid out amid the century old trees (oaks, mostly) and palmettos, a point worth stating as you’ll see in the accompanying photographs. Deer sign abounded in the trees where I stayed most of the day for multiple reasons and John showed me some places where if one might hunt… He also recognized my baffled state of mind at this damned game, which he quickly tried to remedy with a call to the clubhouse and a four-finger pour. By the time it was over, our caddies slightly lighter in the shoes from traversing the fairways with regularity, dusk was painting the perfect portrait of the landscape and the temperature slowly dropped into the high 50s, leading to a cool, crisp night like only fall can deliver. Several members lounged around the outdoor fire pit nursing tonics and rehashing the best shots

Chechessee Creek Club

of the round, others withdrew to the hospitality room (or so I’m calling it, right in between the clubhouse and guest rooms, where elixirs were available if you wanted to play cards or chess or just relax in front of the big-screen TV), and I found myself once again seated before Bernie as he held court for a jury of one in the bar. Other members and guests slowly trickled in as the dinner hour neared. Our party included John, Franklin Newell, the Director of Golf; writer/photographer Dave Droschak, and Sam Smith and his wife Victoria who are the owners and editorial staff at Carolina Golf Journal, which is indeed a fine publication. Not Sam’s exact words per se, but CGJ was more of a happy accident than a determined effort at another career. What started as a post-retirement hobby has reeled Sam and Victoria full time into the publishing business. Dinner evolved from antipasto and a mozzarella and tomato salad to a rack of lamb that was so tender and delicious it took a considerable amount of effort not to gnaw on the bones, and ended with tiramisu. Naturally, I listened more than I talked as courses we’ve longed to play were discussed at length, as were the intricacies of golf course architecture, including concepts and ideas to which I’ve yet to come abreast – the Coore-Crenshaw versus a Donald Ross. Or have you played many of Nicklaus’ courses? Robert Trent Jones perhaps? It’s sometimes hard to describe a good effort. By that I mean everything that Chechessee Creek Club is doing. In fact, a good friend of mine, upon recently being accepted as a member to Chechessee, canceled his country club membership at his home course in Jacksonville, Florida, just to drive three hours

one way to play this wondrous place. If you ever get a chance, even if the invite comes the day prior to your tee time, don’t hesitate, just go. Awaking at dawn the next morning, the fog still pitched beneath the trees and dancing around the 18th green, I yearned to stay. Except for the maintenance workers putting the course back in order for the day, few stirred. Even more comforting is finding yourself alone in a populated environment, away from the throngs of blaring horns and dismal traffic, ringing cell phones and unanswered emails.

“I’ve picked up guys from the airport in Hilton Head that have just flown in from New York City,” said John, “and watched as they’ve literally slowed themselves down both mentally and physically upon arriving here. Chechessee truly possesses the power of relaxation.” To get away, first find Chechessee. If not for my golf skills to warrant an invite back, maybe they just liked me. Because let me tell you, those are my kind of people doing one hell of a job at my kind of place. Visit ChechesseeCreekClub.com.

Nature abounds at Chechessee as the sunset illuminates the wetlands, home to various species of birds and fish.

The Old Guard

is paintings transport the viewer to a congenial, unhurried era, far from the distractions of modern life. “When someone looks at my work I want it to release them from the present and allow them to reminisce for a moment before returning to their daily lives refreshed and uplifted.” Crofut’s series of paintings depicting the golf legends have become some of Bob’s most sought after and treasured works. In these paintings, the rich heritage of our golfing history has been brought to life in his haunting style. Here we present a Golf Sport gallery of Bob’s golfing best along with paintings on other subjects, all depicting Crofut’s timeless style which has become synonymous with his work. Contact the artist, Bob Crofut, at (203) 544-8343 or visit GolfArtGiclee.com.

hues of

Heroes, Hopes and Dreams Bob Crofutâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s canvases are time capsules of reverence and remembrance.

Old Tom

Days of Grace

Art

Lee Wulff

Jack Nicklaus

Art

98 Art

The Long Slide

100 Art

Arnie’s Army

Art

101

Dreamin’

The Batter

Art

103

The Drifter

Robin Hood

Art

105

Eye Model Management revisits the chic and cool styles of the 1920s.

Great expectations Photography & Styling by

Amy M. Phillips & Fairlight Hubbard

108 Fashion

Fashion

111

112 Fashion

114 Fashion

HILFIG

Drawing inspiration from California’s iconic coast is this monterey Bay sweater with turquoiseaccented blue polo & white shorts.

s IGER’

Opposite: East Hampton striped polos with kelly green & navy shorts.

heritage

Tommy Hilfiger’s preppy-styled spring collection features heritage golf fabrications, which creates a luxurious feel with breathable fibers.

nautical influences are prevalent with the red, white & royal blue palette combined with modern black in these San Francisco styles.

Fashion

119

JACK NICKLAUS MUIRFIELD VILLAGE GOLF SHOES WITH SPIKELESS SOLE in Green Croc Print with White Grain Leather.

leather

laces

For footwear company Allen Edmonds, true style starts from the ground up.

JACK NICKLAUS MUIRFIELD VILLAGE GOLF SHOES WITH SPIKELESS SOLE in Blue Croc Print with White Grain Leather. Opposite: LEGEND GOLF SHOES WITH SPIKELESS SOLE in Black Croc Print with White Grain Leather.

Fashion

123

fort worth leather GOLF SHOES in black & White. Opposite top to bottom: Heritage golf shoes in black & white. LEGEND GOLF SHOES in white. FIRST CUT GOLF SHOES in Tan Dublin Leather. HASKELL GOLF SHOES WITH in Brown Croc Print.

G 124

Fashion

G 126

Heritage golf shoes in Brown.

Fashion

127

Handle with Care.

G 128

By Walter Davis from The Delineator, August 1924.

Parting Shot

For two weeks in June, the best golfers in the world will play Pinehurst No. 2.

Until then, it’s all yours. Pinehurst No. 2 will make history as the only course to host both the U.S. Open and U.S. Women’s Open Championships in back-to-back weeks. Become a part of this unrivalled golf heritage and schedule a championship round of your own this spring.

Village of Pinehurst, North Carolina • 888.976.0702 • pinehurst.com