Out-door Games: Cricket and Golf/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
Golf Development
I can only speak of the development of golf from what I have heard, not from what I have seen, but it is not difficult to see and understand certain things which govern the development of all games: I may mention improvement of weapons and balls, the huge increase in the number of golf links and players, and to a certain extent the superior knowledge of turf, and the widening of the links which a lot of golf always produces. In cricket, as I have endeavoured to show, these principles have combined to bring the great game to a condition of impotence; the ingenuity of man has improved the bat and the grounds to such an extent that the ingenuity of man must now set its wits to work to restore the balance; the bat must be handicapped or the game must suffer. There is no necessity for this in golf. If nature did not provide bunkers, the game would be so dull without them, and it would be so easy to make them, that made they would be, and made difficult. With a sufficient number of bunkers and hazards, however good the greens and lies through the greens may be, you nevertheless find that golf is not an easy game except when you are at the top of your form, and when that rare event happens, everything is easy in games and sports of all kinds. The links at Westward Ho afford a very practical illustration of a magnificent course made difficult by careful use of natural and artificial bunkers and hazards. The links, where not bunker or hazard, are all putting-green; every lie is good, but the golfer has to use all his skill to avoid these bunkers. Golf is therefore unlike cricket in this important respect, that the pitch or ground where you play the game can never be as a rule unduly easy; you can always remedy this to the great advantage of the game.
When we come to the question of clubs and balls, the state of things seems to be very different, but even on this point it is by no means easy to say whether the modern appliances have made very much difference, or had much effect in making the game easier. Some people deny altogether that the game is easier, and the wonderful scoring that is now so common they put down altogether to the individual; the player, these critics remark, is the cause, not the weapons. The old school of players, on the other hand, say that the superior balls and clubs and greater width of course produced by the removal of whins and bushes, and much horse-rolling, all these facts have tended to make the game easier. I must here confess that I do not know enough of the game to express a decided opinion on these matters, but there are one or two points that ought to be kept in view, and which I cannot help thinking are too often lost sight of not only in golf, but in every game and sport when the weighing and comparison of the old and new is attempted.
At cricket we all know our old friend who shakes his head and makes comparisons between George Parr and Maclaren, much to the disadvantage of the latter. He saw both these distinguished players when in their prime, but his preference for the older player is so marked and so general, that I think another explanation than mere merit must be found. The reason is, I believe, entirely subjective; it lies in the critic himself. When he saw George Parr bat he was one individual, when he saw Maclaren he was another: he was young in the first case and old in the second. Many of us can remember the state of mind we were in when in our early youth we saw first-class cricketers and first-class cricket; we had looked forward to some particular match for weeks, and what was our frame of mind when the great day arrived? It was one of boundless admiration and delight, but there was no criticism and knowledge. In cricket I can speak with experience on this matter. When I was twelve years old, illness prevented me from being at school at Eton, but did not prevent me from being taken to see Gentlemen v. Players, both at Lords and the Oval, and I saw both matches. I can remember many things in both those matches still, but I can see how it all appeared couleur de rose; there was not a bad ball bowled, there was not a bad hit made. Youthful enthusiasm only sees the good; if it does indeed see the bad the impression is transitory and soon passes off. When we get old our enthusiasm is tempered by judgment, and criticism makes its appearance; it is true that we note what is good, but we note what is bad also, and when this is realised, it can be seen at once that as far as the thing to be judged is considered, the conditions are so different that our judgment ought to be carefully weighed and balanced by the sifting of facts and figures.
Is the game of golf as played now easier than it was thirty or forty years ago, and are the players now better or worse than they were then? I cannot express a decided opinion; it seems to me probable that when the far larger number of players is taken into consideration, as well as the keen competition that is the inevitable result, the performances of Vardon in 1898 and 1899 must make a golfer of judicial mind give him the first place among golfers of all ages or times. But I have talked with several golfers of great experience and calm judgment, who say that they are quite unable to decide in their own minds whether, putting Vardon out of the question, young Tommy Morris, Bob Ferguson, and David Strath were better or worse than Taylor, Herd, and Park. A genius at any game is not, and cannot be available for purposes of comparison, for he is sui generis; and I am inclined to think that Vardon, Roberts, and Grace must be placed on three equal pedestals as geniuses at golf, billiards, and cricket. But in considering the question as to the top players outside those on whom is stamped genius, there is not very much to choose. At any rate, I have heard men of undoubted fairness and every qualification to judge, admit they cannot say. If there is any merit in mashies, bullet-headed drivers, and brasseys and bulgers, it must be remembered that the old players had not the advantage of using these, and some of the greater length of drive that is undoubtedly possessed by modern players must be put down to the credit of the club, and not of the player. It would be absolutely impossible to play a good game with the feather balls which are exhibited as curiosities in some club rooms, as it would be at cricket to play a good innings with Robinson's bat, of colossal weight in the blade and very thin handle, which you may see at Lords. But the very old players had to play with feather balls, while the modern player has had every imaginable choice of the finest gutta-percha to choose from. There is another point also to be thought of. When young Tommy Morris was in his prime, you might say, if I remember rightly, that all the important matches were played at St. Andrews, Musselburgh, Prestwick, and North Berwick, and those matches were comparatively few in number. Now links are to be found in nearly every place where it is possible to put them, and a great many where the critical would say it was impossible, and express trains connect them. If constant play in tournaments and for medals against strong and numerous competitors, on every sort of links, is good for a player, and tends to improve his game—which I think it must—the modern player is in this respect at a great advantage. I cannot speak with certainty, but I should think that Vardon played more important money matches in 1898 and 1899 than young Tom played during his whole career, which was, however, a very short one. In 1860 the field for the championship would number perhaps twenty; in 1899, one hundred. All these facts tend to show that though the scoring is lower now, and the play perhaps better, it is quite impossible to say dogmatically that if the same conditions had prevailed forty years ago, the best players of that date would not have been equally good.
I have said that it is by no means clear whether modern improvements in clubs have made very much difference in scoring. In one club no improvement or change has been made, and the old wooden putter is still used by some of our great players; nor, as far as I know, is there any difference between the modern and ancient cleek. The mashie, however, is a new club, and has largely superseded the old-fashioned iron; while the driver is different in shape, and the brassey and mashie have driven the old wooden spoons out of the field altogether. But how far these changes have made the game easier is difficult to say. There can be no question but that the driving is longer, even considerably longer, and I think also that evidence seems to show that as far as mere force is concerned, the modern player can give points to his rivals in ancient days, and for this the modern bullet-headed play club must be held largely responsible. On looking through a set of old clubs, it has seemed to me obvious that the modern player requires altogether more powerful, heavier, and stiffer clubs than our forefathers did. He cultivates the art of distance more than was the case formerly, he is always trying to be up in two strokes, where the older player would be content to be within lofting distance for his third shot. Perhaps the newer links have been laid out to encourage this method. Sandwich, for instance, which ranks as high as any English links, seems to have been specially laid out to promote the interests of the long driver, and St. Andrews, perhaps more than formerly, seems to be laid out not only to encourage long driving, but long second shots as well. If this is the case, it would seem natural to infer that the scientific short lofting shot was better played formerly than it is now; and judging from what I hear, I should think that such is the case. Putting is a matter of nerve, as is remarked in a previous chapter, and was the same yesterday as it is to-day, and as it will be for ever.
The development of golf appears to me to be quite unlike the development of cricket. Cricket has changed in all its features simply and solely because modern methods of the treatment of grounds has revolutionised the wicket, which has become so easy that almost any fool can bat. In golf, on the other hand, the links are very much the same, so are some of the clubs also; and if balls are considered, it is so long since the feather sorts were used, that for purposes of comparison we may begin from the year when gutta-percha superseded the old feather ball. The only basis to start from, which may account for the development of golf, is that of numbers, the increase, that is, of golf links and the golf invasion of England. We are all wearied with statistics in these days, so I certainly shall not encumber these pages with figures. I leave it to any casual reader to fix in his own mind how many golf links there are in England and Wales now, and merely quote the single figure 1, as representing the exact number of links outside Scotland in 1868. What this means and how this affects the whole game of golf it is impossible to say, but affect it enormously it must. Thirty years ago there were hundreds of undeveloped golfers who never had an opportunity of grasping a club. Outside Scotland, except a few Englishmen who lived wholly or partly in Scotland, there were probably not many more than a hundred golfers. There is hardly any one spot in England where a game of golf cannot be played somehow. The links may be laid out on heavy, wet, clayey fields in Warwickshire, or among the fortifications at Chatham, on the cliffs at Brighton, on the Downs of Guildford, or among the coal-pits of Dudley and West Bromwich; but holes are cut, and more or less of a golf links made, and each links has its club; whilst each club has its prizes, medals, and spring and autumn meetings.
The multiplication of golf clubs and golf prizes has caused a large increase in the number of rounds that are played for score as opposed to hole play. It is impossible for thirty or more players to meet for one day to compete for a prize in any way except by score. The ball has to be hit into nine or eighteen different holes in the fewest possible number of strokes—that is the object of every one of the competitors. Every golfer, good, bad, and indifferent, knows the difference of match play and medal play. Some players seem far better when they are playing for a score than when playing by holes: Mr. Hilton, for instance, who has twice won the open championship, is reputed to be a better medal player than match player, while Andrew Kirkaldy, I hear, expresses his contempt for medal play in no uncertain language. I think, on the whole, there can be no question but that match or hole play is not only the better game, but produces, as a rule, the higher and superior golf. Medals are won by the player who, while he plays fine golf, still contents himself with safe play: he makes no mistake from one point of view, but this is because he does not often attempt anything that is very difficult. There are a few exceptional cases when a great player is on the top of his form, goes for everything and brings off everything, and makes a phenomenal score; but I notice that generally these marvellous scores come off when he is playing an ordinary single or best of two balls, and merely counting the strokes. In medal play you are fighting an invisible phantom, in match play your opponent is by no means invisible. You regulate your play by what he is doing; if he is in a bunker, by attempting a long carry off the tee, you play short and run no risks, but that is for that hole only; the position is reversed the next hole, and you have to go for a gallery stroke, for your rival is on the green in two, and unless you are also, you probably lose the hole. The apostolic precept that you are to forget the things that are behind, and press forward to those that are before, is to be observed in all golf, but it is far easier to carry this into practice in hole play than it is in medal play. If you play one hole so badly that it takes ten strokes to hole out, you have probably put yourself out of the reckoning as far as winning the medal is concerned, but the same play in a match only means the loss of one hole, a mere trifle. In medal play, consequently, though it may not be difficult to press forward, it is very difficult to forget what is behind if you have played one hole so badly.
This is the chief reason why medal play is neither so interesting to watch nor so pleasant to engage in as hole or match play—the one produces a dull, level style of game, with few flashes of brilliancy, while the other encourages both safety and brilliancy: and in my humble opinion, the increase of medals necessary because of the increase of clubs and players is not a development towards improvement, but the reverse. Golfers now seem to take not enough interest in the healthy match play, but to be endlessly keen about score. Even in a match you find your opponent has a little book where his score is put down after every hole, and there is a tendency to subordinate everything to score, and considerable pressure to have the rules altered in order to meet the wishes of score players. It is one of the rules of medal play that your opponent's ball should not interfere with yours; stymies therefore are unknown. The medal players, or at any rate many of them, are urging that stymies should be abolished. I do not deny that a great deal may be said in favour of this; it is unlucky to be stymied, and it is a fluke, but on the other hand, it is a rule of the game, and in the long run no one player can say that he has not gained so much as he has lost by the stymie; if it has been against him one day, it has operated in his favour on another. But there are other considerations. To begin with, players are often apt to consider themselves stymied when such is not the case. A scientifically hit ball with lofting iron or putter will hole the ball out in the hands of a skilful player in many a case where an ordinary player, angry at being what he thinks stymied, gives up the hole or plays wildly. A ball can be lofted neatly and can be made to curve round the opponent's ball in many a case, and the main objection I have to the abolition of the stymie is that if finally abolished, a very beautiful stroke will be abolished with it. I always find in these days there is far too great a tendency to sacrifice "form" to something which people call effectiveness, but which to my mind has a sordid and vulgar element about it. There is no doubt but that a pretty lofted shot on the putting-green into the hole is a beautiful stroke, and I fail to see why it should be sacrificed because another player finds that his score, which he is keeping when he should not, suffers by being stymied. I do not say that I blame the player who is always keeping his score when he plays matches—everybody can do what he likes—but I do protest against a lovely shot being sacrificed on the ground of score.
The one dangerous and unhealthy development of golf then, to my mind, consists of the too great prominence given to score. I have seen some players who really almost seem indifferent about what the result of the hole play is, provided they are not taking more than five to every hole, and are doing a good score. I am also painfully aware that our likes and dislikes, our partiality for medal or match play, our being in favour or the contrary of this, that, and the other rule, is largely determined by the effect it has on our own individual play. Mr. Hilton, for instance, has twice won the open championship by strokes, but up to 1900 he has not pulled off the amateur championship, which is played by tournament. He would possibly argue that the best type of golf is to be found when playing for a score, and human nature being what it is, nobody could wonder at this.
I am trying to put forward what I cannot help thinking tends to the good of the game, and I think that anything which promotes medal or score play unduly and depresses match play is not to be encouraged. It is easy to say it, but I implore everybody who plays golf to remember that it is a game and not a business. A singularly charming form of golf is a foursome suitable for all ages and links, and can there exist any golfer who would prefer playing a foursome by strokes and not by holes? The thing I fear is that the system of playing for scores may so permeate the whole golfing spirit, that match play may become relegated to the subordinate position. If ever this comes to be brought about golf will suffer and become more selfish and individual a game, and, to be critical, this is the one drawback to golf already.
The Amateur Championship is played by tournament or hole play, and long may it continue so. I am in hope that what I suppose is essentially the blue ribbon of the golfing world—namely, the open championship—may become a hole game too. It cannot, perhaps, be entirely by holes, but something may be done by devoting the first day to score play. Let two rounds be given to this, and then take the ten highest scorers and fight it to a finish by match play. It is not easy in these days to abolish score play altogether when there are such crowds of golfers, but it may be possible to keep the scoring to a certain point, and have the crucial, final, and penultimate finals played by holes. If this could be worked it would have a great effect in promoting the finer, less selfish, and higher game of golf, namely, the golf played by holes and not by strokes.
