| Rita's ~
VINTAGE READING ®
~ Notebook
Since 1947, Mrs. Buday has found & verified countless Notes about people,
events, & fanciful figments of imagination. Here is one of her favorites.
AUGUST - SEPTEMBER 2007 :: © 2007 Buday Books / Vintage Reading ®
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A Wee Invader Made Itself Right At Home
By Rita Buday
Where
or how it began its nefarious campaign is murky. Some said it was
in Holland when the dikes froze in Winter. Others claimed it
started near the Belgian border with France. One savant even hunted for
suitable halls to give paid lectures he said proved it was afoot in 734
B.C. with Romulus and
Remus!
Who knows?
No matter when it was that a
leather-covered sphere, stuffed with feathers, was hit with a crooked
stick--
by 1450 A.D., base camps were well established on isles north of
England. These training grounds had, among other pleasures--wagon
wheel ruts, all sorts of stones, ditches of soft mud, piles of brush,
tall weeds--all manner of what was politely called "hazards."
Then, as England's troops forged
her colonies into an Empire, Wee Invaders in soldiers' kit bags had
Royal protection. After all, King James IV and V--along with
Mary, Queen of Scots--had been vanquished by innocent-looking Invaders
working relentlessly, quietly, fearing no one, wherever the Union Jack
was flown.
In 1888, the
campaign for world domination looked toward America. A Wee
volunteer was chosen to hide in the personal effects of John Reid,
enroute from Scotland to New York, where his baggage was waved through
by Customs officials. Three days later, Reid and his friends
turned the Wee Ball loose in a Yonkers, N.Y. field they called "St.
Andrews"--a battlefield with all the hazard delights of Scotland.
By 1896--just eight years
later--thousands of formerly happily married women had become
"widows," and near-orphans wondered why their parents were so
obsessively mesmerized by that Wee ball.
Many Clubs for the corps d'elite laid out their fields with spirit levels, making them about as challenging as playing on a billiard table. Yes, there were man-made hazards (after a fashion), and carefully-manicured fairways (very easily accessible, and not too tiringly far apart); but "the rough" was allowed to grow just so high and no higher at Newport, Southampton, and other fashionable watering-holes. Public courses for the less well-to-do riff-raff
classes were reminiscent of Scottish hazards, of course.
It did
seem a bit odd to hit the Ball, then trudge to find it half-buried in a
narrow muddy rut from which it was finally moved after five very messy
attempts, duly noted by a smart-aleck-kid caddy who felt honor-bound to
record every single misbegotten stroke while bystanders and caddy solemnly
intoned the rule about playing the Ball where it lies.
The player felt a sudden rush in his head; he gripped his club like a weapon! "If that kid and the crowd live to see the last hole . . . !"
Then he remembered that while The Judge might be a golfer who
completely understood what he wanted to do, The Law more than likely
would not!
So,
the player lurched and careened his way to the 18th hole where a lucky stroke landed
his Ball just thirty-two inches from the cup. It should have been
child's play to sink that evil little Ball. Two caddies and his golf
partner watched, fascinated, as the Ball first veered to the left (one stroke), then to the right (Second stroke!), lazily rode around the rim but didn't drop (THIRD!), and leaped --as if shot from a cannon--over the hole, defying gravity (FOURTH!).
He tore off his cap and slammed it to the ground--"of all the stupid, idiotic wastes of time!"
His golf partner was also his best
business customer; they both stood high in their church; that was all
that
saved him from making more sulphurous comments about the situation.
Finally, the eighteen-hole ordeal was over, except for the tally.
~
For players, golf is a game that will try their very soul. Something
goes wrong--they try to fix it. The more they try to fix it--the worse
it gets. The worse it gets--the more something goes wrong. The more something goes wrong . . . etc., etc.! It's a
humbling experience.
In the heat of battle, our player hadn't faithfully put down every stroke, but he guessed it was probably around 77, to his partner's 69. Wasn't it fortunate then that his thoughtful caddy had kept score--he showed debacles at the sixth, seventh, ninth and fourteenth holes, plus that
all-time catastrophic disaster at the eleventh. He announced the total--thirty-three additional strokes for a total of 105!--then ran for his life!
THE 19TH HOLE--TRANQUILITY AT LAST!
After
thirsts were satisfied at the Clubhouse, our duffer became more
philosophical--"I had a lot of bad luck today, but I know I'll do much
better with that confounded Ball next time."
The Wee Invader chuckled to itself. It had just conquered another victim.
~
"THE ROYAL AND ANCIENT GAME OF SCOTLAND AFTER 1890"
Over
the past 100+ years nearly everything changed. The size and weight
of the Ball are now governed by Rules. Tees, first made of wood, later
of plastic, replaced "a pinch of sand" to elevate the Ball for the first
drive. The "feathery ball" that split open after two rounds was
replaced by one made of gutta percha; it lasted longer but soon lost
its shape.
Today, the Ball has a scientifically-formulated
rubber core and dimpled surface to fly true. Club handles, once made from ash trees, then from Tennessee hickories,
are now made of metal, with heads designed by closely-guarded arcane
formulas.
In the 1890s, ladies played golf in shoe-top-length
dresses with cinched waists. Men wore knickers with knee-length argyle
stockings. Nowadays, men and women dress comfortably to play the game.
Rules are no longer "by guess and by golly." They now stuff the Rule
Book.
WHICH LEAVES THE PUZZLING QUESTION . . .
Why--of all the games in the world--should golf be most trying to a
player's temperament? Even for professional players, it's exasperating
to find that what looks quite easy is really quite difficult; that each
stroke made with such care and deliberation can become a disaster for
no better reason than a gust of wind, a harder spot of turf, a bit of
bent grass. It's galling to realize a player's pride rests on the
harmless-looking little sphere that never acts exactly the same, no
matter how many times a certain hole is played.
That's the real
secret of how the Wee Invader makes itself at home.
Despite the most
precise preparation and careful attention by groundskeepers, pro shops,
club makers,
instructors, and players, that miserable little Ball always acts unpredictably.
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