They Have Been Playing Golf For 800

Americans Are Less Mystical About What Produced Their Inland Or Meadow Courses; They Are The Product Of The Bulldozerm Rotary Ploughs, Mowers, Sprinkler Systems And Alarmingly Generous Wads Of Folding Money.

It Is A Wonderful Tribute To The Game Or To The Dottiness Of The People Who Play It That For Some People Somewhere There Is No Such Thing As An Insurmountable Obstacle, An Unplayable Course, The Wrong Time Of The Day Or Year.

I Wrote To Mr. Mcenroe, Senior. I Said: "here Is The Sentence Once Written By The Immortal Bobby Jones. I Thought You Might Like To Have It Done In Needlepoint And Mounted In A Suitable Frame To Hang Over Little John's Bed. It Says, The Rewards Of Golf - And Of Life, Too, I Expect - Are Worth Very Little If You Don't Play The Game By The Etiquette As Well As By The Rules." I Never Heard From Mr. Mcenroe, Senior. I Can Only Conclude That The Letter Went Astray.

More Than Anything Else, Though, To Anyone Who Would Write About It, Golf Offers A Four-hour Drama In Two Acts, Which Becomes Memorable Even In The Tape-recorded Reminiscenses Of Old Champs, And Which - In The Hands Of Someone Like Herb Wind - Can Become A Piece Of War Correspondence As Artfully Controlled As Alan Morehead's Account Of Gallipoli.

As Always, The British Especially Shudder At The Latest American Vulgarity, And Then They Embrace It With Enthusiasm Two Years Later