" Mr. Dooley " on Golf

New Zealand Tablet, Volume L, Issue 8, 22 February 1923, Page 26

" Mr. Dooley " on Golf

(By F. Peter Dunne.)

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Dooley, “I don’t want to say a any thing that wild hurt a triad, but .1 do think th’ authorities ar-rc very lax in lavin’ Hogan at large, as they ar-re doin’.” “An’ what ails Hogan?” Mr. Hennessy asked. “He’s got what th’ dock calls a fixed deelusion, said Mr. Dooley. “He thinks he’s a goluf player. No, he don’t play th’ game. Nobody does that. They wurrnk at it. But Hogan he slaves at it. He don’t think av annything else. He takes it down to th’ wather-office with him in th’ mornin’, an’ he carries it home with him- at night an’ sleeps with it. H ye go over to his house at this minyit ye’ll find him in th’ front parlor surveyin’ a poker an’ tollin’ th’ good woman how he played th’ eighth hole. There’s nawthin’ more excitin’ to th’ mother iv Riven at

th’ end of a complete wash-day thin’ to listen to an account iv a goluf game fr’m th’ lips iv her lifemate. lis almost as absorbin’ as th’ invintory iv a grocer’s shop. I was over there th’ other night, an’ he broke three panes iv glass showin’ me what he calls a mashie shot, an’ he near took an ear off his aunt Bridget practisin’ with a warclub that he calls a nibbelick. I wudden’t be harsh with him, but a few months or aven years in a well-upholstered cell with a ball an’ chain on his leg might restore him to himself an’ make him again th’ safe an’ bashful husband an’ father he wanst was.

“But ’tis a gr-reat game, a gr-rand, jolly, hail-fellow-well-met spoort. With th’ exception maybe iv th’ theory iv infant damnation, Scotland has given nawthin’ more cheerful to th’ wurruld thin th’ game iv goluf. Whin ’twas first played I cudden’t make out what ’twas like. I thought whin I first read about it that it was intinded f’r people with a hackin’ cough, an’ that no wan who was robust enough to play ‘ Twinty Questions ’ in a wheel-chair wud engage in it without a blush.

“But I know betther now. ’Tis a rough an’ angry game, full of ondacint remarks an’ other manly charackteristics, d’ye mind. An’ whin ’tis over it laves as much bad blood as a German submarine. At th’ end iv iv’ry goluf match th’ player loathes himsilf, is not on speakin’ terms with th’ fellow he played agin, cud kill his own caddy an’ his opponent’s, an’ hates th’ criminal that laid out th’ coor.se, th’ game itsilf, th’ .Took iv Argyll, an’ Andrew Carneygie, each wan iv bis clubs, th’ little burrd that twittered whin he was shootin’, th’ pretty wild flowers on th’ margin iv th’ links, an’ each separate spear iv grass on. th’ puttin’-green. If that potc that wrote th’ ‘ Hymn iv Hate ’ wants to write another on th’ same subjeck with a rale punch in it he ought to larn goluf. ’Twuld help- him.

“How’s it played, says ye? I don’t exactly know. I niver studied law. But ye can get th’ rules iv th’ game in th’ public library, in siven volumes edited be th’ Lord Chief Justice iv Scotland. If ye have a dispute over th’ rules, th’ quickest way to get a decision is to hire a lawyer, make a test case, an’ carry it to th’ supreem coort. In a gin’ral way, all I can say about it is that it’s a kind iv a game iv ball that ye play with ye’er own worst iniiny, which is ye’ersilf, an’ a man ye don’t like goes around with ye an’ gloates over ye, an ’a little boy follows ye to carry th’ clubs an’ hide th’ ball afther ye’ve hit it. Th’ ball is small, made iv injy rubber an’ filled with a pizinous substance, an’ if ye hit it a good smash, it busts an’ puts out ye’er eye. Ye’re supposed to , smash this little grenade fr’m place to place an’ here an’ there ah’ up an’ down an’ hither an’ yon with an enormous insthrument iv wood or iron, ontill in due time ye get to

what is called a puttin’-green. There’s a little hole with

a tin can in it in th’ middle iv this place, an’ whin ye’re within a fut or two iv this hole ye take a small hammer out iv th’ bag, an’ ye hit th’ ball four or five time till it tumbles into th’ hole. Thin ye wipe th’ cold sweat fr’m ye’er brow, write down ‘ 5 ’ on a little card, an’ walk away a few feet an’ do it all over again.

“So far so good. But that ain’t nearly all. Ye’ve kot along pretty well, pokin’ th’ ball down th’ pretty grass, whiii wan day ye see a dark, evil-lookin’ man watchin’ ye. Ye mark him at wanst as ye’re inimy, an’ well it is ye do, f’r he’s th’ expert that is layin’ out th’ coorse. He marks th’ spot where ye’er best shot goes, an’ says he, with a scowl, ‘l’ll upset that crokey-playin’ plumber.’ An’ he digs a hole five feet deep an’, dumps a waggon load iv soft coal ashes ito it. Thin he picks out th’ other places where ye loved to land, an’ he puts in barbed wire, ditches, mounds, pizen-ivy, blackberry bushes, a swamp, an’ a field iv thistles, tears down a hill an’ builds a mountain, gashes th’ fair face iv nature with gapin’ caverns an’ chasms filled with gravel, cigar-stumps, brick-bats, sardine-cans, hairpins, an’ futprints, calls thim bunkers, an’ goes his way. This pro-fissyonal torturer is what is known as a goluf archytect. If ye left a truly good goluf archytect in th garden iv Eden f’r an hour he’d make it look like Bilgium afther th’ war.

“Well, ye play wanst through this jungle that a wirehaired tarryer cudden’t get into, an’ ye’re told be a frind that ye ought to take a lesson. So ye pick out a brightfaced Scotch lad with a head shaped like a alligator pear an’ who can hit th’ ball a mile blindfolded an 1 ye give him what change ye have an’ ask him to pint out ye or faults. He pints out all ye’er wife has told ye about an’ manny dark wans besides. I see Hogan takin a goluf lesson wanst, an’ how he iver dared to lift his head again is more thin I cud undherstand. Afther th’ pro-fissyonal has recited th’ catalog iv ye’er sins an’ vices, an’ ye’ve made an act iv conthrition, he tells ye how to hit th’ ball. Ye’d think that ought to be aisy. Just go up an’ give it a cuff. But it ain’t annything like as soft as that. There ar-re forty different things ye have to think iv with each shot, an’ if ye do wan iv thim wrong, ye’re a lost soul. When ye’er idjication is completed ye go out an’ do all th’ things he told ye, but nineteen, an’ th’ ball skips lightly into a pit. Now is ye’er time to escape. If ye lave it lie there, turn ye’er back on it, run to th’ parish-house an’ ask f’r th’ prayers iv th’ congregation, it may not be too late. Ye may be saved. Fly, weak an’ wretched man, while ye have th’ stren’th! But if ye delay, if ye stop but wan fut into th’ thrap, ye’re doomed an’ on’y th’ kindly hand iv death will release ye fr’m a life iv shame.

. “Oh, ’tis th’ jolly game, th’ jolly ol’ Scotch game. No wonder it’s played all over th’ counthry. Th’ next pleasantest feelin’ in th’ wurruld to bein’ perfectly happy is bein’ perfectly cross. That’s why it’s took up be middle-aged gintlemen. They want a chanst to go into a towerin’ rage in th’ open an’ undher th’ blue sky. To a goluf player, Hinnissy, ■ th’ spreadin’ ellum three, a bloomin’ rose bush, or a purlin’ brook ar-re not what they seem to us. He doin’t use what ye call figures of speech about thim. No, sir, he uses a nibblelick or a fish-net.

“Another gr-reat injooccment to men to spind their Sundays on th’ goluf-coorse is th’ prisince iv th’ fair sect. Hogan tells me there’s nawthin’ so pleasant to a tired player as to come up on a tee an’ find in front iv him four beautiful ladies. Niver excipt in a sleepin’-car in th’ mornin’ ar-re ladies so atthractive as whin ye see thim fr’m a tee, with their lovely hair out iv curl, their tender faces tanned a lively pink or vermilion, an’ a lumber-jack’s boots on their dainty feet, while they dab pitcheresquoly at th’ herbage or stand in graceful attichoods on th’ puttin’green correctin’ each other’s scoots. Their presence'lights up th’ whole landscape an’ gives th’ men players a chanst to rest an’ gnash their teeth.

“Yes, sir, th’ bravest an’ th’ best an’ th’ fairest can be seen, east or west, or north or south, beltin’ away winter an’ summer at this noble game of hallucynation or rite or whativer ye call it.

“Did I iver see th’ game played? Faith, I did. Th’ ither, mornin’ I see Hogan go out with his kit iv tools, in other games wan bat is enough, but in goluf ye have to

own twinty. All th’ money that used to go-f’r shoes in Hogan’s fam’ly now goes f’r ; goluf-clubs. If he manages

to hit th’ ball with a. club, he tell ye he wudden’t part with that club f’r a hundherd pounds an’ asts ye to feel it an’ say ain’t that a nice club. He has as manny implymints iv this new thrade iv ids as a tinker. He has a hammer to beat th’ ball into th’ ground With, an’ a pick to get it out, an a little shovel to scrape it fr’m th’ sand, an’ a ilttle hatchet to knock it into th’ hole whin he gets near it. Where ar-re ye goin, with th’ hardware?’ says I. ‘lsit to open a safe or build a battleship says I. ‘ I'm goin’ to play goluf,’ says he angrily, ‘ This is th’ day I hang Larkin’s hide on th’ fence,’ he says. “So 1 followed him out to the coorse, an’ there we met Larkin, who had a bag iv akel size. Hogan used to ■be a champeen caber tosser an’ Larkin was a sthructufal ir’n-wurruker before his health give out an’ he become a horse-shoer, but they groaned undher their burden. Fortchnitly at that moment two bright little boys iv about eight years stepped up an’ relieved thim iv their burden. What are these pigmies goip’ to do with this here year’s output iv th’ Bary mills?’ says I. ‘ They’re goin’ to carry thim,’ says Larkin, ‘They’re caddies,’ he says. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘ ’tis very nice iv th’ little toddlers. Th’ young cannot start too arly in helpin’ th’ aged. But,’ I says, why don't ye get up on their backs an’ have thim carry ye around? A little more weight wudden’t make much differnce,’ says I. ‘ Hush,’ says Hogan. “Hi’ poor fellow was standin’ on what they call th’ tee, which is where ye take th’ first lick at th’ ball. Ho had a pole in his hand an’ was swingin’ it at a dandeline an’ missin’. Ivinchooly he stepped up to where th’ ball roosted on a little pile iv sand, stood with his legs apart, waggled th’ stick in th’ air, p’inted it tords th’ pole, cried out, ‘Stand away, Larkin; get round behind me, Martin; stop shufflin’ there, boy,’ an’ screamed ‘ Fore ’ at a fat old gintleman that was at wurruk in a trench half a mile ahead. Thin he hauled off with th’ bat, muttherin’ to himsilf: ‘ Eye on th’ ball, slow back, keep th’ lift arm sthraight, pivot on th’ right foot, folly through.’ Up crept th’ dhread insthrument slow an’ cautious an’ down it came with a blow that wud iv foorced th’ Dardanelles.

I expicted to see th’ ball splintered into a thousan’ pieces or disappear into space. But it didn’t. It left th’ tee ridin’ on a piece av turf th’ size iv ye’er hat, floated lazily off to wan side, dhropped, bounced twice, an’ nestled in a bush. ‘ Watch it, boy,’ yells Hogan. ‘ Watch it. Go right to it. Oh,’ says he, ‘ what did I do that was wrong, what did I do?’ says he, wringin’ his hands. ‘Ye dhropped ye’er right shouldher,’ says Larkin. ‘ Took ye’er eye off it,’ says Larkin’s caddy. ‘ Toed it,’ says an innocint bystander. ‘Ye make a mistake thryin’ to hit at tali. Ye shud’ve kicked it,’ says I. Hogan stood by, his face convulsed with mortyfication ontil Larkin, a man whose Sunday mornin’ recreation used to be raisin’ a kag iv beer over his head fifty times, give a lunge at th’ ball, done a complete spin’ an, missed it altogether. Thin a wan smile come to Hogan’s lips. ‘What ar-re ye haw-hawin’ about?’ says Larkin. They niver spoke again. Most iv th’ time they weren’t in speakin’ distance iv each other. Fr’m time to time they wud meet be chanst on a puttin’-green an’ Hogan wud say to himsilf: ‘ I’m down in twelve,’ an’ Larkin wud kick his ball over to th’ next tee. So they wint rollickin’ on. Hogan spoke to me wanst. He said: ‘ Dammit, stop coughin.’ Whin I left thim at th’ sivinth hole th’ excitement was at its lute. Larkin was lookin’ f’r his ball in a gerranyum bush, an’ Hogan was choppin down an evergreen three with wan iv his little axes. ‘ Where ax-re ye goin?’ says he. ‘ I don’t know,’ says I, ‘ but I may dhrop in at th’ morgue an’ listen to an inquest,’ says I. ‘ I’ve got to spend me holiday someway,’ says I.