SHOULD MARRIED MEN PLAY GOLF?
THAT we Englishmen attach too much importance to sport goes withoutsaying—or, rather, it has been said so often as to have become acommonplace. One of these days some reforming English novelist willwrite a book, showing the evil effects of over-indulgence in sport: theneglected business, the ruined home, the slow but sure sapping of thebrain—what there may have been of it in the beginning—leading tosemi-imbecility and yearly increasing obesity.
A young couple, I once heard of, went for their honeymoon to Scotland.The poor girl did not know he was a golfer (he had wooed and won herduring a period of idleness enforced by a sprained shoulder), or maybeshe would have avoided Scotland. The idea they started with was that ofa tour. The second day the man went out for a stroll by himself. Atdinner-time he observed, with a far-away look in his eyes, that it seemeda pretty spot they had struck, and suggested their staying there anotherday. The next morning after breakfast he borrowed a club from the hotelporter, and remarked that he would take a walk while she finished doingher hair. He said it amused him, swinging a club while he walked. Hereturned in time for lunch and seemed moody all the afternoon. He saidthe air suited him, and urged that they should linger yet another day.
She was young and inexperienced, and thought, maybe, it was liver. Shehad heard much about liver from her father. The next morning he borrowedmore clubs, and went out, this time before breakfast, returning to a lateand not over sociable dinner. That was the end of their honeymoon so faras she was concerned. He meant well, but the thing had gone too far.The vice had entered into his blood, and the smell of the links drove outall other considerations.
We are most of us familiar, I take it, with the story of the golfingparson, who could not keep from swearing when the balls went wrong.
“Golf and the ministry don’t seem to go together,” his friend told him.“Take my advice before it’s too late, and give it up, Tammas.”
A few months later Tammas met his friend again.
“You were right, Jamie,” cried the parson cheerily, “they didna run wellin harness; golf and the meenistry, I hae followed your advice: I haegi’en it oop.”
“Then what are ye doing with that sack of clubs?” inquired Jamie.
“What am I doing with them?” repeated the puzzled Tammas. “Why I amgoing to play golf with them.” A light broke upon him. “Great Heavens,man!” he continued, “ye didna’ think ’twas the golf I’d gi’en oop?”
The Englishman does not understand play. He makes a life-long labour ofhis sport, and to it sacrifices mind and body. The health resorts ofEurope—to paraphrase a famous saying that nobody appears to havesaid—draw half their profits from the playing fields of Eton andelsewhere. In Swiss and German kurhausen enormously fat men bear downupon you and explain to you that once they were the champion sprinters orthe high-jump representatives of their university—men who now hold on tothe bannisters and groan as they haul themselves upstairs. Consumptivemen, between paroxysms of coughing, tell you of the goals they scoredwhen they were half-backs or forwards of extraordinary ability.Ex-light-weight amateur pugilists, with the figure now of an Americanroll-top desk, butt you into a corner of the billiard-room, and,surprised they cannot get as near you as they would desire, whisper toyou the secret of avoiding the undercut by the swiftness of the backwardleap. Broken-down tennis players, one-legged skaters, dropsicalgentlemen-riders, are to be met with hobbling on crutches along everyhighway of the Engadine.
They are pitiable objects. Never having learnt to read anything but thesporting papers, books are of no use to them. They never wasted much oftheir youth on thought, and, apparently, have lost the knack of it. Theydon’t care for art, and Nature only suggests to them the things they canno longer do. The snow-clad mountain reminds them that once they weredaring tobogannists; the undulating common makes them sad because theycan no longer handle a golf-club; by the riverside they sit down and tellyou of the salmon they caught before they caught rheumatic fever; birdsonly make them long for guns; music raises visions of the localcricket-match of long ago, enlivened by the local band; a picturesqueestaminet, with little tables spread out under the vines, recalls bittermemories of ping-pong. One is sorry for them, but their conversation isnot exhilarating. The man who has other interests in life beyond sportis apt to find their reminiscences monotonous; while to one another theydo not care to talk. One gathers that they do not altogether believe oneanother.
The foreigner is taking kindly to our sports; one hopes he will beforewarned by our example and not overdo the thing. At present, one isbound to admit, he shows no sign of taking sport too seriously. Footballis gaining favour more and more throughout Europe. But yet the Frenchmanhas not got it out of his head that the _coup_ to practise is kicking theball high into the air and catching it upon his head. He would rathercatch the ball upon his head than score a goal. If he can manœuvre theball away into a corner, kick it up into the air twice running, and eachtime catch it on his head, he does not seem to care what happens afterthat. Anybody can have the ball; he has had his game and is happy.
They talk of introducing cricket into Belgium; I shall certainly try tobe present at the opening game. I am afraid that, until he learns fromexperience, the Belgian fielder will stop cricket balls with his head.That the head is the proper thing with which to play ball appears to bein his blood. My head is round, he argues, and hard, just like the ballitself; what part of the human frame more fit and proper with which tomeet and stop a ball.
Golf has not yet caught on, but tennis is firmly established from St.Petersburg to Bordeaux. The German, with the thoroughness characteristicof him, is working hard. University professors, stout majors, risingearly in the morning, hire boys and practise back-handers andhalf-volleys. But to the Frenchman, as yet, it is a game. He plays itin a happy, merry fashion, that is shocking to English eyes.
Your partner’s service rather astonishes you. An occasional yard or sobeyond the line happens to anyone, but this man’s object appears to be tobreak windows. You feel you really must remonstrate, when the joyouslaughter and tumultuous applause of the spectators explain the puzzle toyou. He has not been trying to serve; he has been trying to hit a man inthe next court who is stooping down to tie up his shoe-lace. With hislast ball he has succeeded. He has hit the man in the small of the back,and has bowled him over. The unanimous opinion of the surroundingcritics is that the ball could not possibly have been better placed. ADoherty has never won greater applause from the crowd. Even the man whohas been hit appears pleased; it shows what a Frenchman can do when hedoes take up a game.
But French honour demands revenge. He forgets his shoe, he forgets hisgame. He gathers together all the balls that he can find; his balls,your balls, anybody’s balls that happen to be handy. And then commencesthe return match. At this point it is best to crouch down under shelterof the net. Most of the players round about adopt this plan; the moretimid make for the club-house, and, finding themselves there, ordercoffee and light up cigarettes. After a while both players appear to besatisfied. The other players then gather round to claim their balls.This makes a good game by itself. The object is to get as many balls asyou can, your own and other people’s—for preference other people’s—andrun off with them round the courts, followed by whooping claimants.
In the course of half-an-hour or so, when everybody is dead beat, thegame—the original game—is resumed. You demand the score; your partnerpromptly says it is “forty-fifteen.” Both your opponents rush up to thenet, and apparently there is going to be a duel. It is only a friendlyaltercation; they very much doubt its being “forty-fifteen.”“Fifteen-forty” they could believe; they suggest it as a compromise. Thediscussion is concluded by calling it deuce. As it is rare for a game toproceed without some such incident occurring in the middle of it, thescore generally is deuce. This avoids heart-burning; nobody wins a setand nobody loses. The one game generally suffices for the afternoon.
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To the earnest player, it is also confusing to miss your partneroccasionally—to turn round and find that he is talking to a man. Nobodybut yourself takes the slightest objection to his absence. The otherside appear to regard it as a good opportunity to score. Five minuteslater he resumes the game. His friend comes with him, also the dog ofhis friend. The dog is welcomed with enthusiasm; all balls are returnedto the dog. Until the dog is tired you do not get a look in. But allthis will no doubt soon be changed. There are some excellent French andBelgian players; from them their compatriots will gradually learn higherideals. The Frenchman is young in the game. As the right conception ofthe game grows upon him, he will also learn to keep the balls lower.
I suppose it is the continental sky. It is so blue, so beautiful; itnaturally attracts one. Anyhow, the fact remains that most tennisplayers on the Continent, whether English or foreign, have a tendency toaim the ball direct at Heaven. At an English club in Switzerland thereexisted in my days a young Englishman who was really a wonderful player.To get the ball past him was almost an impossibility. It was his returnthat was weak. He only had one stroke; the ball went a hundred feet orso into the air and descended in his opponent’s court. The other manwould stand watching it, a little speck in the Heavens, growing graduallybigger and bigger as it neared the earth. Newcomers would chatter tohim, thinking he had detected a balloon or an eagle. He would wave themaside, explain to them that he would talk to them later, after thearrival of the ball. It would fall with a thud at his feet, rise anothertwenty yards or so and again descend. When it was at the proper heighthe would hit it back over the net, and the next moment it would bemounting the sky again. At tournaments I have seen that young man, withtears in his eyes, pleading to be given an umpire. Every umpire hadfled. They hid behind trees, borrowed silk hats and umbrellas andpretended they were visitors—any device, however mean, to avoid the taskof umpiring for that young man. Provided his opponent did not go tosleep or get cramp, one game might last all day. Anyone could return hisballs; but, as I have said, to get a ball past him was almost animpossibility. He invariably won; the other man, after an hour or so,would get mad and try to lose. It was his only chance of dinner.
It is a pretty sight, generally speaking, a tennis ground abroad. Thewomen pay more attention to their costumes than do our lady players. Themen are usually in spotless white. The ground is often charminglysituated, the club-house picturesque; there is always laughter andmerriment. The play may not be so good to watch, but the picture isdelightful. I accompanied a man a little while ago to his club on theoutskirts of Brussels. The ground was bordered by a wood on one side,and surrounded on the other three by _petites fermes_—allotments, as weshould call them in England, worked by the peasants themselves.
It was a glorious spring afternoon. The courts were crowded. The redearth and the green grass formed a background against which the women, intheir new Parisian toilets, under their bright parasols, stood out likewondrous bouquets of moving flowers. The whole atmosphere was adelightful mingling of idle gaiety, flirtation, and gracefulsensuousness. A modern Watteau would have seized upon the scene withavidity.
Just beyond—separated by the almost invisible wire fencing—a group ofpeasants were working in the field. An old woman and a young girl, withropes about their shoulders, were drawing a harrow, guided by a witheredold scarecrow of a man. They paused for a moment at the wire fencing,and looked through. It was an odd contrast; the two worlds divided bythat wire fencing—so slight, almost invisible. The girl swept the sweatfrom her face with her hand; the woman pushed back her grey locksunderneath the handkerchief knotted about her head; the old manstraightened himself with some difficulty. So they stood, for perhaps aminute, gazing with quiet, passionless faces through that slight fencing,that a push from their work-hardened hands might have levelled.
Was there any thought, I wonder, passing through their brains? The younggirl—she was a handsome creature in spite of her disfiguring garments.The woman—it was a wonderfully fine face: clear, calm eyes, deep-setunder a square broad brow. The withered old scarecrow—ever sowing theseed in the spring of the fruit that others shall eat.
The old man bent again over the guiding ropes: gave the word. The teammoved forward up the hill. It is Anatole France, I think, who says:Society is based upon the patience of the poor.