IX
There are many who hold that the most exasperating opponent of all is he who is afflicted with an amazing indecision when about to make his very shortest putts. For a minute he will stand with his putter to the ball as if in abject fear of his fate, and surely at such a time there are strange fancies flying through his brain. They must be like the fancies of a drowning man. It was agreed among a company of his friends that these must be the jerky thoughts of such a man whom they well know when he was engaged gloomily upon the dreaded task of putting a ball that lay eighteen inches from the hole, the little patch of putting green that intervened being perfectly smooth and level:—
This is a very simple job,
And when I have holed the ball
I shall be certain of my half-crown.
Still, I must be careful. It is very easy to miss these short putts;
And I have missed many thousands, costing me
Many pounds—scores of pounds.
And now that I am up against it,
And looking at this putt,
It does not seem quite so easy as it did at first.
It will require most careful management—a most delicate tap,
And very accurate gauging of strength.
One needs to be very cool and deliberate over these things.
One’s nerves, and stomach, and liver must be in prime condition.
I wish I had not been out to dinner last night.
Was it Willie Park or Ben Sayers
Who said that the man who could putt could beat anybody?
I believe him—Willie or Ben.
This is really a most awkward putt.
The green looks slower than the others. It is very rough.
Why don’t the committee sack the greenkeeper,
Who ought to be a market gardener?
It is like a bunker between
My ball and the hole. Such very rough stuff.
One, two, three—six—nine—why!
There are eleven big blades of grass
Sticking up like the rushes at Westward Ho!
The grass becomes so very stiff and wiry in this very hot weather.
(Yes, it is too hot to putt properly.)
My ball will never break through this grass.
It is one of the hardest putts I have ever seen,
I wish I had more loft on my putter.
I was an ass not to bring that other one out from my locker,
Where it is eating its head off (so to speak).
I think, also, that a little cut would do this putt a lot of good.
But how? The green slopes from the left;
Yet it seemed to slope from the right.
Also, it goes downwards to the hole.
This is a perfect devil of a putt!
I know my stance for putting is not good,
But Harry Vardon says that every man has his own stance,
So perhaps it is all right.
But I had better move my left foot; it seems in the way.
I see that two—four—six—seven of the pimples on this ball
Are quite flat.
Nobody can putt with a ball like that.
A man ought to be allowed to change his ball
Even on the green at times like this.
I must allow for those pimples.
Confound that fellow Brown!
He seems to be waiting.
And he is smoking his dirty shag so much
That I can hardly see the hole for smoke.
If I lose this hole I shall lose the match.
I am quite with Johnny Low in his new idea for handicapping,
When he says some of us should be allowed to play
Our bad shots over again.
In that case I would have one good smack at this ball
To get the strength and the hang of
Everything. And I am certain—yes, I am quite absolutely certain—
That I would hole the ball next time.
However, what does it matter?
Better men then I have missed such putts,
And I am not a chicken—live a hard life—lot of work—
Office to-night—awful day to-morrow.
And as the wife was saying—
Let me see. Oh! hang this putt!
He can have his half-crown if he wants it,
But I am going to have one good smack
At this ball. Now—
No, that was wrong. Now, yes, yes—
My godfathers!
And my godmothers!
I have missed that putt again!
[When the ball came to a standstill it was just an inch and a half short of the hole, and considerably to the left of the proper line to the middle.]