Golf in the Kingdom

by Michael Murphy

  He was strikingly handsome, tanned and ruddy in his white sweater and golden pants. Something had given his spirits a tremendous lift.

  “I see that I’ve gotten here at the right moment. Lay on, Mrs. McNaughton,” he said in his booming voice. And we all began eating the impressive meal that Agatha laid in front of us. What a wife she was, I thought, lucky Peter. Shivas obviously appreciated her too. “Agatha, Agatha, ye remind me o’ what I’m missin’,” he said as he demolished a plate of stew.

  It was somewhere between the stew and the dessert that Peter took charge of the conversation. It was time, he said, “for each of us to account for golfs strange and lasting attraction.” Since the Greenes were here with their new theories and as this was a gathering that was not likely to recur for a while, if ever, he said, we should each in turn tell what the endlessly mysterious sport was really about. The Greenes were by now virtually standing on their chairs, which seemed so much lower than the rest, to talk about their discoveries. They had been waiting for weeks for the occasion. Shivas was enthusiastic too. “ ’Tis time tha’ we did justice to the subject,” he said, “and this is just the group tae do it. But I want tae hear yer ideas first. I shall speak last, plagiarist that I am, and, Michael, I want ye tae remember it all for posterity. Now, Peter, begin. Ye’re the host.”

  “No, Agatha is,” protested the good husband, “this is her party.”

  “Then Agatha, begin,” boomed Shivas.

  “No, Peter is the one with ideas,” said our handsome hostess, and everyone began talking at once.

  Eventually Peter began. “All right, my friends,” he said, leaning forward and looking round at us all, his graying temples reflecting the candlelight. “I’m not an intellectual sort like the rest o’ ye, so ye’re not goin’ tae get any fancy theories from me. And I’m goin’ to keep this speech very short, for I’m sayin’ my farewell to the game. I’ve suffered enough with it.”

  Peter’s seemingly decisive statement was met with a round of hoots and gibes. Apparently he had made such renunciations before. “Let us drink a toast to Peter’s imminent departure,” said Shivas, lifting up his glass, “and to his predictable retoorn.” There was a round of laughter as we all lifted glasses toward our host.

  Kelly got up from the table and went into the sitting room. He returned with an old wooden-shafted club that was taped together with wads of black binding tape. “Break it noo,” he said, offering the golfing stick to his father, “it’ll bring everyone luck.”

  Peter smiled and took the club with both his hands. His face was bright red now from drink and what seemed to be a sudden embarrassment. “Ye see, ma friends,” he said, holding up the stick, “we call this our wishbone. Ye can each make a wish.” Then he stood up and broke it with an enormous crack across his knee. He stood at the end of the table, sheepishly holding up a broken piece in each hand. “We do this, ye see, whenever I give up the gemme. Did ye make yer wishes?” There was another round of laughter and our host sat down.

  The surprising performance had happened so swiftly that I had not had a chance to make a wish. But the first thought that had flashed in my mind, I can still remember it, was an image of a golf pro at the Salinas club who had come from Oklahoma, a colorful man with gigantic temper, throwing a sand wedge at me by mistake. It whirled like a vicious helicopter blade as it came right for my face—I ducked and it grazed my scalp. It was the closest I had come to being killed or maimed and now the image had surfaced as Peter broke his club.

  “What did ye wish, Mr. Murphy?” Kelly asked in his whisky brogue from the other end of the table.

  “That no one kills me with a golf club,” my reply popped out. Everyone thought it was a great wish.

  “Ye see, that is why I break my club.” Peter grinned. “To save ye all from disaster.”

  “Oh, McNaughton, ye’ll be back,” Shivas’s voice resounded above the rest, “but finish yer speech.” The rest of the group urged Peter to continue.

  “Awright, I’ll tell ye what I think, for through my sufferin’s a certain understandin’ has developed.” He looked with sad eyes around the table and winked at Julian. “If I’ve learned one thing about the game it is that ’tis many things to many people, includin’ the many ones in my very own head.” He tapped his temple. “We’ve certainly seen them come and go through Burnin’bush. Tall ones, short ones, scratch players, and duffers from the end o’ the wardle. Intellectual sorts and workin’ men, pleasant tempraments and mean ones, the MacGillicudys and the Balfours, the Leviases, the St. Clairs, the Van Blocks, the gentlemen from Pakistan—in terms of origin and character and ideas, a most diverse and complex lot. For each has his peculiar understandin’, his peculiar theory, his peculiar view o’ the world, his peculiar swing, God knows. Get them here on the links, and all their parts fall oot.” He smiled sadly again and shook his head. “Gowf is a way o’ makin’ a man naked. I would say tha’ nowhere does a man go so naked as he does before a discernin’ eye dressed for gowf. Ye talk about yer body language, Julian, yer style o’ projecting yer rationalizashin’, yer excuses, lies, cheatin’ roonds, incredible stories, failures of character—why, there’s no other place to match it. Ye take auld Judge Hobbes, my God, the lies he told last week about that round o’ his in the tournament, ’tis enough to make ye wonder about our courts o’ law. So I ask ye first, why does gowf bring out so much in a man, so many sides o’ his personality? Why is the game such an X-ray o’ the soul?

  “Now let’s take this thing ye call projection,” he looked again at Dr. Laing. “One man sees the Burnin’bush Links as a beautiful thing, the next sees it a menacin’ monster. Or one man’ll see it friendly one day and unfriendly the next. Or the same hole will change before his very eyes, within minutes. What d’ye call that ink-blot test, Julian?”

  “A Rorrshock, Peter, that’s what ye’re talkin’ aboot.”

  “Yes, a Rorrshock, that’s what a golf links is. On some days I love these links of ours, on others I hate them. And it looks different, by God, it looks different dependin’ on my mood. Agatha heer says I go through the same kind o’ trouble with her, guid woman.” He reached toward his wife. “Like marriage it is, like marriage!” The idea seemed to have struck him for the first time. He and Agatha looked at each other in silence for a moment. The sounds of silverware striking plates and the slurping of broth quieted as the two of them exchanged secret knowings. All heads turned up from the dinner and looked to the end of the table. Peter and Agatha were sharing untold numbers of insights and feelings regarding the relationship of golf and marriage, and the group seemed to be awed by the sight. Six faces waited expectantly in the candlelight.

  “Just like marriage,” Peter said at last, in a quiet solemn voice. Then he turned toward us with a small boy’s smile of discovery. “Why, Agatha’s like a Rorrshock too.” There seemed to be a dozen “r’s” in the word Rorschach. “Just like a Rorrshock,” he said again, turning back to look at her with his child-like smile. “Marriage is a test of my devotion and my memory that things will be all right.”

  Words of approval and congratulations sprang from all sides of the table. We all wanted to cheer them on. I could see that Agatha was his mother and young lover and God knew what other incarnations in the Rorschach he saw. The same complexity seemed to be true for her.

  “A good marriage is as rare and complex and fragile as the world itself,” said Shivas, “and very like the game o’ gowf. Ye’re right, Peter, ye’re right.” I remembered that he was a bachelor and wondered if he had ever been married.

  Then our host and devoted husband broke into an impassioned speech comparing marriage to golf. The connection had sprung some trapdoor of insight and lyricism in his heart, and all his sufferings and enthusiasms poured forth. Like golf, marriage required many skills, he said, “steadiness of purpose and imagination, a persistent will and willingness to change, long shots and delicate strokes, strength and a deft touch,” the metaphors were tumbling in all directions now, “g
ood sense and the occasional gamble, steady nerves and a certain wild streak. And ye’ve got to have it all goin’ or the whole thing goes kaflooey.” He clenched his fist and turned his thumb down. “Any part o’ the game can ruin the whole. Ye’ve got to have all yer parts and all yer skills, yer lovin’ heart, yer manhood, and all yer subtleties. Not only are ye naked to yerself and to yer partner, but ye’ve got to contend with yer entire self, all yoor many selves. Nowhere have I seen the Hindoo law of Karma work so clearly as in marriage and in golf. Character is destiny, my friends, on the links and with yer beloved wife.” He took Agatha’s hand and they exchanged unspoken thoughts again. “Get me another glass o’ whisky, darlin’,” he said, “this clarity is frightenin’.”

  Perhaps the insight regarding marriage or perhaps the whisky Agatha brought him cast another light on the game for Peter. Like a barometer of his mood, his complexion had become bright red again with pleasure.

  “There is somethin’ benign about the game after all,” he said expansively, “we can read it in our history. It’s recorded that after the Treaty of Glasgow in 1502, which ended our worst wars wi’ the English, James the Fourth bought himself a set o’ clubs and balls. The prohibitin’ laws against the game, which he had renewed because the fields were needed for war practice, were dropped tha’ year since there would be nae mair fightin’. Then he married Margaret Tudor the followin’ year—bought himsel’ some clubs and married the daughter of the English king—wha’ d’ye think o’ that! Marriage and golf again, both recorded for posterity! ’Tis curious, ye’ll have to admit, that all o’ this has been remembered in our history books.”

  Some of us asked how he knew all that. “He reads all he can about the game,” said Kelly, “thinks he’ll finally read the secret.”

  “Now I’ve often thought about James the Fourth,” Peter went on undeterred, “how he signed that treaty and bought himself those clubs. Reminds me o’ President Eisenhower.” He looked at me. “It’s not a warlike man that loves the game so much.” I felt constrained to say that Ike was getting a lot of criticism for all the time he was spending on the course. “Well, I’ll admit that a man like that could get more done, but at least he probably willna’ get ye into wars or silly ventures, seein’ how much time he needs for his leisure. I think the very thought o liftin’ that prohibitin’ law led James the Fourth to sign the Glasgow treaty. He couldna’ have played unless the war was over, since they needed all that links-land for practicin’ their bows and arrows.” Julian Laing and Shivas both laughed at this proposal.

  “Yer history’s a Rorrshock,” the old doctor rumbled with a smile that revealed several golden teeth. “O’ course history aye has been.”

  But the challenge only seemed to fuel our host’s passion for his subject. He claimed that men who loved games “did not have to use other human beings for their sport”—or lord it over private lives and morals. After the union of the Scottish and English crowns, James Six and One proclaimed that Sunday sports were to be permitted in Scotland. Peter recited a declaration by the king, which he had memorized, something to the effect that on Sunday “our good people be not disturbed or discouraged from any lawful recreation such as dancing, leaping, or vaulting.” Those good Presbyterians could now leap about the streets after divine service. “And, moreover, that was the year the featherie ball was invented!” he exclaimed. “A ball that could fly further than any before it.” The coincidence of those two events—the discovery of the “featherie ball” and the relaxation of the sabbath prohibition against sport—was significant, for every improvement in leisure got into laws and treaties and politics generally. The first international golf match, between the Duke of York (later James the Second of England and Scotland) and John Patersone, the shoemaker, against two English noblemen, “a match much remembered and in the spirit of the Restoration,” was held at the Leith Links sometime later in the century; its importance as a public event showed how games encouraged the meeting of men in a peaceful manner. He said that the house John Patersone built with his winnings from the match still stood in Edinburgh, that we could all see it for ourselves. Then he talked about the first golfing societies, the competition for the silver club at Edinburgh, and “the banding together of the brothers.” With the English wars lessening, Scotsmen could now join to fight the elements and the “demons of their souls” at the Royal Aberdeen Club, the Royal and Ancient Club, the Honorable Company of Edinburgh Golfers, or the Musselburgh Club. All these fraternities made their rules, started their competitions, adopted their emblems and uniforms. Black jackets, red jackets, tartan jackets, and even more colorful outfits became obligatory for club festivities and play on the various golfing links. “Ye were fined if ye didna’ wear the uniform—and why was that?” he asked. “To form a band o’ brithers, that’s why. It was a way for men to join in peace and mak’ it vivid to themselves.” He pounded fiercely on the table for emphasis, rattling the dishes. “About the time o’ the first clubs even the English and Scottish parliaments joined together, completin’ what the Treaty o’ Glasgow started two hundred years before. So ye see, at every important joinin’ o’ the English and the Scots golf played a part. At the very least, the memory of these great events of golf and politics were joined in our memories and imaginations and history books. Now extend this to all the history o’ games and leisure. In golf our spears—and my friends, the Scots have had some fierce ones—get beaten into gowfin’ sticks. Now we would beat the good earth instead of our fellow man.”

  At about this point in the conversation, I told the group about my friend Joe K. Adams’ proposing a Gymnasium for the Production of Dionysian Rites and other Health-Giving Rituals. Adams claimed that body chemistry was altered during wild dancing and other emotional sports. He claimed that dancing helped the bodily functions in general and opened up the mind. Julian thought it was a good idea. He had developed a theory that certain kinds of psychosis came from a lack of proper exercise.

  “Better games would empty entire wings o’ oor mental ’ospitals,” he said in his broad Scots burr. His wispy silver hair glowed like a halo in the candlelight, giving his face an iridescent quality. “I’ve cured several myself with nothin’ mair than games and dancin’. And listenin’ to the pipes can blow the mind free, too.” He then described the “perfect golf links.” It would include music on certain holes. All sports, he said, are improved when you can hear the right music, with the inner ear if possible, or with bagpipes and bands if you couldn’t. Ecstasy produced beneficial vitamins, it seemed.

  “Oor brain is a distillery, pumpin’ strange whiskys into the bloodstream to produce a permanent intoxication. Ye’ve got to feed the right things to the distillery, or ye get some bad green whisky.” He made a retching sound and spit into his plate to emphasize the point. Eve Greene flinched and Adam pretended not to notice.

  “But not gowf, Julian,” Peter broke into the old doctor’s speech, “not gowf. Gowf is for quietin’ the mind, not stirrin’ it. Look what happened when ye sent poor Campbell aroond the links with that dancin’ step ye showed him. The members wanted to lock him up.” Apparently Julian had prescribed an eighteen-hole Highland Fling for one of his patients.

  “Oh, oh, oh.” Julian leaned away from the table and his voice rose, “But look wha’ happened to the man. ’Twas a cure, wouldna’ ye say?”

  Peter and the others agreed it had been a cure. Campbell had eventually gone off to the South Seas to write a book. But the argument continued. Peter and the Greenes took sides against Julian, maintaining that the beauty of the game lay in its poise and decorum, in its Apollonian virtues. The fierce old doctor took the Dionysian line; the game was meant for dancing, he said. “Noo look at ye, Peter, ye play against yer emotions, with yer emotions, through yer emotions. Wha’ about the names ye have for yer different selves?” It was true. Peter McNaughton, like many others, had different names for his different golfing selves. I cannot remember them exactly, but they went something like “Old Red,” for a me
an and choleric one that broke clubs and swore viciously at his wife; “Divot,” for a spastic one dangerous to onlookers; “Palsy,” for another with floating anxiety, tremors of the hands and huge nervousness on the first tee. He seemed to have a certain detachment about them, referring to them as if they were familiar presences. He talked to them apparently. Agatha and Kelly knew who they were. Dialogues were held with them at dinner. Peter was a foursome all by himself.

  “Tae me,” said Julian, “yer a livin’ example o’ what the game is all about. What is it but the comin’ together of our separate parts? Ye said it yerself, Peter, just a little while ago when ye compared the game to marriage. Our inner parts want to marry too.”

  I looked at Agatha. She was nodding in agreement, like many wives I have seen who pray for their husband’s integration. Her hands involuntarily formed a prayerful attitude.

  “Well, ‘Naught’ has taken ower now,” said Peter with sudden vehemence. I think he sensed the group was ganging up on him. “There is nae mair gowf while ‘Naught’ is in command.” He had rejected these uncontrollable sub-personalities, along with golf and the whole business. Julian asked him what was left. “Oh, my friends, this lovely family, my sanity, my peace o’ mind,” he said with unconvincing gusto.

  “Now, Peter ‘Naught,’ I think yer many sel’s will return ere long over another game, over another dinner, in the midst o’ this very family. There is nae banishin’ them,” said Julian with a sinister smile.

  Peter was getting angry. He rose from the table. “Here, poor gowfin’ addicts,” he said, “drink up and arm yersel’s against yer madness. I’ve said my piece. Ye can see I love the game, have my theories just like you, even my historical understandin’s. But I’m leavin’ it all behind. We will heer nae mair o’ ‘Palsy’ and ‘Divot.’ ” There was a finality in his voice that none of us wanted to question. It was someone else’s turn to speak.