How Golf Really Began
Gary Loftis
November 01, 2007
After 5 frustrating hours trying to find the necessary paperwork to complete my tax return, I was ready to punch the wall, the dog, or the door, so I went to the driving range and beat the h*$&*^##&& out of a bucket of golf balls. On returning home -- much relaxed -- I envisioned where golf really began.
A few hundred years ago, a fellow named Angus McDuffee lived in the Scottish Highlands. Angus had a rather short temper, a state aggravated by his wife's brother, Andrew, a ne'er-do-well who did little more than eat, sleep, and argue. He had come to stay the night three years ago and had never left. For a time, Angus took Andrew out into the moors and beat the h*$&*^##&& out of him with his mashie (Celtic for "a really gnarled walking stick with a bent end") when the aggravation became too intense. After a while, Angus' wife figured out that even drunken, stupid, lazy Andrew couldn't accidentally fall down the mountain THAT often, so she warned Angus that beating up her brother would lead to a fortnight of cold, lonely nights.
The next time Angus got mad, he remembered his wife's warning, grabbed his mashie, and set out for a long walk to cool off. After a while, he realized walking was not providing the same relief as the sound of the mashie bouncing off Andrew's head. About then, a walnut fell from the tree above, smacking him soundly atop his own head. That was the last straw! Angus raised his mashie and sent the walnut deep into the woods.
As it happened, Andrew was hiding in those woods lest he receive another beating. He watched as Angus hit the walnut, then watched the spheroid as it rolled into a gopher hole. Amazed that such random events as the hit walnut and the entry into the gopher hole could coincide, Andrew decided to try to make it happen again.
The next morning, Andrew went out of his way to tick off Angus. Sure enough, Angus turned beet red, grabbed his mashie, and set off down the mountain. Andrew ran ahead with a handful of walnuts. Situating himself behind a tree about 15 minutes' walk down the trail, he waited for Angus. Around the bend came Angus, still cursing and fuming. Andrew let go a nut, catching Angus squarely on the back of the head. Spinning around and spying the nut, Angus again smacked the small orb into the woods, barely missing a gopher hole.
Since he had several remaining nuts, Andrew tried again; and again Angus hit the nut but missed the hole. On Andrew's third nut, the hit orb found a hole.
The probability of Angus hitting a walnut into a gopher hole and the opportunity to further irritate his brother-in-law became a daily game to Andrew, and he began to classify parts of the trail by how many walnuts he'd have to throw at Angus before one was hit into a gopher hole. He called these classifications "pars" (short for a Celtic phrase loosely translated as "how far can you push a homicidal brother-in-law before he hits your head with his mashie"). Achieving amazing accuracy in his predictions, Andrew began bragging about his little ploy to some of the other village parasites, who began turning out to watch the sport and wagering among themselves.
One day, Angus became so enraged that he had an aneurism and died between the fourth and fifth holes. Andrew's sport ended, but the betters wanted more sport, so he became a consultant, advising them on ways to aggravate their responsible relatives and neighbors, pick just the right locations on their trails from which to throw walnuts, and rate the various holes. Soon, hardworking men all over Scotland were toppling over dead from aggravation, and a new "leisure class" was enjoying prosperity as the property of their now dead relatives passed into their hands. Andrew became a national celebrity and was dubbed "St. Andrew" for the miraculous way he made his clients rich.
All was not well, however, because the nouveau riche realized that they were now the targets, so again they turned to Andrew for guidance and, avoiding work whenever possible, he decided to see if he could go public with the sport with a few modifications. Rather than betting how many walnuts it would take to get a madman to hit a gopher hole, they bet on how many each would have to hit in order to get a nut in a hole. Andrew set up a toll gate at the trail head, charging one farthing admission. He decided to call the game "golf" (Old Celtic for "there's a sucker born every minute").
Soon, the woods were crowded, and men were lined up for hours to get on the trail, so Andrew had another brainstorm. He turned a gaggle of gophers loose on the bogs and suddenly golf was out of the woods and in the moors. Of course, now many participants lost their walnuts in water holes and sucking muck, and others managed to hit into the brush (bystanders exclaimed, "That's rough!"). But Andrew charged by the hole and, since there were no walnut trees in the moors, he cleaned up selling replacement nuts. He also sold replacement mashies made for him by Irish leprechauns for pennies on the farthing, which carried mysterious spells (none of which was ever reported to actually work). Additionally, he enlisted village wenches to sell mead at every other hole to separate the “duffers” (so named for his unwitting benefactor) from more of their farthings.
A strange phenomenon began to occur, the new golfers became enraged as they took part, even though nobody was hitting them in the head. The aggravation was no longer an annoying, lazy relative, but the "game" given us by one!
Next time someone asks about your golf game, tell the truth: "I beat the livin' h*$&*^##&& out of that ball!"
© Copyright 2007, Gary Loftis. All Rights Reserved.
A few hundred years ago, a fellow named Angus McDuffee lived in the Scottish Highlands. Angus had a rather short temper, a state aggravated by his wife's brother, Andrew, a ne'er-do-well who did little more than eat, sleep, and argue. He had come to stay the night three years ago and had never left. For a time, Angus took Andrew out into the moors and beat the h*$&*^##&& out of him with his mashie (Celtic for "a really gnarled walking stick with a bent end") when the aggravation became too intense. After a while, Angus' wife figured out that even drunken, stupid, lazy Andrew couldn't accidentally fall down the mountain THAT often, so she warned Angus that beating up her brother would lead to a fortnight of cold, lonely nights.
The next time Angus got mad, he remembered his wife's warning, grabbed his mashie, and set out for a long walk to cool off. After a while, he realized walking was not providing the same relief as the sound of the mashie bouncing off Andrew's head. About then, a walnut fell from the tree above, smacking him soundly atop his own head. That was the last straw! Angus raised his mashie and sent the walnut deep into the woods.
As it happened, Andrew was hiding in those woods lest he receive another beating. He watched as Angus hit the walnut, then watched the spheroid as it rolled into a gopher hole. Amazed that such random events as the hit walnut and the entry into the gopher hole could coincide, Andrew decided to try to make it happen again.
The next morning, Andrew went out of his way to tick off Angus. Sure enough, Angus turned beet red, grabbed his mashie, and set off down the mountain. Andrew ran ahead with a handful of walnuts. Situating himself behind a tree about 15 minutes' walk down the trail, he waited for Angus. Around the bend came Angus, still cursing and fuming. Andrew let go a nut, catching Angus squarely on the back of the head. Spinning around and spying the nut, Angus again smacked the small orb into the woods, barely missing a gopher hole.
Since he had several remaining nuts, Andrew tried again; and again Angus hit the nut but missed the hole. On Andrew's third nut, the hit orb found a hole.
The probability of Angus hitting a walnut into a gopher hole and the opportunity to further irritate his brother-in-law became a daily game to Andrew, and he began to classify parts of the trail by how many walnuts he'd have to throw at Angus before one was hit into a gopher hole. He called these classifications "pars" (short for a Celtic phrase loosely translated as "how far can you push a homicidal brother-in-law before he hits your head with his mashie"). Achieving amazing accuracy in his predictions, Andrew began bragging about his little ploy to some of the other village parasites, who began turning out to watch the sport and wagering among themselves.
One day, Angus became so enraged that he had an aneurism and died between the fourth and fifth holes. Andrew's sport ended, but the betters wanted more sport, so he became a consultant, advising them on ways to aggravate their responsible relatives and neighbors, pick just the right locations on their trails from which to throw walnuts, and rate the various holes. Soon, hardworking men all over Scotland were toppling over dead from aggravation, and a new "leisure class" was enjoying prosperity as the property of their now dead relatives passed into their hands. Andrew became a national celebrity and was dubbed "St. Andrew" for the miraculous way he made his clients rich.
All was not well, however, because the nouveau riche realized that they were now the targets, so again they turned to Andrew for guidance and, avoiding work whenever possible, he decided to see if he could go public with the sport with a few modifications. Rather than betting how many walnuts it would take to get a madman to hit a gopher hole, they bet on how many each would have to hit in order to get a nut in a hole. Andrew set up a toll gate at the trail head, charging one farthing admission. He decided to call the game "golf" (Old Celtic for "there's a sucker born every minute").
Soon, the woods were crowded, and men were lined up for hours to get on the trail, so Andrew had another brainstorm. He turned a gaggle of gophers loose on the bogs and suddenly golf was out of the woods and in the moors. Of course, now many participants lost their walnuts in water holes and sucking muck, and others managed to hit into the brush (bystanders exclaimed, "That's rough!"). But Andrew charged by the hole and, since there were no walnut trees in the moors, he cleaned up selling replacement nuts. He also sold replacement mashies made for him by Irish leprechauns for pennies on the farthing, which carried mysterious spells (none of which was ever reported to actually work). Additionally, he enlisted village wenches to sell mead at every other hole to separate the “duffers” (so named for his unwitting benefactor) from more of their farthings.
A strange phenomenon began to occur, the new golfers became enraged as they took part, even though nobody was hitting them in the head. The aggravation was no longer an annoying, lazy relative, but the "game" given us by one!
Next time someone asks about your golf game, tell the truth: "I beat the livin' h*$&*^##&& out of that ball!"
© Copyright 2007, Gary Loftis. All Rights Reserved.
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