A Ruling and a Secret
By MacDuff
There was a great deal of talk in the club about the recent USGA ruling regarding the so-called “belly putter.” The newest dictum mandates that no part of a putter may be “anchored” against the body. Curiously, to my mind, it was deemed acceptable to secure a putter against one’s forearm, presumably because the forearm is moving along with the direction of the putter.
Various of our members weighed in on the matter, some bitterly disappointed in the rule as this will require them to revive the long-abandoned skill of moving a putter with arms and hands. Quite naturally, those giving voice against the new rule had become secure and comfortable with a long-handled blade whose butt end was anchored against the chest, at least such chest as could be found above quite ample bellies. The resulting pivotal move, they felt, allowed the mind to concentrate on just the the back and forth motion of the right hand only. The left was kept above the fray, anchored to the chest with the end of the shaft.
“Damned USGA lords, anyway,” spat one fellow, slamming a glass of scotch and bitters on the table. “No matter how you putt, you’ve still got to determine a line and get the ball rolling in that direction.”
“There’s speed, too,” chimed in a vodka man. “Whatever putter you use, you’ve got to hit the ball with the right weight to bring it up to the hole.”
There were several “here, here’s” followed by a general agreement that Williamson, our esteemed barman, was a first-rate fellow whose generous touch with the measure was universally acclaimed. He also knows a thing or two about golf and is often consulted on these matters.
“Williamson, what do you think of this?” inquired a Guinness man who had been idling his engines, ready to direct the conversation to new heights.
Williamson is a slight fellow with a ruddy complexion and a marvelous handlebar mustache that lends a rather Victorian element to his persona. His age is a matter of some debate in the club, as he recalls dates and events that often appear to pre-date Old Tom himself. Still, as his knowledge is unvaryingly accurate, his authority has become nearly unquestioned. He looked up from his customary station behind the ample, rich mahogany wood bar, where he was carefully wiping pint and whiskey glasses.
“When I caddied for Bobby Jones during his war bond tour at the old Northumberland Hills Club in Charleston, we touched on this very subject,” recalled our sage, with a distant view in his eye. “He had just sunk another 25-footer when I remarked how slim his Calamity Jane seemed. It seemed to me, I remarked to him, that in other hands it would be considered unequal to any putting challenge.
“It was then, as he handed me the great putter to be set gently back in the bag, that he spoke to me in confidence. He had, he said, tried a great many putters. Some were of the long-handled variety now spoken of in these recent rulings. Others, he said, were long and narrow blades. Some were rounded, some half-cylinders. Still others had fantastic sight appurtenances attached to them. He even, he said, had tried a modified version of Willie Kidd’s famous “backwards” putter. None worked to his satisfaction.”
“Jones could have putted with a child’s croquet mallet and found the hole,” put forth the scotch and bitters. “He never missed.”
Williamson smiled. “So it seems. But Mr. Jones told me that he struggled for some years with putting before he found its great secret.”
At this, the room grew silent. All that could be heard was the soft swipe of Williamson’s cloth against the glass he held.
“Well,” said the Guinness man, “what was the secret?”
“Ah,” Williamson said. “Mr. Jones having tried all these various devices had found they all had one thing in common. It was on this very thing that he concentrated his wonderful abilities.”
“And?” said the scotch and bitters, unable to contain himself.
Williamson smiled. “Mr. Jones found that, with very few exceptions, all putters had a flat surface on one side to strike the ball. He felt it didn’t matter what the club looked like, as long as it had a flat surface. One takes the club back and moves it in the general direction of the hole.”
“That’s it! That’s the secret!” roared the scotch and bitters, coming dangerously near to upsetting his glass.
“If you will notice, sir, when Mr. Jones putted, he stance was rather narrow and he rocked his upper body. This, he felt, kept his hands quiet through the ball.”
“BY JOVE,” cried the Guinness man. “Why, it’s as plain as my wife’s sister. I must try this at once.”
With that, the club room emptied out. It was but the work of moment for the assembled members to be jostling for room on the putting green, no long-handled putters in sight, but all with narrowed stances.
“You are amazing, Williamson,” I said, he and I the only two people left in the room. “This conversation you had with Bobby Jones. Did he really reveal this secret to you?”
“Well, sir,” Williamson said, “It will certainly take their minds off the long-handled putter ruling for a time.”
“Williamson, you are one of a kind.”
“Thank you, sir. Another scotch?”