From The Golf Archives-When Sandbagger Johnson Went Mano a Mano With Champion Lex Armour

From The Golf Archives-When Sandbagger Johnson Went Mano a Mano With Champion Lex Armour   

By Seth Garth

Normally I do not write about sports, professional or amateur since I have felt the “fix was in” on all that gambling stuff from about sixth grade onward. But this story, this tale that I read about from a clipping somebody sent me caught my attention. Now two things should be said up front-I know nothing about golf, or rather I knew nothing about golf until avid golfer Sam Lowell whom I work with here filled me about the basics so that I would understand why the outcome played out the way it did. I also do not know Robert Johnson, aka Sandbagger Johnson from the Essex Golf Club up in Vermont. (The only Robert Johnson I knew from my main professional bailiwick, cultural critic, was the legendary blues singer who sold his soul to the devil back in the 1930s down in Mississippi to get that max daddy beat he was famous for.)     

I should say now, thanks Sam, that in golf, maybe other sports too, a sandbagger is a golfer who under the handicap system which rules the roost in the game, “jacks” up his scores in order to then whip everybody’s ass when it comes money on the line time. There is more to it and if need be I will tell more but that was essentially how this Sandbagger Johnson got to even be on the same golf planet as champion golfer Lex Armour. Lex had come to the Essex club on a tour of New England courses and as part of his “pay” and performance he would go mano a mano with one of the members. Sandbagger through some machinations not disclosed got the nod. Also from the time he got notice that he would be playing Lex for one hundred dollars a hole he started jacking up that handicap (which he had been doing all along to stymie his weekend playing partners for five dollars a hole).    

The way Sam explained it to me the way it works when a champion rolls into town is that he or she has a backer, either from elsewhere or somebody from the club will put up the betting money (and presumably like all agents take a cut). In this case a guy named Steve Roberge from the club did so since he had been an on-going subject of Johnson’s sandbagging. He was dying to have Lex whip his ass. The challenger, Sandbagger here, puts up his money or has a backer as well.

Golf for who knows what reason when it was invented I think in the 19^th century is played over eighteen holes of various lengths which determine the number of strokes for somebody to get what they call a par (there is an exotic if confusing set of names for each number you score but is far too complicated to explain now). The stakes on this one were one hundred dollars a hole so either man was liable for up to eighteen hundred dollars (although if somebody lost every hole he or she should be checked into a quiet rest home for some serious help)  

Bear with me here. Lex is what is called a scratch golfer meaning his has no handicap, no, that is not right his handicap is zero. Sandbagger, and here is where it finally dawned on me that he really was a sandbagger, claimed a handicap of twenty-two which meant that he would get a one stoke bonus from Lex on fourteen holes and two strokes on four holes. So say Lex got a four on the first hole and Sandbagger got a five they would tie, if he got four he would win and six he would lose. Are you still with me, Sam had to explain it about three times before I got it right and I hope I have done so. The sandbagger part is that for most of the season he had been around a sixteen handicap which would have meant that he would not get any stokes on the two easiest holes (each golf course has its own individual system of determining from one to eighteen the hardness of the holes I guess you would call it.)    

The actual match even if I could explain it would bore the average reader and not really be germane to the cautionary tale here-don’t cheat. Sandbagger fully expected under his plan that he would beat Lex, not by much and the money didn’t matter as much as the “victory.” Let me tell you this much though Sandbagger won the first hole, then the next four were ties and the fifth hole won by Lex so he earned five hundred dollars (the way that worked was each hole was accumulated until there was a winner). It is the way that Sandbagger lost that fifth hole that matters here. He started sweating figuring that if he lost that hole he was done, couldn’t win the most money. He yanked his tee shot (first shot) into some big pond, took a penalty, yanked the next one into a sand trap couldn’t get out and wound up with an eleven. Lex parred at four. That apparently rattled Sandbagger enough that he would lose twelve hundred dollars for the day. Remember what I said above, or what Sam told me to say-don’t’ cheat.    

Of Real Golfers and Fakahs- A Cautionary Tale

Of Real Golfers and Fakahs- A Cautionary Tale

By Si Lannon

[As of December 1, 2017 under the new regime of Greg Green, formerly of the on-line American Film Gazette website, brought in to shake things up a bit after a vote of no confidence in the now deposed and self-exiled previous site administrator Allan Jackson (who used the moniker Peter Paul  Markin on this site) was taken among all the writers at the request of some of the younger writers abetted by one key older writer, Sam Lowell, the habit of assigning writers solely to specific topics like film, books, political commentary, and culture is over. Also over is the designation of writers in this space, young or old, by job title like senior or associate. After a short-lived experiment by Green designating everybody as “writer” seemingly in emulation of the French Revolution’s “citizen” or the Bolshevik Revolution’s “comrade” all posts will be “signed” with given names only. The Editorial Board]

[As the above notice has indicated the former site administrator, Allan Jackson, an old friend of mine from high school days and a man whom I supported during the recent intense bitter internal struggle at this site which centered on future direction and purpose, has been deposed and banished to exile (self-banished according to him but seen differently by the survivors). Because the fight was along generational lines, self-styled “Young Turks” and branded “old-timers” as much as anything else new administrator Greg Green, with the endorsement of the newly-revived Editorial Board, has decided to let each combatant give their take on the issues at dispute, if they so desire. The reasoning as far as a I know is to clear the air and to let the reading public know what goes on behind the scenes of every publishing operation, old-fashioned hard copy and new-fangled social media driven before any material sees the light of day.

I have no serious gripe about Allan’s tenure except that I did notice he got more set in his ways as he got older. Was less inclined to “go off the reservation” with any new idea presented to him to expand the subject matter which forms the living experience of the American scene.  What I am about to speak of though, hopefully without setting off an avalanche of gripes about the old regime, is related to the subject of today’s post, sports, specifically golf, my favorite sport. Sports, including golf, something which Allan was adamantly against posting material on reasoning that there were an infinite number of sports outlets putting an infinite amount of information about every possible sport or game and we did not need to, could not, compete against that reality. Furthermore although this site is about important nodal social, political and cultural happenings in America which includes an overweening love of sport by significant segments of the population he would pass on assigning or accepting any sport-related posting.

As a general proposition for the direction of this site I would, and did, agree with him on that. Except my sports perspective was not the television, radio, on-line professional and top amateur stuff but down in the average American trenches. How an average Joe goes about the business of doing some sport, again specifically golf, which I enjoy and having been a member of a golf club long enough have plenty of “slice of life” material. No go, no go until recently that is which I will mention in a minute.             

What busted me up, almost at one point busted up our friendship which has been pretty solid since high school many, many years ago was that several years ago, Allan was all over the idea of having a significant sports angle posted on this site. And not some “literary” (his term stolen from the real Peter Paul Markin, a big friend in our youth) touch like Ring Lardner did with his baseball series around the title You Know Me, Al  in the early 20^th century or Damon Runyon with betting horses (or betting on anything) in a million shrewd short stories centered on old Broadway a little later.

Allan’s idea, reflecting his personal interest in college football, was to write, or have somebody write weekly commentaries during the college football season every fall. And for a couple of years, this before I started writing regularly for this site, I guess he thought he had cornered the wisdom on the “sports” market. Thought that doing so would make American Left History more relevant to some anonymous “average Joe” who would then pick up on the various historical and political points which are the hallmark of the site. The hook? Project the winners of each week’s games. Not just the winner’s but as always in sports, certainly in football, provide a numbered point spread for the readers to use when making their bets elsewhere.

There were two problems with that approach. First Allan, unlike the real Markin always known as Scribe, didn’t know the first thing about football, at least what college teams to focus on for betting purposes. Here is how bad I heard it was (he would never talk about it to me when I came on board or when we went out for a few drinks with the other surviving high school guys). Alan actually would run a line on the Harvard-Yale game like anybody outside those two schools gave a fuck about the point spread. Was clueless about such teams as Miami (which he thought was Miami of Ohio and wondered why nobody wanted to bet when they played Kent State) and had no idea outside a certain devotion to Notre Dame about serious big-time college football (our “subway” fan Irish neighborhood “go to” team from way back even when they sucked during our high school days team). Worse, that second problem, was that readers were complaining about a guy whose percentages against the point spread had been about ten percent even doing such an operation. One reader told him to use a Ouija board, a couple have his wife make the picks and numbers out a grab bag, stuff like that. 

After a pile of those complains Allan suddenly stopped, stopped cold before the bowls season started the second season. Never to let another live sports piece muddy this site. Until recently when after something like a civil war between us he granted me a reprieve. Let me do a “slice of life” piece about an amateur, very amateur, golf tournament that some friends at my golf club were participating in. I didn’t ask but I assume since the war clouds were looming on the internal disputes after one of the younger writers flat-out refused to write a CD review on Bob Dylan’s Bootleg Series Volume l2 declaring it nothing but mishmash and a distraction that he was trying to shore up support from the older writers as the “Young Turks” were throwing down the gauntlet. When I asked Greg Green about doing a short follow up piece after the smoke settled, the one below, he said such, said maybe I should do a whole series of “slice of life” vignettes if I could jumble the thing up with other sports as well as golf.  Si Lannon]           

********

This screed, let’s call it a screed since I am up in arms about what I consider a dastardly deed provoking screed time in me,  is being written on Saturday morning December 9, 2017 from “not the golf course, that expression to be explained posthaste since “weenie,” there is no other way to put it, Frog Pond PGA Golf Professional Robert Kiley  declared yesterday December 8^th the end of the golf season as we know it due to what he called, seemingly in panic, a snow emergency demanding all entrances and exits to the property under penalty of death be shuttered for the year since some foul-mouthed weatherman, oops, weatherperson had predicted the first snow of the season. A first snow that however was not projected to start until mid-morning on the 9^th.   

Well maybe not under penalty of death on the question of entering the property since we are all paid up members who actually “own” the course through our initiation fees and bond and are entitled to enter all year and play golf weather permitting all year as well using temporary green in the winter, but remember this is a screed. He nevertheless has certainly placed himself as a self-serving “weenie” since when the course “closes” for the year he hightails it down to Naples, Florida and golfs his brains out while we all suffer the “hot stove” winter golf roundtable blues until blissful come hither March. And certainly “panic” is an appropriate expression under the circumstances trusting in some holy goof weatherman, person whatever whose error rate is higher than any golfer’s score. (We by the way for those looking for harsher, rougher words use “weenie” rather than some other derogatory term since golf, unlike rough-hewn sports like bowling and badminton, is a gentlemanly and gentlewomanly pursuit and rather civilized except the vast “open secret” of the not too pleasant fates awaiting the golf balls used to further the sport’s aims.

In any case it is approximately 9:30 AM and I stepped outside for a minute and actually had a flake, one flake, hit my nose. I don’t like to cast aspersions on a man’s manhood especially when he holds the ticket to a person’s season-long entertainment but couldn’t certain rugged individual golfers of my acquaintance, my infamous 6:06 club, named as such for the usual tee time which we start playing at most of the season, that is 6:06 AM by the way so you know these rugged individuals are also old rugged individuals, have faced that one, possibly two snowflakes, and played a robust round at “the Frog” before the heavens erupted.   

Enough of moaning and groaning about short golf seasons though after all in New England unlike Florida or Arizona the serious season has to come to an end at some point. What I am up in arms about is the line in the sand that was drawn yesterday between real golfers and fakahs (what in the rest of the English- speaking world outside of Boston are called fakers). For the uninitiated modern day notice is by ever quick-mail even in ancient golf world and one and all were informed of the closing by e-mail early Friday morning. Certain real golfers, 6:06 Club golfers, knowing the end was near, showed their metal by dropping everything they were doing once the clarion call panicky weenie e-mail came over cyberspace from Golf Central to announce a cease-fire in place. One guy, Sand-bagger Jackson, the moniker tells all, came running from the netherworld of the City of Presidents where he was working diligently on yet another report. Another, Kevin Zonk, moniker also tells a lot, put down pen abruptly and called a halt to yet another so-called earth-shattering conference about some bogus crisis in the health care system to heed the call to arms and yet another, Redoubtable Steve, came speeding from out of nowhere some fifty miles away ready to let the environment in this wicked old world go asunder to get one final fix, to have one final stab at the brass ring. 

On the other side, and by now one and all know what side that is, there are certain guys, okay a certain guy, Kaz, who apparently knows only three letters, who in the interest of making mere filthy lucre debased themselves, no, himself, in order to do mundane things like cover mortgage payments, pay the armed bandits for upcoming educational expenses with daughter college loaming and the like. Now like I said I am not one to cast aspersions on a man’s manhood but what else can one think could be the reason for such an obvious no show. Especially when in the crucial final Frog Pond betting scheme, five dollar a man quota, a certain guy from the City of Presidents found fifteen dollars on the ground, or so it seemed like it.

Later Si Lannon  

    

*From The HistoMat Blog- Leon Trotsky On Sport- A ' High Trotskyism' Moment

Click on to the title to link to the almost always informative, and sometimes irreverent, "HistoMat" blog for an in-depth 'high Trotskyist' analysis of sport, English-style. Go Manchester United!

Markin comment:

Only a question, really. What about another British pastime, golf? I have given my "high" Trotskyist analysis elsewhere on this site- "The Zen Of Golf (And Communist Revolution)".

*Searching For The Roots- August Wilson's "Radio Golf"

Click On Title To Link To August Wilson Homepage.

Play Review

Radio Golf (1997), August Wilson, Theater Communications Group, New York, 2007

Okay, blame it on the recently departed Studs Terkel and his damn interview books. I had just been reading his "The Spectator", a compilation of some of his interviews of various authors, actors and other celebrities from his long-running Chicago radio program when I came across an interview that he had with the playwright under review here, August Wilson. Of course, that interview dealt with things near and dear to their hearts on the cultural front and mine as well. Our mutual love of the blues, our concerns about the history and fate of black people and the other oppressed of capitalist society and our need to express ourselves politically in the best way we can. For Studs it was the incessant interviews, for me it is incessant political activity and for the late August Wilson it was his incessant devotion to his century cycle of ten plays that covered a range of black experiences over the 20th century.

Strangely, although I was familiar with the name of the playwright August Wilson and was aware that he had produced a number of plays that were performed at a college-sponsored repertory theater here in Boston I had not seen or read his plays prior to reading the Terkel interview. Naturally when I read there that one of the plays being discussed was entitled "Ma Rainey's Black Bottom" about the legendary female blues singer from the 1920's I ran out to get a copy of the play. That play has been reviewed elsewhere in this space but as is my habit when I read an author who "speaks" to me I grab everything I can by him or her to see where they are going with the work. This is doubly true in the case of Brother Wilson as his work is purposefully structured as an integrated cycle, and as an intensive dramatic look at the black historical experience of the 20th century that has driven a lot of my own above-mentioned political activism.

By the time that this review appears I will have already reviewed five of the ten plays in August Wilson’s Century cycle. On the first five I believe that I ran out of fulsome praise for his work and particularly for his tightly woven story and dialogue. Rather than keep following that path for the next five plays I would prefer to concentrate on some of the dialogue that makes Brother Wilson’s work so compelling. For those who want to peek at my general observations you can look at my review of “Gem Of The Ocean” (the first play chronologically in the cycle).

In all previously reviewed plays I noticed some piece of dialogue that seemed to me to sum up the essence of the play. Sometimes that is done by the lead character as was the case with Troy Maxton in “Fences” when he (correctly) stated that there should been “no too early” in regard to the possibilities of black achievement and prospects in America. Other times it is by a secondary character in the form of some handed down black folk wisdom passed on as means to survive in racially-hardened America. In “Radio Golf” this task falls to Roosevelt Hicks, a man who has been a beneficiary of some affirmative action by the white establishment (as always not directly present in the story line as it unfolds), when he candidly and ironically notes that when heading to the golf club with his white associates he has to pass out business cards so that others do not think that he is the caddy.

That says more in a couple of sentences about a central aspect of black experience in America than many manifestos, treatises or sociological/psychological studies. That Wilson can weave that home truth into a play of less than one hundred pages and drive the plot line of a story that deals with the contradiction between black aspirations to “make it in America”, at least for those who fall into W.E.B. Dubois’ “talented tenth”, and that nagging feeling of selling out for a ‘mess of pottage’ to the mainstream white culture. Given the continuing hard fate for most blacks in housing, education and jobs today Brother Wilson is on to something. As I have also noted previously- that, my friends, is still something to consider in the “post-racial” Obamiad. We shall see.

*The Zen Of Golf And The Struggle For Socialism

Click On Title To Link To United States Golf Association web site. That is the golf part. The Zen and Socialism part you are on your own.

Commentary

Has old Markin finally gone off the deep end? Golf, Zen and socialism under the same headline. What gives? What gives is this. It is spring time in New England when a man’s thoughts (or at least this man’s thoughts) turn to the need to get to the great outdoor. To commune with nature. To smell the roses. In short, to get to the local public golf course and tempt fate and incur the ire of the golf gods. For those of a certain age though this thought may seem to place me in the category of “counter-revolutionary” Trotskyites that I have, more than once in my life, been accused of being. Why?

Back in the days, in the late 1960’s, “when to be young was very heaven” those of us who considered ourselves either politically or culturally radical would probably have heartily endorsed the slogan “burn down the country clubs”. And we would not have been too far off then, or now. The late Wobblie folk singer/songwriter Utah Phillips has spun more than one on-target line about the usual denizens of such haunts. Golf and its earliest manifestations in a conservative country club ethos were the stuff of bourgeois life, leisure and status and begged to be made fun of. The novelist John O’Hara made a literary career in the mid-20th century writing of the foibles and follies of the mainly conservative and status conscious American country club set, most notably in “Appointment In Samarra” That book is still a good read to get the feel of being trapped in that world. More recently and vividly the Ponzi artist supreme, Bernard Madoff, worked his financial ‘magic’ among a more contemporary section of that set down in Palm Beach, Florida.

All the above points are very true. As far as they go in our hatred of the ethos of the country club set. There is another aspect, however, that ‘corrects’ our youthful misunderstanding of the aims of socialism, our capacity to fight for it and our staying power in that struggle. I do not know if it was the old, somewhat dour, picture of what a Bolshevik existence was to be like that colored our perceptions, handed down by the old time Stalinists (except, of course, the conduct of the privileged bureaucrats). Or if it was the pressure to seem to be “at one” with the workers by scorning various bourgeois lifestyle traditions but somewhere along the line the sense of the need for more opportunities for rest and relaxation rather than less got thrown by the wayside. To the contrary the idea of socialism, at least any socialism worth fighting for and asking others to fight for as well, is to increase socially useful productive capacity, redistribute goods more equitably and thus allow for greater free time for creative activities. Or just hit golf balls, if one so desires.

Although, admittedly, we are far away from that socialist goal today those who fight under the banner of socialism need to keep some balance in their lives in order to stay with the struggle. Thus, a certified revolutionary leader like Friedrich Engels, Karl Marx’ life long co-thinker, liked to fox hunt while in his British exile. While I fully support Oscar Wilde’s comment about the ‘virtues’ of that endeavor that was Engels’ “thing”. The Russian revolutionary leader Leon Trotsky, after Vladimir Lenin the best and most well-known Bolshevik, liked to hunt, fish and later in life collect cacti. None of those hobbies are particularly associated with strictly proletarian social interests. In short, other than some patently illegal or outrageous activity, one’s personal forms of relaxation are no one’s concern. That, moreover, is probably the secret to the staying power of these great revolutionaries mentioned above. They were in it for the long haul and balanced their personal lives accordingly.

But why golf rather than, let us say, bowling or stamp collecting? Well, go back to that first paragraph about communing with nature. Most golf courses located near urban centers offer interesting natural sites like woods, ponds and sand that one can become very familiar with if one’s golf ball goes astray. Moreover, nobody should object to getting a little walking in and to get out in the sunshine and away from the damn computer for a bit. But here is the Zen part. For this average golfer there is nothing like hitting a golf shot from about 150 yards away and having it land on the green (the target area for the shot for those who do not know the game). That is what now passes for “very heaven”. And then make the putt (put it in the hole). Nirvana.