"Dedicated To The Duffer"
By Grantland Rice
This is the substance of our Plot—
For those who play the Perfect Shot,
There are ten thousand who do not.
For each who comes to growl and whine
Because one putt broke out of line
And left him but a Sixty-Nine.
At least ten thousand on the slate
Rise up and cheer their blessed fate
Because they got a Ninety-Eight.
For each of those who rarely see,
Amid his run of Fours and Threes,
A trap or Bunkers—if you please—
Ten thousand Blighted Souls are found
Who daily pummel, pierce or pound
The scourging sand-heaps underground.
Who is it pays the major fee
For rolling green and grassy tee?
Who is it, Reader?—answer me!
The scattered few in countless clubs
Who sink their putts as if in tubs,
Or eke the half a million dubs?
He may not have the Taylor Flip—
He may not have the Vardon Grip—
He may not Pivot at the Hip—
And we will say his Follow Through
Is frequently somewhat askew,
Or halting, as if clogged with Glue—
Yet Splashers in the Wayside Brook,
To you who foozle, slice and hook,
We dedicate This Little Book.
Not that your Style enthralls the eye
But that there are, to spring the Why,
So many more of you to Buy.