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  ‘But what can I do?’

  ‘See that he gets some exercise.’

  Again she spoke to her husband about this and again accomplished nothing. ‘How many times do I have to tell you,’ he snapped. ‘I haven’t time for golf. And jogging bores me to death. But I will cut down on my drinking. I was pretty fuzzy at the meeting Friday, and it scared me. I’d had three martinis, and I can’t handle that many any more.’ And so things drifted on, with Tom Harker headed directly toward a major coronary which would probably kill him off, as Jack Buford’s had.

  But on this night when his wife lay awake listening to his confused breathing, and when she saw with terrible clarity what could be its consequences, a new element entered their lives.

  ‘Tom!’ she cried, shaking him. ‘Wake up!’

  It was easy for him to snap awake, for his sleep had been fitful. ‘What’s the matter? Fire?’

  ‘No! It’s you.’

  ‘What’s the matter with me?’

  ‘Tom, you’re killing yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You ought to listen to yourself. Your breathing. Your nervousness. Tom, you’re going to die just like Jack Buford.’

  ‘What in hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Tom, I love you and I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘Darling, it’s …’ He looked at his watch. ‘Christ, it’s four o’clock. Let me get some sleep.’

  She turned out the light and soon her husband was again tossing in what he called sleep. She stayed awake, and by the time they rose she had her mind made up. At the breakfast table she handed down her ultimatum:

  ‘Tom, you and I are going to start playing tennis.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This afternoon, Tom Harker, you and I are taking our first lessons from the pro at the tennis club. No comment, please.’ She rose, placed her right hand over his mouth, and said, ‘You’re the most precious thing in the world to me. And you’re committing suicide. And soon I’ll be a widow like LouAnn Buford. And I’m not ready for that.’ She removed her hand from his lips and kissed him.

  That afternoon the Harkers appeared at the tennis court in the new white outfits Jane had purchased from a sporting-goods store in Warrenton, and the pro, a young man who had played for Miami University, nodded approvingly as Tom Harker leaned easily into the basic strokes. With Jane he had more problems, for she was not a natural athlete like her husband, but the young pro saw that she had a determination which could be capitalized upon.

  ‘You have all the natural rhythms,’ he told Tom. ‘I see that you played various sports.’

  This gratified Tom, but the coach continued, ‘Yet I’ll bet you a dollar that this young lady masters the game faster than you do.’

  ‘My wife?’ Harker asked increduulously.

  ‘We’ll see,’ the coach said, and for the first month it looked as if his prediction could not possibly come true, for Jane was awkward. But she could run, and she had very quick reflexes, so that balls apparently hit past her were somehow reached, and returned.

  ‘You’re a born retriever,’ the coach told her. ‘You’re stubborn and you’re quick. You’re going to love this game.’

  At the end of three months the Harkers were a passable tennis partnership. Widowed LouAnn Buford had attracted the attention of a retired naval officer, a wiry man in his early sixties and a good tennis player. The four began to play doubles regularly, and although the naval officer was obviously better than any of the other three, Jane Harker was developing into a fierce retriever.

  ‘I have the point put away,’ the navy man complained one day, ‘and your little tiger leaps over there and swats it back.’

  When a local builder put up a year-round tennis building with six courts, the Harkers and their opponents took out memberships and played two days a week. Tom found himself hurrying back from Detroit or Chicago so as not to miss his regular doubles game, and at various meetings he would tell his associates, ‘Since I took up tennis, I feel ten years younger.’ and one of his older partners asked sardonically, ‘Why is it, whenever someone does anything sensible he invariably feels ten years younger? Why not nine or eleven?’

  But the person who was most pleased with Harker’s rejuvenation was Dr. Westlake. He told Mrs. Harker, ‘It’s criminal the way young men can be so athletic in college, then drop all exercise for the rest of their lives. That’s why they drop dead at thirty and forty. You got your boy started just in time. Congratulations!’

  Tom Harker has discovered so much fun in tennis that he wonders why he delayed so long in taking it up. And he has been astonished at his wife’s capacity to become a first-rate club player at age forty-one, when she had had no previous athletic experience. He found that he positively liked mixed doubles, and told his wife, ‘I hope LouAnn Buford marries her navy captain. It would be fun to have them permanently available.’

  Playing vigorous tennis after a slow and proper start has almost certainly prolonged Harker’s life. The credit, however, does not all go to tennis. His change in attitude, the diminution of tension, the loss of weight and a generally improved outlook on life would have ensured improvement even if tennis had not been involved, but his return to active participation enhanced his prospects.

  DRAWING BY B. TOBBY; © 1954 THE NEW YORKER MAGAZINE, INC.

  Participation as a Business Asset

  Morgan Forsythe sells advertising time on television shows, and his life in Hollywood and Los Angeles is hectic. He is a handsome thirty-eight-year-old former tackle at Southern Cal, which accounted for the rather good job he landed, and is aware that if he ever let himself go, he would tend toward fat. He therefore decided to join a country club, and sought one near the heart of the business area in which he works. He considers it a miracle that Hollywood has been able to retain golf links in the middle of the urban area, and to belong to any one would be a privilege.

  His first choice was an extremely expensive club: $25,000 entrance fee, $900 each year thereafter for operating expenses, plus numerous fees and dining costs. Besides, it was one of those prestigious clubs in America that severely restricted its membership, and frowned on any member who tried to bring a Jew or black into the club. Bob Goldwater, brother of the Arizona senator, had been proposed for membership, but his sponsors were told, ‘No Jews.’ Goldwater responded, ‘Since I’m only half Jewish, I’ll promise to play only nine holes.’

  Forsythe himself was not Jewish, but many of his best clients were, so this club was not practical. Actually, he might have had trouble gaining admission if he had applied, because, as a gentleman on the membership committee warned him, ‘We permit no actors or theatrical people, either.’ When Morgan pointed out that he was not an actor, the gentleman explained, ‘Yes, but you do so much of your business with television types that sooner or later you’d want to entertain them with us, and we’d not like that.’ Forsythe asked what about the cowboy actor who had been admitted, and the gentleman said, ‘We screened seven of his films and concluded that under no possible circumstances could he be considered an actor.’

  So Forsythe had turned his attention to his second choice, but for years this club had been exclusively for the great Jewish families of Hollywood—their riposte to the clubs that would admit no Jews—and it would have been difficult for Forsythe to join it, although now a few non-Jews were members. It was, in some ways, more expensive than the gentile clubs: $22,500 to join, $85 a month dues, very heavy costs at the bar and in the dining room.

  The logical solution to Forsythe’s problem was a well-regarded smaller club, convenient to Hollywood, cut by wandering streams and facing the hills at the edge of the city. The club excluded Jews and actors, but because expenses of running such an institution were high, it did welcome prosperous young businessmen like Forsythe, especially if they had played outstanding football at Southern Cal. The older men liked to golf with such youngsters, even if they did have Jewish and theatrical friends.

  The club
wasn’t inexpensive. Forsythe bought a membership from an old Los Angeles banking family for $12,500. His monthly dues were $85 plus $15 for what was called ‘the building fee.’ As one of the membership committee told him, ‘Best buy you ever made, that $15 monthly building fee. In 1971 we tore down the old clubhouse. It had been a stone church on this property and looked great, but no space. We spent two million there building our new mansion, and it’s without question the finest clubhouse in America.’

  Forsythe used the facilities a good deal. As he explained to his boss, who was picking up most of the tab, ‘It’s this way, J.D. Most of my customers are big executives. They work hard. They’re entitled to those three-hour lunches if they wish, but since they’re big-timers, they’re also smart. They know they need that good old exercise a lot more than they need lunch. So for me golf is the answer.’

  The tab for a foursome was high. One day Forsythe had to justify his expense account to J.D., and there it was:

  Green fees 3 guests at $15 each $45

  Two golf carts for guests at $12 each 24

  Caddy 4 of us at $5 each 20

  Lunch 32

  Drinks at bar 18

  Locker room tips 7

  Lost Top Flites, three 5

  Massage, haircut, shoeshine 15

  ‘I look at it this way, J.D.,’ Forsythe explained. ‘If I can’t take the really big shots, I’m just another time peddler. And if I don’t sell advertising, you and I are both dead. One of my secrets is that I arrange my foursomes with such care. Only one client Then I invite one of his friends who can boast about playing my club. Me and usually some other jock from Southern Cal or maybe a basketball player from UCLA.’

  Like all the really good clubs in the Los Angeles area, this one has strict rules against members’ using the club primarily as a place to entertain business clients, and Forsythe has to be careful not to abuse his privilege. On the other hand, the club needs income, so the officials look the other way when he circumvents the rule. He leads a good many California industrialists around the beautiful rolling fairways, and they love it.

  He is adept at three styles of play: honest golf, customer’s golf and gambler’s golf. In the first, with his good coordination and a mastery of wood shots, he can regularly score in the upper 70s. In customer’s golf he knows how to miss shots and make it look as if he were trying; he plays just well enough so that if the corporation president he is wooing shoots an 85, he trails with an 87. In gambler’s golf he is one of the trickiest, sharpest men in the Los Angeles area, scoring anywhere from 73 to 93, but always just enough to win the big pots. The refinements of his play can best be observed when he tackles the par 5 thirteenth hole, bisected by a water-filled barranca in front of the green.

  At honest golf he uses his new graphite-shaft driver, like the one Johnny Miller uses and for which he paid a cool $118. With it he lines out a tremendous drive, then uses his five iron to drop the ball just short of the barranca. With a nine iron he tries to lay the ball close to the pin for a chance at a birdie four. At customer’s golf he still uses the graphite-shaft but holds back, so that his second shot will leave him well short of the barranca. Then, with his nine iron he slams the ball right in the drink for three. Lifting out is penalty four. A half-baked shot to the edge of the green leaves him with a chip and two putts and a triple bogey eight. But when playing gambler’s golf for high stakes, he will hit a nice easy drive down the middle, play a safe second wood, somewhat short of the barranca, then pitch cautiously to the green for a sure five, trusting that his opponent will drift into the barranca and lose the hole.

  He enjoys his club and is convinced it’s worth every dollar he spends of his own money. But he was a little jolted last year when some of the older members of the club arranged for him to play at Pebble Beach in the Bing Crosby National Pro-Am. ‘It was a great honor, sure, because several thousand amateurs from all over the country beg to get on the list of starters. So J.D. was rather pleased that one of his youngest men had made it. But the tab! $400 to enter. Stay at Pebble Beach Lodge, four nights at $115 per. Caddy $100. Food bill $180. Picking up the pros’ bar tabs $116. Golf isn’t exactly for the young man just out of college.’

  Forsythe paid $600 for his clubs and the super-stylish bag in which he carries them, and his clothes cost another $700, but as he says, ‘You’re only young once, and you don’t get invited twice to join the big time. For me, this is a sensible deal economically.’

  He judges that the recreation he gets is just as valuable. ‘It gets me out into the open. I refuse the carts and walk a brisk four to five miles twice a week. Playing golf encourages me to miss a couple of lunches a week, but maybe I make up for that by drinking extra martinis at the bar. But it’s a huge plus, healthwise.’

  As we shall see later, it’s probably not so huge a plus as he thinks, but at thirty-eight Morgan Forsythe is in relatively good condition. He is only slightly overweight, he sleeps well, and he enjoys life. ‘Many of the members don’t use the dining room, but Marjorie and I find it a delightful place to entertain. We love that Thursday-night smorgasbord at $9.50 each. And the thick slabs of roast beef on Tuesdays at $5.95 can’t be beat.’

  All in all, his golf club is a logical solution to many of Forsythe’s problems, and if the costs of belonging to such a club increase, so does his salary. And he knows that a goodly portion of that salary is earned because he belongs to a good golf club.

  No matter what kind of golf Forsythe plays—honest, customer’s, gambler’s—he enjoys it. He likes competition and finds pleasure in manipulating things like golf games and his relationships to others. While it is true that almost any game he played would provide him with similar fun, golf seems tailored to his specific needs.

  Because he has an easygoing nature, he is not subject to the emotional pressures which golf sometimes creates in hypertensive types. He can lose $40 on a Nassau and forget it by the time he’s out of the shower. Golf gets him outdoors, in beautiful surroundings, and since he does not use a cart, does him a great deal of good. For the remainder of his life he can probably get all the exercise he wants from playing golf, but his life would be accelerated, and improved, if he could also learn to participate in some more demanding sport before he reaches forty-five.

  The Mildest Participant

  Forbes Easton is a Boston banker, sixty-one and president of an institution which handles many trusts for the elderly citizens of his community. He is an austere man, not given to smiles or idle chatter, and takes pride in wearing a vest and a three-button British-style jacket.

  He works very hard forty-nine weeks of each year, eats sparingly so as to keep his weight to what it had been when he was at Harvard, and relaxes by working out twice a week at the small gymnasium maintained by his bank. He pulls a few weights, jogs a little, and rows on the simulated scull.

  But his great delight comes during his vacation, for he is a fanatical fisherman and he loves equally both the thrill of searching out new areas to explore and returning to those famous waters which he has tried before. He will fly to any part of the world to test a trout stream, and in doing so, has compiled a short list of places that seem almost ideal.

  First on his list is that splendid clear stream that flows out of Lake Taupo on the North Island of New Zealand. The Waikato it is called, and along its banks a famous fisherman named Alan Pye once maintained the Huka Lodge, where the foremost fishermen of the world assemble.

  The trout in New Zealand are unbelievable. They were introduced from Canada and the western United States, and whereas in their home waters they grew to a size of three or four pounds, in New Zealand, where there are many flies and no predators, they grow to enormous size, twenty-seven pounds or even thirty. ‘New Zealand,’ Mr. Easton likes to explain in his dry, crisp manner, ‘is the world’s only truly virgin land of any size. The animals that inhabit the rest of the world never reached these two islands. So when deer and trout were introduced they prospered unbelievably. The government has t
o hire professional hunters to roam the hills and shoot down the excess deer. And the trout …’ He often says that if a man cannot catch trout on Lake Taupo, he has no claim to be a fisherman.

  But Mr. Easton has not been in New Zealand for some years. ‘With the death of Alan Pye something great went out of Taupo,’ he tells his friends. ‘To sit in his lodge at night, after a good day’s fishing, and compare notes with an English general or a German admiral or an Australian business leader was to know fishing at its best. Alas, it’s gone now.’

  His second preference is fishing for salmon on the island of Benbecula, in the Hebrides, off the western coast of Scotland. ‘It’s a legendary sort of island,’ Mr. Easton says. ‘Not a tree on it. The last outpost between Europe and America. It lies between North Uist and South Uist, and the strange thing about it is that at low tide there is a footpath to each of those neighboring islands, while at high tide the path is under twenty feet of water. People are drowned there when they miscalculate the coming of the tide.’

  Banker Easton never tells the story himself, but his wife has quietly related to some of his close associates what happened on Benbecula during the salmon season of 1961. ‘We had worked several streams on Benbecula with little result, when a guide said, “There’s a fine stream on North Uist which is bound to have salmon,” and he persuaded Forbes to walk over to the other island to try his luck. I remember standing at the edge of Benbecula as I watched my husband and the guide walk right out onto the sands which only a few hours before had been covered by the ocean. The footpath was several miles long, as I recall. Well, I returned to our hotel at Creagorry, and it was some hours later, maybe as many as ten, because I never understand about tides. Neither did the guide, because he had made a most awful mistake. And a young boy came running up: “Mrs. Easton. Your husband is trapped by the tide.”