Hollywood Grew To Be The Most Flourishing

Like A Christening, A Wedding, A Graduation Ceremony, A Holy War, A Revolutioneven?a Fireworksdisplay, Agaudy Promise Of What Life Ought To Be, Not Life Itself.

More Than Anything Else, Though, To Anyone Who Would Write About It, Golf Offers A Four-hour Drama In Two Acts, Which Becomes Memorable Even In The Tape-recorded Reminiscenses Of Old Champs, And Which - In The Hands Of Someone Like Herb Wind - Can Become A Piece Of War Correspondence As Artfully Controlled As Alan Morehead's Account Of Gallipoli.

But Afterall It's Not The Winning That Matters, Is It? Or Is It? It'sto Coinawordtheamenitiesthatcount: Thesmell Of The Dandelions, The Puff Of The Pipe, The Click Of The Bat, The Rain On The Neck, The Chill Down The Spine, The Slow, Exquisite Coming On Of Sunset And Dinner And Rheumatism.

In The Best Of Times, Our Days Are Numbered Anyway. So It Would Be A Crime Against Nature For Any Generation To Take The World Crisis So Solemnly That It Put Off Enjoying Those Things For Which We Were Designed In The First Place: The Opportunity To Do Good Work, To Enjoy Friends, To Fall In Love, To Hit A Ball, And To Bounce A Baby.

There Is Even - As With No Other Game - A Fascinating Detective Literature, A Wry Commentary On The Human Comedy, Implicit In The Book Of Rules.