Judge — November 16, 1929 — page 21: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

JUDGE The Press Box By Westbrook Pegler HERE is some doubt as to just who was the first | of the night-side chaps ‘of Broadway to bat his eyes in the unaccustomed glare of the mid-day sun and go golfing nthe suburbs. My candidate is Mr. Leo P. nn, the prizefight man- but t is me ay because he was the first one I happened to detect with a blade in his hand, actually making gestures at a ball. The circum- stances were quite unusual It was in Tampa, Florida, during the boom, and there was a tournament ning at a sub-divis run- Johnny Joe Turne all the better-known testimonial writers were traipsing over the high-priced real estate, and I ranmy gaze down the list of entrants on the score-board with- out) unusual inter- est until I me to L co P, claimed “Can such things be?” when a match came up to the ninth green, and there, on the edge, forty feet from the cup, stood Mr. Flynn, bending over a ball and ag ng a putter in the grim manner of a man ving moni adult sum. So I hur- 4 over, intending to make a very rude remark but withholding it until he should have t tapped his ball. Mr. nn then hit it a smart lick and it curved over the shoulder of a knoll and popped in for a birdie three. “Why you—,” opprobrious name. to kid a sucker. golf.” For a fact, I didn’t, and I was much surprised on the second day to learn that Mr. Flynn's companion in this rather unconventional tournament was at from the night clubs, Mr. Isham Jones, the orches: tra leader. He turned in a card of 82 or there- bouts, took about one hundred dollars of Mr. Flynn’s money and explained that he would have done better and taken more except that daylight hurt his eve: Since that time, a great many of the boys who sell drams or shuffle their feet, blow musical wind through piccolos and saxophones or moan through Mr. Flynn said ng me an You thought you were going You didn’t know I’ could play this The ex-pug who went in for politics. small megaphones in the night clubs have adopted bloomer pants and stockings with tassels on them and gone golfi Recently, in the Metropolitan Amateur Championship Tournament, the night side accomplished something quite notable. A boy named Johnny Jennings won the medal round and, from sceing his pictures in the papers the next remembered him as a song-and-dance ployed at a suburban road-house by night, who had bummed around ack Demps camp at > track out- icago. He had been a sort of golfer then and he used to tool over the roads to Olym- pia Fields every so often in a five-thou- sand dollar road- ster with a quiver of tools clanking on the seat beside him, but you nat- urally wouldn't have picked a hoofer employed in the evil atmosphere of pretentious speak along in ‘the to the he has. Tex Rickard, toward the end of his life. much money developing a putting green adjoining his winter cottag h, but he was not good golfer and he had never played much pool. Now Mr. was a remarkably fine pool player and in his years of struggle, when his pug were fighting for fifty-dollar purses and none too many of them and ir in the bowl at home, many ynn had picked up the price of a ham hock for the little home nest by trimming a sucker at snooker down town, Mr. Rickard thought a pool player brought to the golf course s delicate touch for putting which saved half a dozen strokes in a round, and I believe he was right, for I see indoor golfers putting around the Duncan Course at Madison Square Garden today, covering the course in even twos or better, who have never set foot on a tee out of doors. They poise in strange, acrobatic attitudes unlike any putting stance ever seen at a country club, but the fact re- mains t their putts twist over the folds and around the synthetic hasards and very often pop in the cup from the tee. I would not undertake to (Continued on page 82) sy to come game extent ths spent there wasn’t much s was the time Mr.