High Anxiety

Now for our mountain sport …

Cymbeline 
Act III, Scene 3

High Hampton

Wade Hampton Golf Club Sign

Entrances to Wade Hampton Golf Club and High Hampton Inn and Country Club, North Carolina

Walt Whitman once said, as anyone who saw Bull Durham knows, that baseball would function to draw America together after the Civil War: the game, the poet said, would “repair our losses and be a blessing to us.” Many Americans have not lost this belief in the redemptive power of sports: as recently as 2011 John Boehner, then-Speaker of the House of Representatives, played a much-ballyhooed round of golf with President Barack Obama—along with many other outlets, Golf Digest presented the event as presaging a new era of American unity: the “pair can’t possibly spend four hours keeping score, conceding putts, complimenting drives, filling divots, retrieving pond balls, foraging for Pro V1s and springing for Kit Kats off the snack cart,” argued the magazine, “without finding greater common ground.” Golf would thusly be the antidote to what the late Columbia University history professor Richard Hofstadter, in 1964, called the “paranoid style”: the “heated exaggeration, suspiciousness, and conspiratorial fantasy” that Hofstadter found to be a common theme in American politics then and whose significance has seemingly only grown since. Yet, while the surface approval of the “golf summit” seemed warranted because golf is, after all, a game that cannot really be played without trust in your opponents—it’s only on the assumption that everyone is honest that the game can even work—as everyone knows by now the summit failed: Boehner was, more or less, forced out of office this summer by those members of his party who, Boehner said, got “bent out of shape” over his golf with the president. While golf might, in other words, furnish a kind of theoretical model for harmonious bipartisanship, in practice it has proved largely useless for preventing political polarization—a result that anyone who has traveled Highway 107 in western North Carolina might have realized. Up there, among the Great Smoky Mountains, there sits a counterexample to the dream of political consensus: the Wade Hampton Golf Club.

Admittedly, that a single golf club could be strong enough evidence as to smack down the flights of fancy of a Columbia University professor like Hofstadter—and a Columbia University alumni like Barack Obama—might appear a bit much: there’s a seeming disconnect between the weightiness of the subject matter and the evidential value of an individual golf club. What could the existence of the Wade Hampton Golf Club add (or detract) from Hofstadter’s assertions about the dominance of this “paranoid style,” examples of which range from the anti-Communist speeches of Senator Joseph McCarthy in the 1950s to the anti-Catholic, “nativist” movements of the 1830s and 1840s to the Populist denunciations of Wall Street during the 1890s? Yet, the existence of the Wade Hampton Golf Club does constitute strong evidence against one of the pieces of evidence Hofstadter adduces for his argument—and in doing so unravels not only the rest of Hofstadter’s spell like a kitten does a ball of string, but also the fantasy of “bipartisanship.”

One of the examples of “paranoia” Hofstadter cited, in other words, was the belief held by “certain spokesmen of abolitionism who regarded the United States as being in the grip of a slaveholders’ conspiracy”—a view that, Hofstadter implied, was not much different than the contemporary belief that fluoridation was a Soviet plot. But a growing number of historians now believe that Hofstadter was wrong about those abolitionists: according to historian Leonard Richards of the University of Massachusetts, for instance, there’s a great deal of evidence for “the notion that a slaveholding oligarchy ran the country—and ran it for their own advantage” in the years prior to the Civil War. The point is more than an academic one: if it’s all just a matter of belief, then the idea of bipartisanship makes a certain kind of sense; all that matters is whether those we elect can “get along.” But if not, then that would suggest that what matters is building the correct institutions, rather than electing the right people.

Again, that seems like rather more question than the existence of a golf club in North Carolina seems capable of answering. The existence of the Wade Hampton Golf Club however tends to reinforce Richards’ view if, for nothing else, on its name alone: the very biography of the man the golf club was named for, Wade Hampton III, lends credence to Richards’ notion about the real existence of a slave-owning, oligarchical conspiracy because Hampton was after all not only a Confederate general during the Civil War, but also the possessor (according to the website for the Civil War Trust, which attempts to preserve Civil War battlefields) of “one of the largest collections of slaves in the South.” Hampton’s career, in other words, demonstrates just how entwined slaveowners were with the “cause” of the South—and if secession was largely the result of a slave-owning conspiracy during the winter of 1860, it becomes a great deal easier to think that said conspiracy did not spring fully grown only then.

Descended from an obscenely wealthy family whose properties stretched from near Charleston in South Carolina’s Lowcountry to Millwood Plantation near the state capital of Columbia and all the way to the family’s summer resort of “High Hampton” in the Smokies—upon the site of which the golf club is now built—Wade Hampton was intimately involved with the Southern cause: not only was he one of the richest men in the South, but at the beginning of the war he organized and financed a military unit (“Hampton’s Legion”) that would, among other exploits, help win the first big battle of the war, near the stream of Bull Run. By the end of the war Hampton became, along with Nathan Bedford Forrest, the only man without prior military experience to achieve the rank of lieutenant general. In that sense, Hampton was exceptional—only eighteen other Confederate officers achieved that rank—but in another he was representative: as recent historical work shows, much of the Confederate army had direct links to slavery.

As historian Joseph T. Glatthaar has put the point in his General Lee’s Army: From Victory to Collapse, “more than one in every four volunteers” for the Confederate army in the first year of the war “lived with parents who were slaveholders”—as compared with the general population of the South, in which merely one in every twenty white persons owned slaves. If non-family members are included, or if economic connections like those to whom soldiers rented land or sold crops prior to the war are allowed, then “the vast majority of the volunteers of 1861 had a direct connection to slavery.” And if the slaveowners could create an army that could hold off the power of the United States for four years, it seems plausible they might have joined together prior to outright hostilities—which is to say that Hofstadter’s insinuations about the relative sanity of “certain” abolitionists (among them, Abraham Lincoln) don’t have the same value as they may once have.

After all, historians have determined that the abolitionists were certainly right when they suspected the motives of the slaveowners. “By itself,” wrote Roger Ransom of the University of California not long ago, “the South’s economic investment in slavery could easily explain the willingness of Southerners to risk war … [in] the fall of 1860.” “On the eve of the war,” as another historian noted in the New York Times, “cotton comprised almost 60 percent of America’s exports,” and the slaves themselves, as yet another historian—quoted by Ta-Nehisi Coates in The Atlantic—has observed, were “the largest single financial asset in the entire U.S. economy, worth more than all manufacturing and railroads combined.” Collectively, American slaves were worth 3.5 billion dollars—at a time when the entire budget for the federal government was less than eighty million dollars. Quite literally, in other words, American slaveowners could buy the entire U.S. government roughly forty three times over.

Slaveowners thusly had, in the words of a prosecutor, both means and motive to revolt against the American government; what’s really odd about the matter, however, is that Americans have ever questioned it. The slaveowners themselves fully admitted the point at the time: in South Carolina’s “Declaration of the Immediate Causes which Adduce and Justify the Secession of South Carolina from the Federal Union,” for instance, the state openly lamented the election of a president “whose opinions and purposes are hostile to slavery.” And not just South Carolina: “Seven Southern states had seceded in 1861,” as the dean of American Civil War historians James McPherson has put observed, “because they feared the incoming Lincoln administration’s designs on slavery.” When those states first met together at Montgomery, Alabama, in February of 1861 it took them only four days to promulgate what the New York Times called “a provisional constitution that explicitly recognized racial slavery”; in a March 1861 speech Alexander Stephens, who would become the vice president of the Confederate States of America, argued that slavery was the “cornerstone” of the new government. Slavery was, as virtually anyone who has seriously studied the matter has concluded, the cause motivating the Southern armies.

If so—if, that is, the slaveowners created an army so powerful that it could hold off the power of the United States for four years, simply in order to protect their financial interests in slave-owning—it then seems plausible they might have joined together prior to the beginning of outright hostilities. Further, if there was a “conspiracy” to begin the Civil War, then the claim that there was one in the years and decades before the war becomes just that much more believable. And if that possibility is tenable, then so is the claim by Richards and other historians—themselves merely following a notion that Abraham Lincoln himself endorsed in the 1850s—that the American constitution formed “a structural impediment to the full expression of Northern voting power” (as one reviewer has put it)—and that thusly the answer to political problems is not “bipartisanship,” or in other words, the election of friendlier politicians, but rather structural reform.

Such, at least, might be the lesson anyone might draw from the career of Wade Hampton III, Confederate general—in light of which it’s suggestive that the Wade Hampton Golf Club is not some relic of the nineteenth century. Planning for the club began, according to the club’s website, in 1982; the golf course was not completed until 1987, when it was named “Best New Private Course” by Golf Digest. More suggestive still, however, is the fact that under the original bylaws, “in order to be a member of the club, you [had] to own property or a house bordering the club”—rules that resulted, as one golfer has noted, in a club of “120 charter and founding members, all from below the Mason-Dixon Line: seven from Augusta, Georgia and the remainder from Florida, Alabama, and North Carolina.” “Such folks,” as Bradley Klein once wrote in Golfweek, “would have learned in elementary school that Wade Hampton III, 1818-1902, who owned the land on which the club now sits, was a prominent Confederate general.” That is, in order to become a member of Wade Hampton Golf Club you probably knew a great deal about the history of Wade Hampton III—and you were pretty ok with that.

The existence of the Wade Hampton Golf Club does not, to be sure, demonstrate a continuity between the slaveowners of the Old South and the present membership of the club that bears Hampton’s name. It is, however, suggestive to think that if it is true, as many Civil War historians now say, that prior to 1860 there was a conspiracy to maintain an oligarchic form of government, then what are we to make of a present in which—as former Secretary of Labor Robert Reich recently observed—“the richest one-hundreth of one percent of Americans now hold over 11 percent of the nation’s total wealth,” a proportion greater than at any time since before 1929 and the start of the Great Depression? Surely, one can only surmise, the answer is easier to find than a mountain hideaway far above the Appalachian clouds, and requires no poetic vision to see.

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Green Jackets ’n’ Blackfaces

But if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like
Nothing’s changed all?
—“Pompeii”
    Bastille (2013)

 

 

Some bore will undoubtedly claim, this April week, that the Masters is unique among golf’s major tournaments because it is the only one held at the same course every year—a claim not only about as fresh as a pimento cheese sandwich but refuted by the architectural website Golf Club Atlas. “Augusta National,” the entry for the course goes on their website, “has gone through more changes since its inception than any of the world’s twenty or so greatest courses.” But the club’s jive by no means stops there; just as the club—and the journalists who cover the tournament—likes to pretend its course is timeless, so too does the club—what with the sepia photos of Bobby Jones, the talk of mint juleps, the bright azaleas, the “limited commercial interruptions” and the old-timey piano music of the tournament broadcast—like to pretend it is an island of “the South” in a Yankee sea. The performance is worthy of one of the club’s former members: Freeman Gosden, who became a member of Augusta National as a result of the riches and fame thrown off by the radio show he created in 1928 Chicago—Amos ’n’ Andy.

Gosden played Amos; his partner, Charles Correll, played Andy. The two actors had met in Durham, North Carolina in 1920, and began performing together in Chicago soon afterwards. According to Wikipedia, both were “familiar with minstrel traditions”: the uniquely American art form  in which white performers would sing and tell jokes and stories while pretending to be black, usually while wearing “blackpaint”—that is, covering their faces with black makeup. The show they created, about two black cab drivers, translated those minstrel traditions to radioand became the most successful minstrel show in American history. Amos ’n’ Andy lasted 32 years on the radio—the last performance came in 1960—and while it only lasted a few years on television in the early 1950s, the last rerun played on American air as late as 1966.

The successful show made Gosden and Correll made so rich, in fact, that by the early 1950s Gosden had joined the Augusta National Golf Club, and sometime thereafter the actor had become so accepted that he joined the group known as “the Gang.” This was a troop of seven golfers that formed around General Dwight Eisenhower—who had led the amphibious Allied invasion of France on the beaches of Normandy in 1944—after the former war hero was invited to join the club in 1948. Gosden had, in other words, arrived: there was, it seems, something inherently entertaining about a white men pretending to be something he wasn’t.

Gosden was however arguably not the only minstrel performer associated with Augusta National: the golf architecture website Golf Club Atlas claims that the course itself performs a kind of minstrelry. Originally, Augusta’s golf course was designed by famed golf architect Alister MacKenzie, who also designed such courses as Cypress Point in California and Crystal Downs in Michigan, in consultation with Bobby Jones, the great player who won 13 major championships. As a headline from The Augusta Chronicle, the town’s local newspaper, once proclaimed, “MacKenzie Made Jones’ Dream Of Strategic Course Into Reality.” But in the years since, the course has been far from timeless: as Golf Club Atlas points out, in fact it has gone through “a slew of changes from at least 15 different ‘architects.’” As it now stands, the course is merely pretending to be a MacKenzie.

Nearly every year since the Masters began in 1934, the course has undergone some tweak or another: whereas, once “Augusta National could have been considered amongst the two or three most innovative designs ever,” it has now been so altered—according to the Golf Club Atlas article—that to “call it a MacKenzie course is false advertising as his features are essentially long gone.” To say that course Tiger Woods won on is the same as the one that Jack Nicklaus or Ben Hogan won on, thus, is to make a mockery of history.

The primary reason the Atlas can make that claim stick is because the golf club has flouted Jones’ and MacKenzie’s original intent, which was to build a course like one they both revered: the Old Course at St. Andrews. Jones loved the Old Course so much that, famously, he was later made an honorary citizen of the town, while for his part MacKenzie wrote a book—not published until decades after his death in 1995—called The Spirit of St. Andrews. And as anyone familiar with golf architecture knows, the Old Course is distinguished by the “ground game”: where the golfer does better to keep his ball rolling along the ground, following its contours, rather than flying it through the air.

As Golf Club Atlas observes, “Jones and MacKenzie both shared a passion for the Old Course at St. Andrews, and its influence is readily apparent in the initial design” because “the ground game was meant to be the key at Augusta National.” That intent, however, has been lost; in a mordant twist of history, the reason for that loss is arguably due to the success of the Masters tournament itself.

“Ironically, hosting the Masters has ruined one of MacKenzie’s most significant designs,” says the Atlas, because “much of the money that the club receives from the Invitational is plowed back into making changes to the course in a misguided effort to protect par.” Largely, “protecting par” has been interpreted by the leadership of the golf club to mean “to minimize the opportunity for the ground game.” As Rex Hoggard—repeating a line heard about the course for decades—wrote in an article for the Golf Channel’s website in 2011, it’s “important to hit the ball high at Augusta National”—a notion that would be nonsensical if Jones and MacKenzie’s purpose had been kept in view.

In short, the Atlas understands—perhaps shockingly—that “an invitation to play Augusta National remains golf’s most sought-after experience,” it thus also believes that “fans of Alister MacKenzie would be better served to look elsewhere for a game.” Though the golf club, and the television coverage, might work to present the course as a static beauty, in fact that effect is achieved through endless surgeries that have effectively made the course other than it was. The Augusta National golf course, thus, is a kind of minstrel.

Similarly, the presentation of the golf club as a specifically Southern institution—perhaps above all, by ensuring that the chairman of the club, the only member who regularly speaks to the media, possesses a Georgia drawl (as recent chairmen Hootie Johnson and Billy Payne have)—is belied by the club’s history. Consider, in that light, a story from the beginnings of the club itself, a story ably told in Curt Sampson’s The Masters: Golf, Money, and Power in Augusta, Georgia.

In January of 1933—the depths of the Great Depression—a New York investment banker named Clifford Roberts approached the Southern Railroad System with a proposal: “comfortable conveyance for one hundred New Yorkers to and from Augusta, Georgia”—at a discount. “Business was so bad,” Roberts himself would later write in his history of the golf club, “that the railroad promised not only a special low rate, but all new Pullman equipment with two club cars for card players and two dining cars.” In this way, Sampson writes, “the grand opening of the Augusta National Golf Club began in a railroad station in New York City.”

Most golf fans, if they are aware of the club that holds the tournament at all, only know that it was founded by Bobby Jones when he retired from competitive golf following the annus mirabilis of 1930, when Jones won the Grand Slam of all four major tournaments in the same year. But, as Sampson’s story demonstrates, it was Clifford Roberts that made Jones’ vision a reality by raising the money to build it—and that money came largely from New York, not the South.

Sixty of the 100 men Roberts recruited to join the club before it opened were from New York City: the Augusta National Golf Club would be, as Sampson puts it, “a private enclave for rich Yankees in the heart of the South, just sixty-eight years after the Civil War.” Sampson calls the idea “bizarre”—but in fact, it only is if one has a particularly narrow idea of “the South.” Augusta National’s status as a club designed to allow Yankees to masquerade as Southerners only seems ridiculous if it’s assumed that the very idea of “the South” itself is not a kind of minstrelry—as, in fact, it arguably is.

Links between New York finance and the South, that is, long predated the first golf shot at the new course. It’s often forgotten, for instance, that—as historians Charles and John Lockwood pointed out in the New York Times in 2011—after South Carolina declared it would secede in December of 1860, “the next call for secession would not come from a Southern state, but from a Northern city—New York.”

On 7 January of the bleak “Secession Winter” of ’61, the two historians note, New York’s mayor, Fernando Wood, spoke to the city council to urge that it follow the Southern state and secede. The mayor was merely articulating the “pro-Southern and pro-independence sentiment” of the city’s financiers and traders—a class buoyed up by the fact that “the city’s merchants took 40 cents of every dollar that Europeans paid for Southern cotton.” The Southern staple (and the slaves whose labor grew that crop), had in other words “helped build the new marble-fronted mercantile buildings in lower Manhattan, fill Broadway hotels and stores with customers, and build block after block of fashionable brownstones north of 14th Street.” Secession of the South put all those millions of dollars at risk: to protect its investments, thus Mayor Wood was proposing, New York might have to follow the South out of the Union.

Such a move would have had disastrous consequences. The city was the site of the vast Brooklyn Navy Yard, which in the months after the fall of Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor would assemble the fleet that not only would blockade the Southern coast, but would, in November of ’61, land an army at Hilton Head, South Carolina, the heart of secessionism—a fleet only exceeded by the armada General Eisenhower would gather against Normandy in the late winter and spring of 1944. But even more importantly, in that time the taxes collected by the New York Customs House virtually paid the entire federal government’s budget each year.

“In 1860,” as the Lockwoods write, “tariffs on imported goods collected at ports … provided $56 million of the $64.6 million of federal revenue, and more than two-thirds of imports by value passed through New York.” If New York seceded, in other words, the administration of president-elect Abraham Lincoln would be bankrupt before it took office: the city, as it were, held the nation’s government by a golden leash.

But New York City did not follow the South out of the Union: when the cannons fired at Fort Sumter that April, New York joined the rest of the nation in confirming the sentiments of Daniel Webster’s Second Reply to Hayne: “Liberty and Union, Now and Forever, One and Inseparable!” Over a hundred thousand would turn out to the “Great Sumter Rally” at (the appropriately-named) Union Square in the city on 20 April, after the fall of the federal fort in Charleston Harbor. It was, perhaps, the largest expression of New York’s patriotism before the fall of the towers overlooking the city at the dawn of the twenty-first century.

Mayor Wood himself spoke at that rally to affirm his support for “the Union, the government, the laws and the flag”—reversing his course from mere months before, a turn that perhaps has served to obscure how close the city’s ties were to a region, and economic system, that had turned away from all of those institutions. But just because it was politically expedient to deny them did not conjure them away. Indeed, the very existence of the Augusta National Golf Club is testament to just how enduring those ties between New York and the Deep South may be.

Still, of course, none of these acts of minstrelry—the golf course’s masquerade as the work of a designer whose work barely survives, the golf club’s disguise as a Southern institution when in fact it has been largely the work of Yankee financiers, or even the South’s own pretense—could be said to matter, really, now. Except for one detail: those links, some might say, extend into the present: perhaps the biggest story in American political history over the past century is how the party that would win the Civil War, the party of Lincoln, has become the defender, instead of the antagonist, of that vision of the South portrayed every year by the Masters tournament. It’s an act of minstrelry that lies at the heart of American political life today.

In 1962, wrote Ian Haney-Lopez (John H. Boalt Professor of Law at the University of California, Berkeley) for Salon in 2013, “when asked which party ‘is more likely to see that Negroes get fair treatment in jobs and housing,’ 22.7 percent of the public said Democrats and 21.3 percent said Republicans, while over half could perceive no difference between the two.” The masks of the two parties were, on this issue, interchangeable.

Yet, by the summer of 1963, conservative journalist Robert Novak could report from the Republican National Committee’s meeting in Denver that a “good many, perhaps a majority of the party’s leadership, envision political gold to be mined in the racial crisis by becoming in fact, though not in name, the White Man’s Party.” It was a harvest that would first be reaped the following year: running against Lyndon Johnson, who had—against long odds—passed the 1964 Civil Rights Act, the Republican nominee, Barry Goldwater, would outright win five states of the Deep South: Louisiana, Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, and South Carolina. It was the first time a Republican nominee for president had won in those states, at least since the end of Reconstruction and the beginning of Jim Crow.

Still, those states—and electoral votes—were not enough to carry Goldwater to the White House. But they formed the prelude to the election that did make those votes count: 1968, won by Richard Nixon. According to one of Nixon’s political strategists that year, Kevin Phillips, that election demonstrated the truth of the thesis Phillips would lay out in his 1969 book, The Emerging Republican Majority: “The Negro problem, having become a national rather than a local one, is the principal cause of the breakup of the New Deal coalition”—the coalition that had delivered landslides for Franklin Roosevelt and, in 1964, for Johnson. Phillips predicted that a counter-coalition would emerge that would be “white and middle class,” would be “concentrated in the South, the West, and suburbia,” and would be driven by reaction to “the immense midcentury impact of Negro enfranchisement and integration.” That realignment would become called Nixon’s “Southern Strategy.”

The “Southern Strategy,” as Nixon’s opponent in 1972, George McGovern, would later remark, “says to the South:”

Let the poor stay poor, let your economy trail the nation, forget about decent homes and medical care for all your people, choose officials who will oppose every effort to benefit the many at the expense of the few—and in return, we will try to overlook the rights of the black man, appoint a few southerners to high office, and lift your spirits by attacking the “eastern establishment” whose bank accounts we are filling with your labor and your industry.

Haney-Lopez argues, in the book from which this excerpt is taken—entitled Dog Whistle Politics: How Coded Racial Appeals Have Reinvented Racism and Wrecked the Middle Class, published by Oxford University Press—that it is the wreckage from Nixon’s course that surrounds us today: economic attacks on the majority enabled by nearly transparent racial coding. He may or may not be right—but what might be of interest to future historians is the role, large or small, that the Augusta National Golf Club may have played in that drama.

Certainly, after all, the golf club played an outsize role in the Eisenhower administration: according to the Augusta Chronicle, Eisenhower made 45 trips to the golf club during his life: “five before he became president, 29 while president and 11 after his last term.” And just as certainly the club provided more than recreation for the general and president.

One Augusta member (Pete Jones) would, according to Sampson and other sources, “offer Ike $1 million for his 1952 campaign for president.” (“When Pete Jones died in a plane crash in 1962,” Sampson reports, “he had $60,000 in his wallet.”) Even before that, Clifford Roberts had arranged for one Augusta member, a publisher, to buy the general’s memoirs; the money made Eisenhower financially secure for the first time in his life.

It was members of the golf club in short who provided the former Supreme Commander of the West with both the advice and the financial muscle to reach for the Republican nomination for president in 1952. His friends while in Augusta, as Sampson notes, included such figures as Robert Woodruff of Coca-Cola, “Bud (washing machines) Maytag, Albert (General Motors) Bradley, Alfred S. (Singer Sewing Machines) Bourne” and other captains of industry. Another member of the golf club was Ralph Reed, president of American Express, who would later find a job for the general’s driver during the war, Kay Summersby.

All of which is, to be sure, a long way from connecting the club directly to Nixon and the “Southern Strategy.” There’s a great deal of testimony, in fact, that would appear to demonstrate the contrary. According to Golf Digest, for example, Nixon “once told Clifford Roberts”—the storied golf club’s sometimes-malevolent dictator—“that he wouldn’t mind being a member of Augusta National, and Roberts, who didn’t like him any better than Eisenhower did, said “I didn’t know you were that interested in golf.” “And that,” goes the story, “was the end of that.” Sampson’s work tends to confirm the point: a few of Ike’s cronies at the club, Sampson reports, “even urged Ike to dump Dick in 1956,” the year the general ran for re-election.

Still, the provable is not the same as the unimaginable. Take, for instance, the testimony of Charlie Sifford, the man Lee Trevino called the “Jackie Robinson” of golf—he broke the game’s color barrier in 1961, after the attorney general of California threatened to sue the PGA of America for its “whites only” clause. Sifford fought for years to be invited to play in the Masters tournament, only to be denied despite winning two tournaments on the PGA Tour. (The 1967 Greater Hartford Open and the 1969 Los Angeles Open.) In his autobiography, Just Let Me Play, Sifford quoted Clifford Roberts as saying, “As long as I live, there will be nothing at the Masters besides black caddies and white players.”

Sampson for one discounts this as implausible—for what it’s worth, he thinks it unlikely that Roberts would have actually said such a thing, not that Roberts was incapable of thinking it. Nevertheless, golfers in the Masters tournament were required to take “local” (i.e., black) caddies until 1983, six years after Roberts shot himself in the head beside Ike’s Pond on the grounds of the club, in late September, 1977. (The chairman, it’s said, took a drop.) Of course, the facts of the golf club’s caddie policy means nothing, nor even would Clifford Roberts’ private thoughts regarding race. But the links between the club, the South, and the world of money and power remain, and whatever the future course of the club, or the nation, those forged in the past—no matter the acts of minstrelry designed to obscure them—remain.

Now, and forever.

Windy Orders

Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.
Modern Saying


There’s a story told at Royal Troon, site of the “Postage Stamp” par-three hole, about the lady golfer, playing into an extreme wind, who was handed her driver by her caddie. After she hit the shot, as the ball fell helplessly short against the gale, she shouted reproachfully, “You underclubbed me!” It’s a story that has a certain resonance for me—perhaps obviously—but also, more immediately, due to my present work at a golf course in South Carolina, where I have repaired following the arrival of snow in Chicago. It’s easy enough to imagine something similar occurring at Chechessee Creek’s 16th hole—which, if it did, might not furnish the material for a modest laugh so much as, in concurrence with the golf course’s next hole, demonstrate something rather more profound. 
     Chechessee Creek, the golf course where I am spending this late fall, is a design of the Coore/Crenshaw operation, and it’s very well known that Ben Crenshaw, one of the principals of the firm, considers Chicago Golf Club to be the epitome of good course design. It’s reflected in a number of features of the course: the elevated greens, the various “dunes” strewn about for no apparent reason. But it’s also true that Chicago Golf is, despite its much greater age, by far the more daring of the two courses: it has blind shots and incredibly risky greens where putts can not only fall off the green, but go bounding down the fairway twenty yards or more. There are places where at times it is better to hit a putt off the green deliberately—because that is the only way to get the ball to stop near the hole. Chechessee Creek, for good or ill, has none of these features.
     What it does have, however, is a sense of what David Mihm, writer of the EpicGolf website, calls “pacing.” “Golf is a game,” he points out, “that is experienced chronologically”—that is, it isn’t just the quality of the holes that is important, but also their situation within the golf course as a whole. “By definition,” he says, “part of a hole’s greatness must depend on where it falls in the round.” 
     Chicago Golf Club has that quality of pacing in abundance, starting with the very first hole, Valley. By means of a trompe l’oeil the hole, in reality a 450 yard monster of a par four, appears to be a quite sedate, much-shorter hole. It’s only upon seeing his drive “disappear” (into the concealed vale that gives the hole its name) that the golfer realizes that his eye has misled him. It’s a trick, sure, that would be fantastic on any hole—but is particularly appropriate on the first, since it signals to the golfer immediately—on the first shot of the day—that this is a different kind of golf course, and that he cannot trust what he sees. 
     I would not say that Chechessee Creek exemplifies that notion to the same degree; it may not be too much to wonder whether South Carolina, or at least the Lowcountry, Tidewater parts of it, might not be too level of a countryside really to lend itself to golf. (“All over the world,” says Anita Harris, the geologist turned tour guide in John McPhee’s monumental Annals of the Former World, “when people make golf courses they are copying glacial landscapes.” South Carolina, needless to say, did not experience the devastations of an ice sheet during the last Ice Age, or any other time.) Still, there is one set of holes that does exhibit what Mihm is talking about—and perhaps something more besides. 
     The sixteenth hole at Chechessee is, as perhaps might be put together, a long par three hole; so long, in fact, that it isn’t unlikely that a short hitter might use a driver there. But, of course, there is the small matter of pride to contend with—few (male) golfers ever want to concede that they needed a driver on a “short” hole. It’s something I saw often working at Medinah, when coming to the thirteenth hole—almost inevitably, someone would not hit the correct club because he took as it an affront to suggest hitting a driver or even a three wood. Fair enough, one supposes; these days, the long par three might be close to becoming a design cliche (and in any case, all iconic courses I have seen have one: Olympia Fields, Chicago Golf, and Butler do, as does Riviera). 
     Just having a long par three isn’t enough, obviously, to satisfy Mihm’s criteria, and it isn’t that alone that makes Chechessee unique or even interesting. What makes the course go is the hole that follows the sixteenth, the seventeenth (duh). It’s an intriguing design in its own right, because it is an example of a “Leven” hole. According to A Disorderly Compendium of Golf (and what better source?), Leven holes are modeled on the 7th at the Leven Links, a hole that no longer exists. The idea of it is simple: it is a short hole with an enormous hazard on one side of the fairway; at Chechessee, the hazard is a long-grassed and swampy depression. Thus, the question posed is, how much of the hazard will you dare? Bailing out to the side leaves the player with a poor, often obstructed view of the green; at Chechessee, that function is furnished by an enormous pine tree.
     Yet that dilemma alone isn’t the real crux of the matter—what matters is that the seventeenth follows the sixteenth. After all, at the sixteenth the golfer is tempted, by his own ego, not to hit enough club. Conversely, at the seventeenth, the golfer is tempted to hit too much club. The quandary posed at each tee, in short, is precisely the mirror of the other: failing to reach for a driver on the sixteenth can cause the player to demand it on the seventeenth—with disastrous consequences in each case. And that is interesting enough merely in terms of golf, to be sure. But what is likely far more intriguing about it is that the placing of these holes could not be better situated to illustrate—nay, perform—what two psychologists said about how the human mind actually works.  
      The psychologists were Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky—Kahneman recently received the Nobel Prize for his work with Tversky, who couldn’t receive the award because he died in 1996. What their work did was to uncover, by means of various experiments, some of the hidden pathways of the human mind: the “cognitive shortcuts” taken by the brain. One of these discoveries was the fact that human beings are “loss averse”—or, as Jonah Lehrer put it not long ago in the New Yorker, that for human beings “losses hurt more than gains feel good.” Kahneman and Tversky called this idea “prospect theory.” 
     The effect has been measured in golf. In a paper entitled “Is Tiger Woods Loss Averse? Persistent Bias In the Face of Experience, Competition, and High Stakes” two Wharton professors found that, for PGA Tour golfers, “the agony of a bogey seems to outweigh the thrill of a birdie.” What their data (from the PGA Tour’s ShotLink system, which measures the distance of every shot hit on tour) demonstrated was that tour players “make their birdie putts approximately two percentage points less often than they make comparable par putts.” Somehow, when pros are faced with a par putt instead of a birdie putt—even though they might be identical putts—they make the former slightly more than the latter. What that translates into is one stroke left on the table per tournament—and that leaves $1.2 million per year in prize money being given away by the top twenty players.
     It’s a phenomenon that’s been found again and again in many disparate fields: investors hold on to too many low-risk bonds, for instance, while condos stay on the market far too long (because their owners won’t reduce their price even during economic downturns), and NFL coaches will take the “sure thing” of a field goal even when it might actually hurt their chances of winning the game. This last, while being about sports, has also another dimension of application to golf: the way in which what can be called “social expectations” guides human decision-making. That is, how our ideas about how others judge us plays a role in our decisions.
     In the case of the NFL, studies have shown that coaches far more likely to make the decision to kick the ball—to punt or attempt a field goal—than they are to attempt a first down or a touchdown. This is so even in situations (such as on the opponent’s 2 yard line) where, say, scoring a field goal actually leaves the opponent in a better position: if the team doesn’t get the touchdown or first down, the opponent is pinned against his own goal line, whereas a field goal means a kickoff that will likely result in the opponent starting at the twenty yard line at least. NFL coaches, in other words, aren’t making these decisions entirely rationally. To some, it suggests that they are attempting to act conventionally: that is, by doing what everyone else does, each coach can “hide” better.
     What that suggests is just why golfers, faced with the sixteenth hole, are averse to select what’s actually the right club. Each golfer is, in a sense, engaged in an arms race with every other golfer: by taking more club than another, that implicitly cedes something to the player taking less. This, despite the fact that rationally speaking selecting a different club than another golfer does nothing towards the final score of each. Taking less club becomes a kind of auction—or as we might term it, a bidding war—but one where the risk of “losing face” is seen as more significant than the final score. 
     The same process is, if it exists at all, also at work on the seventeenth hole. But this time there’s an additional piece of information playing out in the golfer’s mind: whatever happened on the last hole. One plausible scenario—I’ve seen it happen—is that the player doesn’t take enough club on the sixteenth, and comes up short of the hole. Having made that decision, and been wrong, the golfer determines on the next hole to make the “sensible” choice, and lays up away from the hazard—leaving a difficult second shot to a small green. But here’s the thing: the “carry” on the tee shot on seventeen, which I’ve withheld until now, is only about 210 yards—which is about the same as that of the sixteenth hole. In other words, the reality is that—evaluated dispassionately—golfers should probably hit about the same club on each hole. If they don’t, it’s probably due to a collision between “prospect theory” and “pacing”—which is to say that the Coore and Crenshaw design of Chechessee Creek is, all things considered, clubbed about right.   

Bend Sinister

The rebs say that I am a traitor to my country. Why tis this[?] [B]ecause I am for a majority ruling, and for keeping the power in the people[?]
—Jesse Dobbins
Yadkin County, North Carolina
Federal pension application
Adjutant General’s Office
United States Department of War
3 July 1883.

Golf and (the theory of) capitalism were born in the same small country (Scotland) at the same historical moment, but while golf is entwined within the corporate world these days there’s actually a profound difference between the two: for capitalism everything is relative, but the value of a golf shot is absolute. Every shot is strictly as valuable as every other. The difference can be found in the concept of arbitrage—which conventional dictionaries define as taking advantage of a price difference between two markets. It’s at the heart of the financial kind of capitalism we live with these days—it’s why everything is relative under the regime of capitalism—but it’s completely antithetical to golf: you can’t trade golf shots. Still, the concept of arbitrage does explain one thing about golf: how a golf club in South Carolina, in the Low Country—the angry furnace of the Confederacy—could come to be composed of Northern financial types and be named “Secession,” in a manner that suggested its members believed, if only half-jokingly, that the firebrands of 1860 might have not been all wrong.

That, however, gets ahead of starting another golf tournament on the tenth tee. Historically, as some readers may remember, I haven’t done well starting on the tenth hole. To recap: twice I’ve started loops for professional golfers in tournaments on the tenth tee, and each time my pro has blown the first shot of the day out of bounds. So when I saw where we were starting at Oldfield Country Club just outside of Hilton Head in South Carolina, site of an eGolf tournament, my stomach dropped as if I were driving over one of the arched bridges across the housing development’s canals.

Both of those tenth holes were also, coincidentally or not, dog-leg rights; holes that begin at the tee, or upper left so to speak, and move towards the green in a more-or-less curved arc that ends, figuratively, on the lower right. In heraldry, a stripe in such a fashion is called a “bend sinister”: as Vladimir Nabokov put it in explaining the title of his novel by that name, “a bar drawn from the upper left to the lower right on a coat of arms.” My player was, naturally, assigned to start at the tenth tee. My history with such starts went unmentioned.

Superstitious nonsense aside, however, there’s likely reasons why my pros should have had a hard time of a dog-leg right. Very often on a dogleg right trees close off the right side quickly: there’s no room on the right to start the ball there in order to draw it back onto the fairway; which is to say, golfers who draw the ball are at a disadvantage. As this is the typical flight of your better player—while it might be so that the very longest players very often play a “power fade”—it’s perhaps not accidental that marginal players (the only type I, as an unproven commodity, might hope to obtain) ought to be drawers of the ball.

Had I known what I found out later, I might have been more anxious: my golfer had “scrapped … Operation Left to Right”—a project designed to enable him to hit a fade on command—all the way back in 2011, as detailed in a series of Golf Channel articles about him and his struggles in golf’s minor leagues. (“The Minors” golfchannel.com) His favorite ball shape was a draw, a right-to-left shot, which is just about the worst kind of shot you can have on a dogleg-right hole. The tenth at Oldfield had, of course, just that kind of shape.

Already, the sky was threatening, and the air had a chill to it: the kind of chill that can cause the muscles in your hand to be less supple, which can make it just that much harder to “release” the clubhead—which can cause a slice, a left-to-right movement of the ball. Later on my player actually would lose several tee shots to the right, all of them push-fades, including a tough-to-take water ball on the twelfth (our third) hole, a drivable par four.
Eventually the rain would become so bad that the next day the final round would be canceled, which left me at loose ends.

Up past Beaufort there’s a golf club called Secession—a reference to South Carolina’s pride of place with regard to the events leading up to the Civil War: it was the first state to secede, in late December of 1860, and actually helped persuade the other Southern states to secede with it by sending encouraging emissaries to those states. Yet while that name might appear deeply Southern, the membership is probably anything but: Secession, the golf club, is an extremely private course that has become what Augusta began as: a club for the financial guys of New York and Chicago to go to and gamble large sums on golf. Or, to put it another way, the spiritual descendants of the guys who financed Abraham Lincoln’s war.

You might think, of course, that such a place would be somewhat affected by the events of the past five years or so: in fact not, as on the day I stopped in every tee box seemed filled with foursomes, with quite a few filled by loopers carrying doubles. Perhaps I should have known better, since as Chris Lehmann at The Baffler has noted, the “top 1 percent of income earners have taken in fully 93 percent of the economic gains since the Great Recession.” In any case, my errand was unsuccessful: I found out, essentially, that I would need some kind of clout. So, rather than finding my way back directly, I spent a pleasant afternoon in Beaufort. While there, I learned the story of one Robert Smalls, namesake of a number of the town’s landmarks.

“I thought the Planter,” said Robert Smalls when he reached the deck of the USS Onward outside of Charleston Harbor in the late spring of 1862, “might be of some use to Uncle Abe.” Smalls, the pilot, had, along with his crew, stolen the Confederate ship Planter right out from under the Confederate guns by mimicking the Planter’s captain—Smalls knew what the usual signals to leave the harbor were, and by the half-light of dawn he looked sufficiently enough like that officer to secure permission from the sentries at Sumter. (He also knew enough to avoid the minefields, since he’d helped to lay them.) Upon reaching the Union blockade ships on the open Atlantic, Smalls surrendered his vessel to the United States officer in command.

After the war—and a number of rather exciting exploits—Smalls came back to Beaufort, where he bought his former master’s house—a man named McKee—with the bounty money he got for stealing the Planter, and got elected to both the South Carolina House of Representatives and the South Carolina Senate, founding the Republican Party in South Carolina along the way. In office he wrote legislation that provided for South Carolina to have the first statewide public school system in the history of the United States, and then he was elected to the United States House of Representatives, where he became the last Republican congressman from his district until 2010.

Historical tourism in Beaufort thusly means confronting the fact that the entire of the Lowcountry, as it’s called down here, was the center of secessionism. That’s in part why, in a lot of South Carolina, the war ended much earlier than in most of the South, because the Union invaded by sea in late 1861: 80 years before Normandy, in a fleet whose size would not be rivaled until after Pearl Harbor. That’s also why, as the British owner of a bar in the town I’m staying in, Bluffton, notes, the first thing the Yankees did when they arrived in Bluffton was burn in down. It was in order to make a statement similar to the larger point Sherman would later make during his celebrated visit to Atlanta.

The reason for such vindictiveness was because the slaveowners of the Lowcountry were at what their longtime Senator, John Calhoun, had long before called the “furthest outpost” of slavery’s empire. They not only wanted to continue slavery, they wanted to expand its reach—it’s the moral, in fact, of the curious tale of the yacht Wanderer, funded by a South Carolinian. It’s one of those incidents that happened just before the war, one of those incidents whose meaning would only become clear after the passage of time—and Sherman.

The Wanderer was built in 1857 on Long Island, New York, as a pleasure yacht. Her first owner, Col. John Johnson, sailed her down the Atlantic coast to New Orleans, then sailed her back to New York where a William Corrie, of Charleston, South Carolina, bought her. Corrie made some odd alterations to the ship—adding, for instance, a 15,000 gallon water tank. The work attracted the attention of federal officers aboard the steam revenue cutter USS Harriet Lane, who seized the ship when she attempted to leave New York harbor on 9 June 1858—as a suspected slave ship. But there was no other evidence of the intentions of her owner other than the basic alterations, and so the Wanderer was released. She arrived in Charleston on 25 June, completed her fitting out as a slave ship and, after a stop in Port of Spain, Trinidad, sailed for the Congo on 27 July. The Wanderer returned to the United States on 28 November, at Jekyll Island in Georgia, still in the Lowcountry.

The ship bore a human cargo.

Why, though, would William Corrie—and his partners, including the prominent Savannah businessman Charles Lamar, a member of a family that “included the second president of the Republic of Texas, a U.S. Supreme Court justice, and U.S. Secretary of the Treasury Howell Cobb”—have taken so desperate a measure as to have attempted to smuggle slaves into the United States? The slave trade had been banned in the United States since 1808, as per the United States Constitution, which is to say that importing human beings for the purpose of slavery was a federal crime. The punishment was death by hanging.

Ultimately, Corrie and his partners evaded conviction—there were three trials, all held in Savannah, all of which ended with a Savannah jury refusing to convict their local grandees. Oncoming events would, to be sure, soon make the whole episode beside the point. Still, Corrie and Lamar could not have known that, and on the whole the desperate crime seems rather a long chance to take. But the syndicate, led by Lamar, had two motives: one economic, and the other ideological.

The first motive was grasped by Thomas Jefferson, of all people, as early as 1792. Jefferson memorialized his thought, according to the Smithsonian magazine, “in a barely legible, scribbled note in the middle of a page, enclosed in brackets.” The earth-shaking, terrible thought was this: “he was making a 4 percent profit every year on the birth of black children.” In other words, like the land which his slaves worked, every year brought an increase to the value of Jefferson’s human capital. The value of slaves would, with time, become almost incredible: “In 1860,” historian David Brion Davis has noted, “the value of Southern slaves was about three times the amount invested in manufacturing or railroads nationwide.” And that value was only increased by the ban on the slave trade.

First, then, the voyage of the Wanderer was an act of economic arbitrage, which sought to exploit the price difference between slaves in Africa and those in the United States. But it was also an act of provocation—much like John Brown’s raid on Harper’s Ferry less than a year after the Wanderer landed in Georgia. Like the more celebrated case, the sailing of the Wanderer was meant to demonstrate that slave smuggling could be done—it was meant to inspire further acts of resistance to the Slave Importation Act.

Lamar was after all a Southern “firebrand,” common in the Lowcountry and represented in print by the Charleston Mercury. The firebrands advocated resuming the African slave trade: essentially, the members of this group believed that government shouldn’t interfere with the “natural” process of the market. Southerners like Lamar and Corrie, thusly, were the ancestors to those who today believe that, in the words of Italian sociologist Marco d’Eramo, “things would surely improve if only we left them to the free play of market forces.”
The voyage of the Wanderer was, in that sense, meant to demonstrate the thesis that, as Thomas Frank observed about how the ideological descendants of these forebears put it, that “it is the nature of government enterprises to fail.” The mission of the slave ship, that is, could be viewed as on a par with what Frank calls conservative cautions “against bringing top-notch talent into government service” or piling up “an Everest of debt in order to force the government into crisis.” The notion that the yacht’s trip was wholly contrived must have been lost on the Wanderer’s sponsors.

Surely, then, it isn’t difficult to explain the reasoning behind the appeal of a certain kind of South Carolinian thought and that of wealthy people today. What’s interesting about the whole episode, at least from today’s standpoint, is how it was ultimately defeated: by what, at least from one perspective, appears to be another case of arbitrage. In this case, the arbitrageur was named Abraham Lincoln, and he laid out what he was going to arbitrage long before the voyage of the Wanderer. It was in a speech in Peoria in the autumn of 1854, the speech that marked Lincoln’s return to politics after his defeat in the late 1840s after his opposition to the Mexican War. In that speech, Lincoln laid the groundwork for the defeat of slavery by describing how slavery had artificially interfered with a market—the one whose currency is votes.

The crucial passage of the Peoria speech begins when Lincoln begins to compare two states: South Carolina being one, likely not so coincidentally, and Maine being the other. Both states, Lincoln observes, are equally represented in Congress: “South Carolina has six representatives, and so has Maine; South Carolina has eight presidential electors, and so has Maine.” “Thus in the control of the government,” Lincoln concludes, “the two States are equals precisely.” But, Lincoln goes on to note, observe the numbers of their free people: “Maine has 581,813—while South Carolina has 274,567.” Somehow, then, the Southern voter “is more than double of any one of us in this crowd” in terms of control of the federal government: “it is an absolute truth, without an exception,” Lincoln said, “that there is no voter in any slave State, but who has more legal power in the government than any voter in any free State.” There was, in sum, a discrepancy in value—or what economists might call an “inefficiency.”

The reason for that discrepancy was, as Lincoln also observed, “in the Constitution”—by which he referred to what’s become known as the “Three-Fifths Compromise,” or Article One, Section 2, Paragraph 3: “Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the several States … according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole Number of free Persons … [and] three fifths of all other Persons.” By this means, Southern states received representation in the federal government in excess of the number of their free inhabitants: in addition to the increase in wealth obtained by the reproduction of their slaves, then, slaveowners also benefitted politically.

In an article for the New York Times’ series Disunion (“The Census of Doom”), which is blogging the Civil War as it happened, Adam Goodheart observes that over the decade between the 1850 United States Census, however, as and the 1860 edition of same, the population of the North had exploded by 41 percent, while that of the South had only grown by 27 percent. (By comparison, Goodheart points out, between 2000 and 2010 the United States population grew by just 9.7 percent.) To take one state as an example, in less than 25 years one Northern state—Wisconsin—had grown by nearly 6400 (sic) percent. Wisconsin would, of course, go heavily for Lincoln in the presidential election—Lincoln would be the first president ever elected without the support of a single Southern state. (He wasn’t even on the ballot in most.) One Northern newspaper editor, Goodheart notes, smugly observed that “The difference in the relative standing of the slave states and the free, between 1850 and 1860, inevitably shows where the future greatness of our country is to be.” Lincoln’s election confirmed the fact that the political power held by the Southern states since the nation’s founding, with the help of an electoral concession, had been broken by a wash of new Northern voters.

If read in that light, then, the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Amendments to the Constitution, which ended both slavery and the Three Fifths Clause, could be understood as a kind of price correction: the two amendments effectively ended the premium that the Constitution had until then placed on Southern votes. Lincoln becomes a version of Brad Pitt’s character in the movie of Michael Lewis’ most famous book—Billy Beane in Moneyball. Just as Billy Beane saw—or was persuaded to see—that batting average was overvalued and on-base percentage was undervalued, thus creating an arbitrage possibility for players who walked a lot, Lincoln saw that Southern votes were too highly valued and Northern ones too undervalued, and that (sooner or later) the two had to converge towards what economists would call “fundamental value.”

That concept is something that golf teaches well. In golf, there are no differences in value to exploit: each shot has just the same fundamental value. On our first tee that day, which was the tenth hole at Oldfield Country Club, my golfer actually didn’t blow his first shot out-of-bounds—though I had fully expected that to happen. He did come pretty close though: it flew directly into the trees, a slicing, left-to-right block. I took off after everyone had teed off: clearly the old guy who was marshaling the hole wasn’t going to be of much help. But I found the ball easily enough, and my player pitched out and ended up making a great par save. The punch-out shot from the trees counted just the same as an approach shot might have, or as a second putt.

Understanding that notion of fundamental value taught by golf—among other possible human acts—allows the further understanding that the “price correction” undertaken by Lincoln wasn’t simply a one-time act: the value of an American vote still, today, varies across the nation. According to the organization FairVote, as of 2003 a vote in Wyoming was more than three times more valuable than, say, my vote as a resident of the state of Illinois. Even today—as the Senate’s own website notes—“senators from the twenty-six smallest states, who (according to the 2000 census) represent 17.8% of the nation’s population, constitute a majority of the Senate.” It’s a fact that the men of the Secession Golf Club might just as well people ignored—because it just may be why 93 percent of the wealth since the Great Recession has gone to the wealthy.

To take a small example of how the two points might be connected, a recent New Yorker piece has pointed out that “in the fifth year of his Presidency, Obama has failed to place even a single judge on the D.C. Circuit, considered the second most important court in the nation” because the Senate has refused to confirm any of his nominees. This despite the fact that there are now four vacancies out of eleven seats. Why? Because the Senate’s rules allow a minority of Senators—or even just one, in the case of what’s known as the “hold”—to interfere with the will of the majority: an advantage Republican senators have not hesitated to seize.

Nearly twenty years after the publication of Bend Sinister, Nabokov chose to write an introduction in which he endeavored to explain the novel’s name. “This choice of title,” he wrote, “was an attempt to suggest an outline broken by refraction, a distortion in the mirror of being, a wrong turn taken by life, a sinistral and sinister world.” If there are wrong turns, of course, that would suggest that there are right ones; if there are “distortions,” then there are clarities: that is, there is an order to which events will (eventually, sooner or later) return. It’s a suggestion that is not fashionable these days: Nabokov himself isn’t read much today for his own beliefs so much as for the confirmation his novels can provide for one or another thesis. But if he is right—if golf’s belief in “fundamental value” is right—then there must necessarily come some correction to this ongoing problem of the value of a vote.

The location of the new Fort Sumter, however, remains unknown.