Several And A Single Place

 

What’s the matter,
That in these several places of the city
You cry against the noble senate?
Coriolanus 

 

The explanation, says labor lawyer Thomas Geoghegan, possesses amazing properties: he can, the one-time congressional candidate says, “use it to explain everything … because it seems to work on any issue.” But before trotting out what that explanation is, let me select an issue that might appear difficult to explain: gun control, and more specifically just why, as Christopher Ingraham of the Washington Post wrote in July, “it’s never the right time to discuss gun control.” “In recent years,” as Ingraham says, “politicians and commentators from across the political spectrum have responded to mass shootings with an invocation of the phrase ‘now is not the time,’ or a close variant.” That inability even to discuss gun control is a tremendously depressing fact, at least insofar as you have sympathy for the needless waste of lives gun deaths are—until you realize that we Americans have been here before. And that demonstrates, just maybe, that Thomas Geoghegan has a point.

Over a century and a half ago, Americans were facing another issue that, in the words of one commentator, “must not be discussed at all.” It was so grave an issue, in fact, that very many Americans found “fault with those who denounce it”—a position that this commenter found odd: “You say that you think [it] is wrong,” he observed, “but you denounce all attempts to restrain it.” That’s a pretty strange position, because who thinks something is wrong, but yet is “not willing to deal with [it] as a wrong?” What other subject could be called a wrong, but should not be called “wrong in politics because that is bringing morality into politics,” and conversely should not be called “wrong in the pulpit because that is bringing politics into religion.” To sum up, this commenter said, “there is no single place, according to you, where this wrong thing can properly be called wrong!”

The place where this was said was New Haven, Connecticut; the time, March of 1860; the speaker, a failed senatorial candidate now running for president for a brand-new political party. His name was Abraham Lincoln.

He was talking about slavery.

*                                            *                                        *

To many historians these days, much about American history can be explained by the fact that, as historian Leonard Richards of the University of Massachusetts put it in his 2000 book, The Slave Power: The Free North and Southern Domination, 1780-1860, so “long as there was an equal number of slave and free states”—which was more or less official American policy until the Civil War—“the South needed just one Northern vote to be an effective majority in the Senate.” That meant that controlling “the Senate, therefore, was child’s play for southern leaders,” and so “time and again a bill threatening the South [i.e., slavery above all else] made its way through the House only to be blocked in the Senate.” It’s a stunningly obvious point, at least in retrospect—at least for this reader—but I’d wager that few, if any, Americans have really thought through the consequences of this fact.

Geoghegan for example has noted that—as he put it in 1998’s The Secret Lives of Citizens: Pursuing the Promise of American Life—even today the Senate makes it exceedingly difficult to pass legislation: as he wrote, at present only “two-fifths of the Senate, or forty-one senators, can block any bill.” That is, it takes at least sixty senatorial votes to overcome the threat known as the “filibuster,” the invocation of which requires a supermajority to overcome. The filibuster however is not the only anti-majoritarian feature of the Senate, which is also equipped with such quaint customs as the “secret hold” and the quorum call and so forth, each of which can be used to delay a bill’s hearing—and so buy time to squelch potential legislation. Yet, these radically disproportionate senatorial powers merely mask the basic proportionate inequality at the heart of the Senate as an institution itself.

As political scientists Frances Lee and Bruce Oppenheimer point out in their Sizing Up the Senate: The Unequal Consequences of Equal Representation, the Senate is, because it makes small states the equal of large ones, “the most malapportioned legislature in the democratic world.” As Geoghegan has put the point, “the Senate depart[s] too much from one person, one vote,” because (as of the late 1990s) “90 percent of the population base as represented in the Senate could vote yes, and the bill would still lose.” Although Geoghegan wrote that nearly two decades ago, that is still largely true today: in 2013, Dylan Matthews of The Washington Post observed that while the “smallest 20 states amount to 11.27 percent of the U.S. population,” their senators “can successfully filibuster [i.e., block] legislation.” Thus, although the Senate is merely one antidemocratic feature of the U.S. Constitution, it’s an especially egregious one that, by itself, largely prevented a serious discussion of slavery in the years before the Civil War—and today prevents the serious discussion of gun control.

The headline of John Bresnahan’s 2013 article in Politico about the response to the Sandy Hook massacre, for example, was “Gun control hits brick wall in Senate.” Bresnahan quoted Nevadan Harry Reid, the Senate Majority Leader at the time, as saying that “the overwhelming number of Senate Republicans—and that is a gross understatement—are ignoring the voices of 90 percent of the American people.” The final vote was 54-46: in other words, the majority of the Senate was in favor of controls, but because the pro-control senators did not have a supermajority, the measure failed. In short, the measure was a near-perfect illustration of how the Senate can kill a measure that 90 percent of Americans favor.

And you know? Whatever you think about gun control, as an issue, if 90 percent of Americans want something, and what prevents them is not just a silly rule—but the same rule that protected slavery—well then, as Abraham Lincoln might tell us, that’s a problem.

It’s a problem because far from the Senate being—as George Washington supposedly said to Thomas Jefferson—the saucer that cools off politics, it’s actually a pressure cooker that exacerbates issues, rather than working them out. Imagine, say, had the South not had the Senate to protect its “peculiar institution” in the years leading to the Civil War: gradually, immigration to the North would have slowly turned the tide in Congress, which may have led to a series of small pieces of legislation that, eventually, would have abolished slavery.

Perhaps that may not have been a good thing: Ta Nehisi Coates, of The Atlantic, has written that every time he thinks of the 600,000-plus deaths that occurred as a result of the Civil War, he feels “positively fucking giddy.” That may sound horrible to some, of course, but there is something to the notion of “redemptive violence” when it comes to that war; Coates for instance cites the contemporary remarks of Private Thomas Strother, United States Colored Troops, in the Christian Recorder, the 19th century paper of the African Methodist Episcopal Church:

To suppose that slavery, the accursed thing, could be abolished peacefully and laid aside innocently, after having plundered cradles, separated husbands and wives, parents and children; and after having starved to death, worked to death, whipped to death, run to death, burned to death, lied to death, kicked and cuffed to death, and grieved to death; and worst of all, after having made prostitutes of a majority of the best women of a whole nation of people … would be the greatest ignorance under the sun.

“Were I not the descendant of slaves, if I did not owe the invention of my modern self to a bloody war,” Coates continues, “perhaps I’d write differently.” Maybe in some cosmic sense Coates is wrong, and violence is always wrong—but I don’t think I’m in a position to judge, particularly since I, as in part the descendant of Irish men and women in America, am aware that the Irish themselves may have codified that sort of “blood sacrifice theory” in the General Post Office of Dublin during Easter Week of 1916.

Whatever you think of that, there is certainly something to the idea that, because slaves were the single biggest asset in the entire United States in 1860, there was little chance the South would have agreed to end slavery without a fight. As historian Steven Deyle has noted in his Carry Me Back: The Domestic Slave Trade in American Life, the value of American slaves in 1860 was “equal to about seven times the total value of all currency in circulation in the country, three times the value of the entire livestock population, twelve times the value of the entire U.S. cotton crop and forty-eight times the total expenditure of the federal government”—certainly a value much more than it takes to start a war. But then had slavery not had, in effect, government protection during those antebellum years, it’s questionable whether slaves ever might have become such valuable commodities in the first place.

Far from “cooling” things off, in other words, it’s entirely likely that the U.S. Senate, and other anti-majoritarian features of the U.S. Constitution, actually act to enflame controversy. By ensuring that one side does not need to come to the bargaining table, in fact, all such oddities merely postpone—they do not prevent—the day of reckoning. They  build up fuel, ensuring that when the day finally arrives, it is all the more terrible. Or, to put it in the words of an old American song: these American constitutional idiosyncrasies merely trample “out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.”

That truth, it seems, marches on.

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Instruments of Darkness

 

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths …
—William Shakespeare
    The Tragedy of MacBeth
Act I, scene 3 132-3 (1606) 

 

This year’s Masters demonstrated, once again, the truism that nobody watches golf without Tiger Woods: last year’s Masters, played without Tiger, had the lowest ratings since 1957, while the ratings for this year’s Saturday’s round (featuring a charging Woods), were up nearly half again as much. So much is unsurprising; what was surprising, perhaps, was the reappearance of a journalistic fixture from the days of Tiger’s past: the “pre-Masters Tiger hype story.” It’s a reoccurance that suggests Tiger may be taking cues from another ratings monster: the television series Game of Thrones. But if so—with a nod to Ramsey Snow’s famous line in the show—it suggests that Tiger himself doesn’t think his tale will have a happy ending.

The prototype of the “pre-Masters” story was produced in 1997, the year of Tiger’s first Masters win: before that “win for the ages,” it was widely reported how the young phenom had shot a 59 during a practice round at Isleworth Country Club. At the time the story seemed innocuous, but in retrospect there are reasons to interrogate it more deeply—not to say it didn’t happen, exactly, but to question whether it was released as part of a larger design. After all, Tiger’s father Earl—still alive then—would have known just what to do with the story.

Earl, as all golf fans know, created and disseminated the myth of the invincible Tiger to anyone who would listen in the late 1990s: “Tiger will do more than any other man in history to change the course of humanity,” Gary Smith quoted him saying in the Sports Illustrated story (“The Chosen One”) that, more than any other, sold the Gospel of Woods. There is plenty of reason to suspect that the senior Woods deliberately created this myth as part of a larger campaign: because Earl, as a former member of the U.S. Army’s Green Berets, knew the importance of psychological warfare.

“As a Green Beret,” writes John Lamothe in an academic essay on both Woods, elder and junior, Earl “would have known the effect … psychological warfare could have on both the soldier and the enemy.” As Tiger himself said in a 1996 interview for Orange Coast magazine—before the golfer put up a barrier between himself and the press—“Green Berets know a lot about psychological torture and things like that.” Earl for his part remarked that, while raising Tiger, he “pulled every dirty, nasty trick I could remember from psychological warfare I learned as a Green Beret.” Both Woods described this training as a matter of rattling keys or ripping Velcro at inopportune moments—but it’s difficult not to wonder whether it went deeper.

At the moment of their origin in 1952 after all, the Green Berets, or Special Forces, were a subsection of the Psychological Warfare Staff at the Pentagon: psychological warfare, in other words, was part of their founding mission. And as Lamothe observes, part of the goal of psychological warfare is to create “confidence” in your allies “and doubt in the competitors.” As early as 2000, the sports columnist Thomas Boswell was describing how Tiger “tries to imprint on the mind of every opponent that resistance is useless,” a tactic that Boswell claimed the “military calls … ‘overwhelming force’”—and a tactic that is far older than the game of golf. Consider, for instance, a story from golf’s homeland of Scotland: the tale of the “Douglas Larder.”

It happened at a time of year not unfamiliar to viewers of the Masters: Palm Sunday, in April of 1308. The story goes that Sir James Douglas—an ally of Robert the Bruce, who was in rebellion against the English king Edward I—returned that day to his family’s home, Douglas Castle, which had been seized by the English. Taking advantage of the holiday, Douglas and his men—essentially, a band of guerrillas—slaughtered the English garrison within the church they worshipped in, then beheaded them, ate the Easter feast the Englishmen had no more use for, and subsequently poisoned the castle’s wells and destroyed its supplies (the “Larder” part of the story’s title). Lastly, Douglas set the English soldiers’ bodies afire.

To viewers of the television series Game of Thrones, or readers of the series of books it is based upon (A Song of Ice and Fire), the story might sound vaguely familiar: the “Douglas Larder” is, as popular historian William Rosen has pointed out, one source of the event known from the television series as the “Red Wedding.” Although the television event also borrows from the medieval Scot “Black Dinner” (which is perhaps closer in terms of the setting), and the later incident known as the Massacre at Glencoe, still the “Red Wedding” reproduces the most salient details of the “Douglas Larder.” In both, the attackers take advantage of their prey’s reliance on piety; in both, the bodies of the dead are mutilated in order to increase the monstrous effect.

To a modern reader, such a story is simply a record of barbarism—forgetting that medieval people were, though far less educated, equally as intelligent as nearly anyone alive today. Douglas’ actions were not meant for horror’s sake, but to send a message: the raid on the castle “was meant to leave a lasting impression … not least upon the men who came to replace their dead colleagues.” Acts like his attack on his own castle demonstrate how the “Black Douglas”—“mair fell than wes ony devill in hell” according to a contemporary account—was “an early practitioner of psychological warfare”: he knew how “fear alone could do much of the work of a successful commander.” It seems hardly credible to think Earl Woods—a man who’d been in combat in the guerrilla war of Vietnam—did not know the same lesson. Nor is it credible to think that Earl didn’t tell Tiger about it.

Certainly, Tiger himself has been a kind of Douglas: he won his first Masters by 12 shots, and in the annus mirabilis of 2000 he won the U.S. Open at Pebble Beach by 15. Displays like that, many have thought, functioned similarly, if less macabrely, as Douglas’ attacks. The effect has even been documented academically: in 2008’s “Dominance, Intimidation, and ‘Choking’ on the PGA Tour,” professors Robert Connolly and Richard Rendleman found that being paired with Tiger cost other tour pros nearly half a shot per round from 1998 to 2001. The “intimidation factor,” that is, has been quantified—so it seems jejune at best to think somebody connected to Tiger, even if he had not been aware of the effect in the past, would not have called his attention to the research.

Releasing a story prior to the Masters, then, can easily be seen as part of an attempt to revive Tiger’s heyday. But what’s interesting about this particular story is its difference from the 1997 version: then, Tiger just threw out a raw score; now, it’s being dressed in a peculiarly complicated costume. As retailed by Golf Digest’s Tim Rosaforte, the story goes like this: on the Tuesday before the tournament Tiger had “recently shot a worst-ball 66 at his home course, Medalist Golf Club.” In Golf Digest, Alex Meyers in turn explained that “a worst-ball 66 … is not to be confused with a best-ball 66 or even a normal 66 for that matter,” because what “worst-ball” means is that “Woods played two balls on each hole, but only played the worst shot each time.” Why not just say, as in 1997, Tiger shot some ridiculously low number?

The answer, I think, can be understood by way of the “Red Wedding”: just as George Martin, in order to write the A Song of Ice and Fire books, has revisited and revised many episodes of medieval history, so too is Tiger attempting to revisit his own past—a conclusion that would be glib were it not for the very make-up of this year’s version of the pre-Masters story itself. After all, to play a “worst-ball” is to time-travel: it is, in effect, to revise—or rewrite—the past. Not only that, but—and in this it is very much like both Scottish history and Game of Thrones—it is also to guarantee a “downer ending.” Maybe Tiger, then, is suggesting to his fans that they ought to pay more attention.

Fitzgerald and McIlroy Are NOT Dead—Yet

Guildenstern: Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.
Hamlet III, 2

There’s a legendary looper I know somewhat who works mostly on the LPGA—but also has worked at Riviera and various other places—named Mike Troublefield. I last ran into him some years ago at Lochinvar, outside of Houston, Texas (where Butch Harmon spent some time before becoming guru to the stars). When I first met Troublefield, while I was working an LPGA tournament at Stonebridge outside of Chicago, he introduced me to the concept of the “yaddie”: a caddie who, no matter the circumstance, just says “yeah” to whatever nonsensical shot his player wants to hit. In Troublefield’s estimation, which is now mine, the worth of a caddie is shown by his willingness to say, at least once in a while, “no” to his player. It’s a point I’ve been thinking about this summer because of the recent focus on elite players’ caddies: not merely Steve Williams, but also through the rather lesser-known controversy over Rory McIlroy’s caddie, J.P. Fitzgerald.

During the Irish Open last month, McIlroy lost three shots during the first day of the tournament to shoot 70, which is a respectable score, but it caused an American ex-pro-turned-commentator named Jay Townsend to go into full-blown meltdown mode: Townsend said, via Twitter, not only that McIlroy’s course management was “shocking,” but also blamed it on Rory’s caddie, Fitzgerald, by saying that “I thought JP allowed some SHOCKING [sic] course management today.” Rory fired back, also via Twitter, by replying “shut up … You’re a commentator and a failed golfer, you’re opinion means nothing!” [sic]. All of which is tremendous fun, but also brings up a sensitive subject: namely, how much was J.P. to blame for McIlroy’s meltdown at Augusta in April? Or to put it Troublefield’s way: is J.P. a yaddie?

To be sure, in light of his victory at Congressional in June, the collapse in Georgia seems merely a prelude—rather like Bobby Jones walking off the course at St. Andrews in the summer of 1921—but at the time it seemed ominous, with many speculating that McIlroy might turn out like Sergio Garcia, another young phenom who never (or hasn’t yet) learned how to close out his rivals. Now such fears appear ridiculous, but the real question isn’t whether McIlroy is a world-class player (which now is answered), but the passage of time allows us to ask a different question about McIlroy’s failure: the question of just how much responsibility (or ability) a caddie has to derail a player from boarding a bogey train.

Unfortunately, there isn’t any video available to me (that I know of) of the first round of the Irish Open this year, so it’s unclear to me just what it was that Townshend was referring to in his tweets. But it is possible to view video of Rory’s 10th hole at Augusta—where McIlroy made the triple-bogey that began the string of bad holes that lost him the tournament—on YouTube, which provides the only neutral evidence of the relation between J.P. and Rory and what J.P.’s possible role in the blow-up might have been. So I watched it.

Before getting to what I saw, though, it’s important to note just what sort of limitations a caddie’s job has. Obviously, J.P. doesn’t hit the shots; he merely carries the bag and (occasionally) might provide a bit of counsel. J.P. didn’t hit the huge hook that ended up so far left of the 10th fairway that it was nearly left of the Butler Cabin—Rory did. Just as clearly, neither of them (but particularly J.P.) could not have seen that coming (though it’s been remarked that the hook is Rory’s “miss,” the shot he tends to hit when he loses focus). In other words, J.P. can’t bear responsibility for Rory’s drive.

To this point, Rory had been playing spectacularly well that week, since after all he was winning the tournament. Some might point to the bogies he made at the first hole and the fifth in the final rounds as foreshadows of what was to come, but J.P. could not have thought of them as anything other than bumps in the road: both holes are spectacularly difficult ones now after the several redesigns at Augusta in recent years. Maybe Rory might not have been playing so well as he had in the first round, but then there weren’t a lot of 65s shot this year so Rory was bound to regress to the mean in following rounds (he shot 69 and 70 respectively in rounds 2 and 3). Rory’s lead was four shots beginning the final round so, as J.P. must have known, it wouldn’t take a spectacular round for the Northern Irishman to win. (All it would have taken, in retrospect, is another 69 to beat Charl Schwartzel, the man who ended up winning.)

Despite the bogies on the front nine, McIlroy had made a birdie on the difficult 7th, so not everything must have looked bleak to J.P.. There were plenty of birdie holes coming up, so the caddie must have been thinking that even after the horrible drive, a bogey or even a miracle par weren’t out of the picture, which could still be saved by birdies or even eagles on the two five-pars at 13 and 15. It wasn’t a reason to panic. McIlroy smartly pitched out to the fairway on 10, leaving a not-too-difficult shot to the green for his third shot. It’s on what happened next that any question of J.P.’s role has to rest.

What McIlroy did was hit virtually the same shot that sent him into the trees off the tee—a big hook that sent him into the trees (again) left of the green. The television coverage cut away from McIlroy to show what was happening elsewhere on the golf course, and anyway J.P. wasn’t miked (as some Nationwide tournaments have done with caddies recently) so it’s hard to say what the two discussed on the way to the ball. Even then, J.P. could not have been panicking—although it’s unusual for a professional golfer to miss the same way twice on the same hole, J.P. must have known that a smart chip to the green, followed by a good putt, would still salvage bogey and Rory’s chances. The mistake J.P. made, if he did make one, could only have come prior to the next shot, Rory’s fourth.

That shot was a chip that hit a branch of a tree, thereby coming up short of the green and rolling back down a slope, virtually to Rory’s feet. If there’s anything that J.P. could have said before that moment it would have been, or should have been, something like “take the tree out of play” and “plenty of green behind the pin.” In other words, what J.P. should have emphasized was that Rory’s primary job for that shot was to get the ball on the green rather than try to cozy the ball next to the pin, which is apparently what Rory actually tried to do. By missing that shot, Rory made double-bogey a virtual certainty rather than a possibility, as it had been at every point before then.

That shot was, as it turns out, the climax of Rory’s tournament: he did go on to three-putt the 11th and four-putt the 12th, but it’s arguable that those misses were simply the result of what had already happened. Rory didn’t miss any more shots like he had on 10 (at least, none so badly); he just seems to have been rattled by the triple-bogey into putting poorly. It’s possible to say, especially about the four-putt, that J.P. should have taken his man aside and slowed him down, forcing him to focus on the putts and thereby preventing those horrible miscues, but it also seems clear that the crucial hole was the 10th.

Of all the shots, in turn, that McIlroy played on that hole (7 of them!), it follows that the most significant was his fourth, which was the one that made the triple possible in the first place. In other words, even aside from the fact that the fourth was the shot for par (as unlikely as that was), it was the shot that created the likelihood for what eventually happened: prior to then, McIlroy might still have made par, while afterwards the triple became not only possible, but even likely. For the purposes of determining what responsibility J.P. bears for McIlroy’s loss in April, then, the most important point would seem to be what happened before Rory hit that shot of all the shots he hit that day.

Unfortunately, the video doesn’t show what happened: whether, in short, player and caddie had any kind of discussion about how to play it. And, actually, it’s difficult to even make out just what happened on that shot at all: McIlroy suddenly appears, after a commercial break, behind some sort of bush or small tree, and hits the ball; immediately after, there’s the sinking sound of a ball striking wood: McIlroy struck the tree. The announcers do claim that McIlroy had to try to fly it over that bush, but the video doesn’t provide enough evidence either way: maybe he did, which seems likely given that the announcers were proximate (if they were), and maybe, given that Nantz at least wasn’t directly at the 10th hole, not.

What’s interesting about that aspect of the shot is that the alternative to the high-flying shot CBS’ announcers believed necessary is exactly the sort of shot one might think a golfer who grew up playing in linksland—as we might think Northern Ireland, home of Royal Portrush among other links courses, to be—would relish: a low-flying, then rolling, shot up the bank of the 10th green, thereby avoiding the tree branch. But, as McIlroy said during this year’s Open Championship, he isn’t really that sort of player: he prefers the high-ball American style of flop shot, down-the-chimney golf. And that’s the sort of shot he attempted on the 10th: a high shot that, had it not hit the branch, would have landed near the pin and, with the right spin, would have stayed there. Knowing his player’s preferences, J.P. might have decided that the odds favored the kind of shot Rory likes to hit, rather than one that he didn’t.

That is to say that the call J.P. made, whether he vocalized it or not, is at the end of the day a judgement call. It so happens that J.P. guessed wrong. But what Troublefield would want to know about what happened on the 10th is whether J.P. questioned his player about it or whether he just went along with whatever the boss said. As I’ve mentioned there isn’t anything at least in the public record about what happened in the moments before that fourth pass, but there are two people who do know: J.P. and Rory.

For the moment, and particularly after the U.S. Open, Rory is happy with J.P.’s performance, which seems to indicate that J.P. did say what needed to be said at that time. But what will ultimately let us know about what happened in the valley of Augusta’s 10th on that Sunday in April is what Rory decides to do about J.P. after the season is over, when he has a moment to calmly reflect on a season where he might have started out halfway to a Grand Slam but let it slip away on a grassy Georgian knoll.