Wednesday, May the 21st, 2014
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In correspondence with one of my correspondents the other day, the subject of golf was raised. (There was a Herman Melville connection, with which I will not tax you.) This led me to recall a childhood memory, and I fired off an email as follows:
The only time in my life I ever played a round of golf was when I was eight years old. I was with a friend and his Scottish grandfather. My abiding memory of the adventure is that the grandfather whacked me on the elbow—hard—with his golf club. He insisted it was an accident. Hmm.
To which my correspondent replied:
Thanks for that piece of information—I am wondering whether the disclosure of the grandfather's nationality is a mere embellishment, or actually a key detail of the tale.
Without giving the matter much, or indeed any, thought, I replied immediately to say that I thought the detail highly significant. I have never played golf again.