From the Bench
MARKETING SHEEP DUNG IN AMERICA
I spent a few days in South Georgia last week blowing gnats and playing golf. The gnat-blowing went better than the golf, which was alright, since I long since gave up on golf.
Golf is not a game for those of sound mind. Or of ANY mind, for that matter. It has been so for more than six-hundred years, when the game was invented quite by accident.
It happened this way.
Angus McDivot, a herdsman of limited wits, was tending his sheep in the cold, bleak environs of northeast Scotland. Wandering about aimlessly among the herd, Angus noticed an unusually round and hardened ball of sheep dung. He mindlessly swung at it with his staff, sending it flying into a ram some twenty yards away.
Angus was surprised. So was the ram. It was the rutting season, and the ram, understanding the nature and reputation of shepherds, interpreted the gesture as an attempt to cut in on his territory. He charged Angus, who took refuge in the heavy brush.
After the ram retreated, Angus, fascinated by his new-found pastime, retrieved the ball and swatted it again, carefully avoiding the ram. This went on for about an hour and a dozen balls of sheep dung.
By now it was dusk, and Angus was exhausted. His wife was bewildered by Angus’ complaining about his hard day, since Angus’ usual activity was to follow the sheep and the dog to the pasture and sit under a tree all day, contemplating absolutely nothing.
But Angus was hooked on sheep-dung swatting, and soon the contagion spread to his fellow shepherds, resulting in a host of weary, complaining shepherds and an equal number of suspicious housewives.
The mystery was not long in being solved, for Scottish housewives were a cut above their shepherd husbands in intelligence. When they found out why the complaining husbands were coming home smelling of sheep dung and sweat, the complaints began to fall on deaf ears, and the name of the game was born.
The day after the secret was out, Angus came home complaining and smelling as usual. His wife interrupted abruptly.
"GAWF", she exclaimed.
A bit of undiscovered linguistic history is in order at this point. Unknown to many scholars, "gawf" is an old Scottish word for "sheep dung." Mrs. McDivot’s response was not unlike that of a modern-day mother and housewife after a trying day of cleaning, cooking, shopping and battling children. The husband and "breadwinner" comes home complaining of his "hard day at the office."
"GAWF", she says in the current vernacular, "sheep" being replaced by "horse" or "bull."
Back to the pasture. Angus and the boys were having so much fun that the Lords of the manors soon preempted the activity. They updated the equipment, cut the grass, dug holes, and for some unknown reason decided on eighteen as being about the right number of holes. (The number makes about as much sense as the rest of the game.)
They added a mythical "nineteenth hole" as a symbolic name for the lodge where they gathered to get drunk, tell lies about their game, and avoid going home.
Angus continued to claim credit for inventing "gawf", a claim ridiculed by the elitist clansmen, who had by this time modified the name of the game since they, too, were familiar with the other term.
"Angus McDivot knows about as much about golf as a hole in the ground," they scoffed. Thus another golf term was born, for the Lords began calling the holes they dug when they missed the ball "McDivots". This term of derision in abbreviated form soon became a part of the game.
Alas, it is the only remaining legacy of the long-forgotten Scottsman.
Jumping ahead about six-hundred years and sixty billion dollars, sheep-dung swatting has become big business, especially here in the colonies. Television and marketing have made heroes of grown men who can swat a modern dung ball three hundred yards, then hit it thirty feet into a tiny hole about three inches across.
Such skill has transformed these men into geniuses. Not only have they mastered the dung ball. They can also advise you as to what car to buy, what foods to eat, and even how to invest your money.
Ah, the majesty and wonder of America. Angus McDivot wouldn’t believe it. Mrs. McDivot’s opinion wouldn’t change.
A major victim of the game is truth. Otherwise honest, God-fearing men succumb, my own son being a prime example. He and I went to south Georgia together for the semi-annual church golf "retreat." (What makes a church golf retreat frustrating is the imposed constraint against drinking and cussing, two of the main vices that the game of golf evokes.)
About the middle of our first day, my group heard a loud commotion several hundred yards away. From the sound, we wondered if one of the noisemakers had been bitten by a gator, or, more exciting, they had discovered two gators mating.
Neither was the case. At the end of the round, we learned that my son had sunk a long putt to win a decisive hole.
Sam, an elderly gentleman in his group, said, "Yo boy sunk a ten-foot putt, and we won the match." By the end of the day, "Yo boy’s" putt had grown to fifteen feet and a two-foot break, a natural phenomenon of golf stories with repeated telling.
That night, after the banquet, we were in the room watching the Braves.
"Dad, did you hear about that twenty foot putt I made today?," he asked.
"Sam said it was ten," I responded, still looking at the TV.
"Sam is old as dirt and half blind. He doesn’t know ten feet from ten yards. It was at least twenty feet, with a five-foot break."
I turned and looked at him. "Sam said it broke about a foot."
The raised eyebrow and the smirk telegraphed my skepticism.
"You don’t believe me, do you, Dad.?"
"GAWF," I answered, and turned back to the Braves game.