THE GOLDEN RATIO OF GOLF

There is a golden ratio to be found everywhere you look and it seems this ratio has been littered across the field of life from time immemorial.  Epic epochs of the golden number have spiralled by and, if you’re a smart looker, you will have found those very patterns under your noses in the flowers you smell, in the faces you see, in nature’s formations.  Spirals, rectangles, circles all punting their pi and Phi in relentless, irrational fractions that would cause the average Joe Bloggs, Fred Nurk, Juan Pérez or Bill Clinton to have a meltdown.  Your average international meltdown would probably do so in Fibonacci numbered sequences – apart from Clinton who uses cigars.

And with that opening paragraph, I will have separated the sheep from the mathematicians, the woolly jumpers from the physicists.  The latter will be right up there with their chatter, knowing exactly how to interpret my opening salvo.  The former will be a-galloping off in various directions much in the manner of batty, bleating sheep without an iota of an idea what I am scribbling about.  But, Woolly Wobblers all, stop a minute: it’s not as difficult as it might seem - think Da Vinci, think Vitruvian Man  - the man that doesn’t know whether he’s the square on the hypotenuse or a hamster on a wheel and you’re there.

That’s it explained in a nutshell - the golden ratio or, as every Mario Rossi from Italia knows it “Le Proporzioni del corpo umano secondo Vitruvio.  I do love a bit of Da Vinch from time to time – keeps things in proportion.

But why, in heaven’s name, would I want to lead you up the neophytes’ path when this should be all about the game we love – golf?

It all began with a brilliant book I am reading on the life and times of the greatest ever golfer, Bobby Jones.  “The Grand Slam” is not new, having been published in 2004, but it is new to me and I have finally found the time to read what was a very thoughtful Christmas present.  I’m lovin’ it. 

Mark Frost: I know you don’t need my little opinion to tell you what a great writer you are - but I will anyway.  I love your book on RTJ2 – for the lost sheep, that’ll be Robert Tyre Jones (Junior).  This is the only time I have seen the word “tyre” spelt correctly by an American but, that little Anglican jibe aside, you make him come alive.  He walks out of those pages as the poorly little boy, the growing youth, the man taking on the role of adulthood and making his way in life.  We see him through his lows and highs; we are drawn into them and the rawness of his emotions; we are spellbound at his endurance and solidity in the face of triumph and adversity.  It is not only the story of how a beautiful swing, coupled with an innate nature to read the terrain and play the ball as it lies, that led him to become the first person to win a Grand Slam but we see the march of his quiet determination, his quintessentially un-American trait of self-effacement, his passion to play no matter what the physical and mental cost and we cannot but fall in love and embrace the man in every moment of his life and career.  You handle it beautifully, you narrate with strength and gentleness, and you blend in the supporting characters to make it enthralling and a wonderful page-turner that follows the footprints of his journey.  It has a storyteller’s charm and exhibits an abiding admiration for its subject.  I learnt a lot.

Page-turner though it was, Mark Frost stopped me dead on a page a fair way through the book that mentioned the magic number.  1.62 - hold on to that little detail, all you neophytes. It defines the perfect face, the body beautiful, the whorl of bloom in a sunflower head, the shape of hurricanes, elephant tusks and even galaxies.  The universe itself might even dance to that golden ratio.

But why might Frost mention this number?  It seems it is all down to the size and weight of the ball.  On weight, the governing bodies on either side of the Atlantic agreed the weight of a standard golf ball – 1.62 ounces.  All would have been in golden-ratio-nirvana in the world of golf if only the Royal and Ancient and the United Stated Golf Association could have agreed the diameter.  They could not.

This side of the big water that separates The British Isles from America is where golf was invented – Scotland to be precise, in case any Picts, Highlanders, Gaelic Scots or Celts feel sidelined by the mere mention of the “B” word.  You’d think, then, that the Royal and Ancient governing body would have the last word on what size your balls should be.  Not so.  To golfers playing under R&A rules, it was simply the “small ball” but, in The States, it was known as the “British ball” or the “British Open ball” and deemed illegal under the rules of the USGA.  The small balls of Britain had the perfect diameter of 1.62 and worked more efficiently with its greater go-low capacity to carry in windy conditions.  American golfers were bigger balled with a diameter of 1.68 and won the day with their slogan of “bigger is better”.  In the early 1930s, the USGA ruled against our smaller balls and struck a blow for their greater girth.  The R&A eventually succumbed to this ruling and the death knell was sounded for the 1.62 diameter.

Next time you and your ball are out on the course and your shot goes awry, you might do well to remember that you could have been playing in the perfect ratio of 1:1.62, weight and diameter.  But have no worries – it is not your golf that’s adrift.  You are no longer playing in the golden ratio and we have a scapegoat to blame.  Hurrah for America.