One misty morning in 1900 on a Cleveland golf course, a stoop-shouldered man of 60, his bald head shining like a knob of burnished marble, smacked drive after drive off a tee. Seven caddies returned the balls, patted down little sand tees, scurried down the course as the man kept poling out drives like an automaton. Suddenly from another part of the fairway came a shrill cry of warning. Without hesitation the man dropped his club, scampered into a clump of nearby bushes. Few minutes later there came another cry. The man returned, resumed his...
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