Roslyn Landmark Society/James Colgan
Roslyn, New York — There’s a golf course a few miles from my house.his name is Christopher Morley.
Chris lives in a wealthy part of town. Long Island’s “North Shore” is the same old money enclave that inspired it. waist egg F Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby”. Celebrities, powerful people and heads of state live in luxury within miles of the rusty front gate. The nearest landmark is the ultra-luxury ‘Shopping Village’, which lives up to its name Americana, The kind of place where retail therapy success can be measured by the sound of a premium credit card against Italian marble.
But Chris is nothing like his neighbor. He is pleasantly, perhaps belligerently unassuming. A tattered chain link fence separates him from the outside world. The cement pathway leading to his front door is cracked and caulked. His interior remains uniquely his ’70s, neither intentionally nor ironic. His bathroom has barely been cleaned since.
For years, his possessions are caked with green goose pellets that stick to the soles of his shoes and leave a grassy scent. Yet the tremendous efforts of native bird populations have done little to fertilize the soil. . Greens are so oversaturated and overgrown that the putting surface rolls like a shaggy carpet to avoid the same fate.
For years I called Chris a dog truckBut he my dog truck. Where I played my first round, where I first scribbled a number on a scorecard, where I first learned that I loved (and hated) golf. Like a proud little brother, I love Chris.
My father took me to Chris for the first time when I was seven years old. His first starter had just been gifted his set of clubs for his birthday. We arrived early on a hot summer morning and set off nine holes at 1,603 yards.
We played three holes before I had a tantrum. Dad was able to arc the ball through the trees to the putting surface, but I could barely get my ball off the tee. When I made contact, I played a slice that moved left rather than straight. Dad realized we were falling behind the (already ice age) pace and poured gasoline on the problem by scolding my behavior. I cried only when my father threatened to drag us home early.
I was grumpy all the way to the 8th hole, when the forces of physics and karma broke through and something miraculous happened. That was my first great shot.
On the 97-yard hole, the 5-iron had to force my little body to hit an almighty shot. I followed my dad’s advice and kept my head down and swung as hard as I could.
To be honest, I have never seen a ball. All I heard was my dad’s reaction when it was launched in the air.
The ball stopped near the green and I ran in front of him to find it glowing in the short grass just a few feet from the flagpole.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was hooked.
As I got older, I visited Chris less and less. I grew up. My tolerance for his beloved traits has thinned.
Chris didn’t really care. This, I learn, is his legacy among so many Long Island golfers. And as long as he teaches those people properly, they will soon be off to a better course.His success was measured by how many golfers returned, not how many returned did not do it.
Still some came back. Some people like me.
It was just after Christmas and the weather was unseasonably warm, perfect for stealing the rare few hours spent carefree on Long Island’s public courses. I put on a light jacket and went through the gate to have a look around. The course, down to the solo cup molding tee markers, was exactly how I left it over ten years ago.
“This is unbelievable,” I muttered to no one in particular.
My partner, my girlfriend Jamie, and her father were running late, so I sneakily took a walk around the grounds. Ironically, we weren’t even 100 yards from the parking lot to begin with, but we just drove past the actual parking lot. dog park.
It was a small wooden hut hidden behind a tree, with a nameplate in front. At the top of the plaque were his two words in bold:knot hole. I approached the plaque and read it.
“Built in 1934 as a retreat for popular author Christopher Morley (1890-1957) to work undisturbed by his growing family.” read the plaque. “The Knothole, next to Morley’s home on Roslyn Estates, was moved to the park in 1966 and restored by his admirers as a memorial to the celebrated author.
I walked to the entrance and peered through the window. It had a desk and a fireplace. There was a bookshelf full of novels. Above the front door was a phrase written in Latin. It didn’t take me long to realize I was staring into the perfect writer’s corner. It was previously owned by Christopher Morley himself.
I step back and laugh out loud, sarcasm washing over me. I knew Chris, but it wasn’t Christopher Morley after all. After all, he had his own life. The kind of life I dreamed of.
I returned to the first tee just as my playing partner had arrived. Jamie was full of nervous energy. After hearing the weather forecast for her vacation, she invited her to play golf for the first time. Immediately, her dad and I chose Chris as her destination.
“I’m not making any commitments,” she said, just before putting the tee on the ground. “I just want to have fun.”
Within minutes, she cleared that bar with ease, sticking her approach to 8 feet on the first hole and narrowly missing a stunning sand save on the third.
We continued like this for another 90 minutes, laughing and bunting around Chris until leaving one green when Jamie’s dad reached out.
“Well, it was fun,” he said.
i was confused.
“What was it?”
“Round,” he said again. “finished.”
“seriously?”
This seems to be one universal experience of Christopher Morley. A wise man has no expectations. Just golf and fun.
Chris seemed to know that too. When he got back to his car, he suddenly thought, knot hole — about the great American author, passionate outdoorsman, and public works advocate I never knew existed.
Before leaving, I searched the Latin quote carved above his front door. These are the words of the philosopher Erasmus.
“How busy you are in your library, your paradise.”
Christopher Morley may be disappointed to learn of his golf heritage. Or maybe that was exactly the point.
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