In "Follow the Wind" the narrator goes into the woods after a bad shot at Lincoln Park in San Francisco and emerges in the men's room of a club he has never seen before. He wanders around the clubhouse, only to find it peopled with legends of the game, the most famous and greatest players in the history of golf—Bobby Jones, Walter Hagen, Old and Young Tom Morris, Babe Zaharias, Tony Lema. The only living player there is Ben Hogan, who isn't actually a member. Now, after a fitful night's sleep, the narrator has come down to breakfast, still trying to unravel the mystery of his whereabouts.
I hadn't bothered to notice who else was in the dining room when I entered. As I now looked around, I saw a smattering of new faces.
I did not see the Babe or Old Tom. Hagen stood like a sentinel behind the bar, where I had met him the day before. He had realized immediately that I was an outsider and had offered to take me under his wing, an offer I eagerly accepted.
Then I saw Jones sitting nearby, having an animated conversation with a mustachioed gentleman in a kilt. They were arguing about the condition of the greens.
"Doc, they're too blasted fast!" complained Jones. "Why, those things run like jackrabbits. You have to use more water or more fertilizer or something. You've got to slow 'em down, or else it's going to be frightful out there."
"I canna' do that. These are all me courses, 'n' 'tis me who's gonna be dictatin' the playin" conditions. Ye got tha'?" the man in the kilt said stubbornly.
When Jones realized he wouldn't get his way, he headed straight to Haig for consolation. The two of them talked for a moment, until Haig roared and bellowed, caught his breath, then laughed. He slapped Jones on the back and sent him off. Then he looked over at me.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
"That? Oh, that's just the Macker laying down the law."