IT is a frequent comment: "So-and-so played much below his usual form!" And yet I wonder whether the person who may have penned such an expression of opinion wastes a thought upon the physical strain that the professional in golf has to withstand, year after year, should he wish to remain at or near the head of his class ?

We hear of footballers, cyclists, athletes of all kinds, going "stale" by reason of their exertions. Why should not golfers suffer equally as much from the stress of their duties? It is only those who have devoted time and attention to the subject who are competent to judge of what an effect continual playing has upon a man's form. The crowd is generous, but they do not understand why, occasionally, a golfer is not able to do himself full and complete justice.

Professional golfers have their "off" days just as naturally as any other follower of sport and pastime, and those who are acquainted with the game are ready to admit this. Others, however, may be apt to feel disappointed when their favourite may fail -as he must do at times - to fulfil expectations, and for their benefit I will attempt to explain the true reasons for "in-and-out" play.

A man is not a machine, neither can he go on for ever. Despite the utmost power of his will and concentration of thought upon the matter in hand, the snapping-point must be reached sooner or later, and then it is that the great collapse occurs. Nothing goes right. The fact of the matter is that the golfer is played right out, and nature refuses to be abused any longer.

To show what we are sometimes asked and expected to do, let me just give one instance of a week that fell to my own experience.

I left London by the Sunday-night express for Burntisland, and arriving there in the early hours of the morning, played during Monday, the following day.

On Monday night I left for Carlisle, arriving at midnight, left Carlisle at 8.30 a.m. fur St. Anne's, reaching there somewhere about one o'clock.

I played one round over the course there during the afternoon of the same day, while on Wednesday and Thursday I played two rounds each day in the tournament.

On Friday morning I left St. Anne's again, en route for Hall Road, in Lancashire, arrived there about lunch time, and played a round in the afternoon. Then on Saturday I took part in the tournament promoted by the West Lancashire Golf Club, doing another two rounds, and so terminated the week.

Just in the bare black-and-white statement this may not appear to be such a formidable undertaking, yet a moment's reflection will prove that such a tour is not a thing to be entered upon lightly.

The mere fact of so much travelling is in itself calculated to upset the nerves of even the strongest and most virile player; but the fact is that a professional golfer cannot afford to give way to this weakness, so it becomes a desperate fight between determination on the one side and lassitude, caused by over-strain, on the other.

The nerves are deadened by this continual strain, and the player is apt to fall into a listless method of play, unless he fights against the feeling of weariness that attacks him. For a time he succeeds, but it is indeed fortunate that such tests of endurance do not occur week after week ; a breakdown would be inevitable.

Of the games played outside the Championships, it is quite certain that tournaments are far greater tests of nerve and endurance than purely exhibition matches. In the former you are playing against the field, and you are ignorant of what the other competitors are doing. All you know is that you must play your hardest if you wish to win.

In a match you are well aware of what your solitary opponent has accomplished against you, and although the struggle for supremacy may be a severe one, you know exactly where you are. Still, even in this way a time of more or less staleness must arrive, and I fear the great body of the public are too much inclined to think a man must be at the top of his form every time he plays. This he cannot expect to be, as every professional player has discovered.

To maintain anything approaching his best form, a golfer must of necessity live a clean, wholesome, and sober life. I do not advocate any special method of training, such as is the case upon the cinder path or cycle track. A man must live plainly, but well, and he must be careful of himself. If he uses up the reserve force, or abuses himself in any way, then he has cast his opportunities aside, and he drops immediately out of the game. There are no half-measures. You must do one of two things: Be careful of yourself in everything, or forsake the game altogether. A man who lives a careless or a vicious life can never succeed in golf, or hope to keep his nerves and his stamina.

The busiest time of a golfer's life, I suppose, is that just before and just after the decision of the Championships.

As the dates of the great contests approach, the public begin to wake up and recognise the possibilities of the great struggle. They want to see how the various men are playing, and so the aspirants for Championship honours are pitted one against the other. This continues right up to the battle for pride of position for the year.

Then, after the Championship has been fought for and won, comes another very busy time. The golf public are wishing to see the new hero with all his blushing honours thick upon him, so he travels to all parts of the country. If a Scotsman, then the Scottish clubs demand his services, while the English clubs are not satisfied unless he performs over their courses, and vice versa.

The spring is a busy time for the professional player, but during the autumn months there is an even greater demand for his services. Visitors are seeking recuperation by the seaside, and the clubs, in catering for their members, provide the best fare for them in seeking and securing the services of the best players of the day. August and September are the busiest of all, but after that golf slackens down, and the hard-worked player secures a much-needed rest, while during the months of winter there are really no matches of any degree of importance.

It is a welcome respite from hard work, this winter vacation, and we (for I am speaking of my comrades as well as of myself) are only too pleased to be able to throw off the harness for a while, and let ourselves out of strict training, if I may so describe it. The winter makes very little difference to the ordinary everyday life of a player, but he is not wound up to such a pitch as is implied by having to keep his form for week after week.

This rest during the idle months of the year strengthens him for the arduous struggle of the next season, for the task of getting back into form does not occupy a great deal of time. Some men, differently constituted, no doubt, take longer than others, but in the majority of instances a fortnight is sufficient to furbish up your play.

About ten days is the period I allow myself for a general smartening-up process, but with one and all two or three weeks are amply sufficient for all practical purposes. As for a reaction during the playing season, that is not frequently experienced. The ordinary match or tournament will not brinsr it on. The strain in thirty-six holes is not alarming; but after a very severe match, or participation in the Championship, then it is that Nature may be inclined to assert herself, and you feel the effects of the ordeal.

The presence of a hostile crowd is also calculated to get upon your nerves, and naturally put you off your game, although I feel I must qualify my statement in this way. By a hostile crowd I do not mean the presence of a mob that is jeering or booing, but a crowd whose sympathies are quietly but solely with your opponent. Such a thing as this is not at all calculated to assist you on your way, although it is perfectly easy to understand that a local man will carry the good wishes of his own crowd.

Another thing is that very frequently, through thoughtlessness, a man may be put off his game by a supporter coming up and speaking to him. You cannot talk and play at the same time, and there is nothing more irritating to me than for anyone to come up and commence a conversation while I am engaged in the game.

To be successful a golfer must sink his individuality, and play the game in an automatic, but intelligent manner. You must have the greatest control over your nerves, you must not allow your attention to wander for a moment if you desire to emerge successfully from the ordeal. Harry Vardon is an excellent type of the "dour" player I have in my mind. He shows no emotion, and it is beyond dispute that this temperament has had a great deal to do with his success.

Physical ability to bear all kinds of good or bad fortune is a necessity for the successful golfer, but there are very few, I fear, who recognise fully what this physical strain amounts to during the whole course of a playing season.