There’s a word for what gets the blood warmed up after days of clearing out piles and piles of snow.
Duende. It’s my favorite word, by a mile.
The embrace of the word duende has blood ties for me. Oh, for sure it is a Spanish word that translates into “ghost” or “goblin.” Poet Federcio Garcia Lorca suggested it represented “a power and not a behavior.” But forever it will be George Frazier’s word and if you point to a bias because he was my mother’s cousin, well you’d be wrong. No offense.
Take it from no greater an authority than Pulitizer Prize author Studs Terkel. “Duende was George Frazier’s favorite word. It is, of course, the precise word to describe his life and his writings; roughly translated – grace, wit, and class,” said the late Terkel.
A writer of extraordinary talents, Frazier’s storied career included many years at the Boston Globe where he had a strong and loyal following. It was a stronger and more loyal parade when regaled from time to time with Frazier’s duende column.
“Duende is so difficult to define,” Frazier wrote. “Yet when it is there, it is unmistakable, inspiring our awe, quickening our memory.”
To help us grasp duende, here are some quick Frazier passages: “Duende. Such a crisp little word . . . it was what Ted Williams had even when striking out, but Stan Musial lacked when hitting a home run . . . Yes, (Jack) Dempsey had duende – he and Walter Hagen . . . ”
Ah, Hagen. A golfer. It is a connection – thin, yes, but still, it’s there – that affords me the opportunity to mix my favorite word into my favorite sport and present some observations. It’s an exercise used before and shall be used again, for duende is that distinctive, that charming.
Nauseous, these moans and groans every time a plop of rain falls from the sky during February PGA Tour tournaments in California. Spare us the trumpeting of Florida weather, because at the start of its season the PGA Tour needs a shot of duende, which it gets in California. Pebble Beach and Riviera are saturated in duende, rain or shine, but none of the Florida stops have even a drop of it.
By the way, there is plenty of duende at Seminole, down in Florida, except it strangely disappears on the day of the member-pro. Ben Hogan and George Coleman opened floodgates of duende at Seminole back in the 1950s, something Rory McIlroy and his father cannot possibly match, even in winning this year’s member-pro.
Duende is often understated and unpretentious, hence the Florida course that possesses buckets of it is Mountain Lake. Take a bow, Seth Raynor, who is duende through and through. Surprisingly, Donald Ross has none and neither does Pete Dye. C.B Macdonald? Oh, my, yes, and Devereux Emmet overflows with it.
If you are thinking that Donald Ross had to have duende because he built so many great golf courses, you are not grasping the oddity of this Andalusian word. Duende is measured not by greatness but by the “it factor” or, harkening back to Frazier, if you see it you know it because it inspires our awe.
Phil Mickelson, for example. Perhaps at one time, back when he put his collar up and didn’t wear a hat, he had layers of duende but it is long gone and will be forever, most likely. Tiger Woods certainly had it, lost it, but got it all back. Ernie Els is loaded with duende, and so is Fred Couples, who somehow gains more and more of it without even trying. Toss out an iron, put in a hybrid, generate more duende. Crazy, the Couples formula, but it’s true.
Duende is a beautiful thing, a remarkable feeling, a cherished commodity in golf.
Frazier wrote “how a person fairly dripped with it yesterday and yet is utterly devoid of it today,” and so it is that McIlroy and Rahm fit squarely into this category. Padraig Harrington, on the other hand, has layers of it, as he has for years, and Tommy Fleetwood is a duende machine.
Nelly Korda, none. Jeeno Thitikul, for sure, and Minjee Lee, most definitely. Megan Khang has it, so does Allisen Corpuz, and Charley Hull and Lydia Ko overflow with it. But Lexi Thompson has zero and always has. Not like the days when Meg Mallon was duende personified.
A perfectly poured pint of Guinness is the ultimate picture of duende. But those who promptly grab said pint after it has been put in place by the barkeep and toss down a big chug are empty of duende. Sit and savor the pint, nod your appreciation to the barkeep – now that’s duende.
A pastrami sandwich, by the way, is top-to-bottom duende, but only when served on marble rye with spicy brown mustard. Hot dogs with mustard and relish? Duende. Hot dogs with ketchup? No duende.
No generation of pro golfers had more duende combined than that group who took turns winning the Open Championship in the 1970s. Jack Nicklaus (two), Lee Trevino (two), Tom Watson (two), Johnny Miller, Tom Weiskopf, Gary Player, and Seve Ballesteros. Off the charts duende, these lads.
Sadly, Player has managed to lose his duende. It happens.
There is a three-ball of pure ball-strikers – flushers let’s call ‘em – who play rounds of golf in my mind and maintain high levels of duende. Their names are Trevino, Moe Norman, and Himself, a.k.a. Christy O’Connor Sr. Lovely craftsmen.
Most definitely, links golf is duende to the max, which is why journeys to Scotland, Ireland, and Bandon Dunes pull at your soul. But when it comes to golf trips one needs to make, there’s an abundance of duende to touring through Nebraska or Michigan on lazy summer days.
Winter getaways to Florida have sun and warmth, but not duende. The Monterey Peninsula with sandy soil and awe-inspiring views of the ocean, then working your way up to Northern California, on the other hand, is packed with duende.
Duende is never found in best-ball-of-four club tournaments, but it’s present and accounted for in those member-guests when you invite three friends to savor the camaraderie and worry not a bit about the score. Four-balls, by the way, have zero duende. Foursomes are loaded with it.
Good, good? That’s not duende. Grinding over a 3-footer for bogey and refusing to just rake it in? That’s duende.
Yes, Masters pools have duende. Crazy, but all other golf pools, especially those of the dreaded one-and-done variety, are seriously lacking in duende.
Professing a quest to play everything on some Top 100 list is the opposite of duende. Seeing some course on the side of the road, then pulling into the parking lot and getting out your clubs that are always in the trunk? That, my friends, is duende.
Duende lives at great public layouts – George Wright GC in Boston being tops on my list. Duende lives wherever there’s a strong contingent of local golfers who feel a sense of ownership and treat their course with respect and treat the staff as family. Think Southers Marsh in Plymouth, Mass.
Where duende never lives is at those high-end resorts that have sprinklers running six hours a day, carts that go 30 m.p.h. and paths that run parallel to fairways, catch drives that are only slightly wide and bounce balls in any which direction. Shivers.
Though they are cast aside by wide swaths of consumers, written words about golf still come draped in duende, most especially if penned by one Micheal Bamberger.
Podcasts, blogs, or social media posts? They generate clicks, hits, and impressions. But no duende.
