The uglier a man's legs are, the better he plays golf - it's

In the chronicles of wit and irony, the English seer H. G. Wells, who often cast his gaze into the future of mankind, turned his sharp tongue toward the game of golf and spoke a curious truth wrapped in jest: “The uglier a man’s legs are, the better he plays golf—it’s almost a law.” What seems a trifling quip is in truth a parable of appearances and substance, of humility and hidden strength, of the eternal tension between how a man seems and what a man can do.

For the legs that are called ugly are not the smooth, polished limbs of vanity, but the weathered, scarred, knotted pillars of endurance. They are legs that have walked long courses, that have bent under strain, that have endured the patient hours of practice. Wells, with playful irony, declares that the more rugged, less beautiful the form, the more tested it is in the crucible of the game. Thus the beauty of the golfer is not in appearance but in resilience, not in symmetry but in steadfastness.

The ancients knew this well. Consider the tale of Aesop, whose body was twisted and unattractive by worldly standards, yet whose mind was radiant with fables that outlived kings. His legs may not have been beautiful, but his wisdom carried him farther than the handsomest of men. So too does Wells suggest: the player whose body bears no elegance to the eye may yet be the very one whose game is strong, whose patience is unyielding, whose spirit is devoted. The ugly leg, like Aesop’s form, conceals a hidden excellence.

This truth echoes also in the arenas of war. The veteran soldier does not boast the polished armor of the parade ground. His shield is dented, his body scarred, his gait uneven. Yet he is the one you trust when the enemy advances, for his flaws are the very marks of his experience. In the same way, the golfer with ugly legs is the one who has endured the rough, the sand, the countless days of toil beneath the sun. His legs tell the story of labor, and his swing tells the story of mastery.

Yet there is more: Wells speaks against the tyranny of appearances. The world often worships beauty, imagining that grace of form is equal to strength of spirit. But the true game—whether of golf or of life—is not won by those who look the part, but by those who persevere. To judge by appearances is to be deceived; to trust in resilience is to see truth. Thus, his playful “law” is also a rebuke: do not be blinded by the polish of the surface, for strength often dwells in what seems ungainly.

The lesson, then, is one of humility and discernment. Do not despise your scars, your crookedness, your so-called ugliness. They may be the very proof of your endurance. And when you look upon others, look not at the fairness of their form, but at the strength of their deeds. For the smooth leg may falter when the test comes, but the ugly leg, hardened by use, will carry its bearer to victory.

So let Wells’s words echo across the ages: true greatness is rarely adorned in beauty, but in resilience. Whether in golf, in work, or in the battles of life, honor not the surface but the substance. Cherish the strength that is born of labor, the patience carved by trial, and the scars that whisper of perseverance. For in the end, it is not the elegance of the leg that wins the game—it is the courage and endurance of the man who walks upon it.