The Golfer

The golfer adjusted his bright red hat, looked down the fairway, and adjusted his stance. His pot belly hung out, just a little. He shimmied his elderly legs, looked down the fairway again, and readied himself.

His fellow golfers quieted. They knew better than to talk when the man was teeing off. He had had enough explosions before.

The golfer gave one more look, readjusted, and raised the club behind him. He held there, just for a moment, ready to strike. The world stilled. A bird in the distance hovered in the air. The nearby highway was free of cars. Even the clouds were still.

The golfer brought his club down. He struck the ball with every ounce of force he could, turning his hips just a little as he did. The ball took flight, and immediately hooked to the right. It fell to the grass some seventy yards ahead, far behind the golfer’s fellows, and in the rough.

“I’m taking another,” the golfer said, for the fifth time. The others nodded and mumbled about how he should, there were too many distractions. The golfer teed up.


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