A short story:
With a displeasing “ting,” off it went in a direction all its own. That dimpled petite ball soared — or, more accurately stated — veered to the right with a rebellious slice as it sailed toward a conglomerate of chuckling deciduous trees. Accompanied by an orchestral wail of ball meets wood and leaf, my ball was swallowed hole before my very eyes.
My campanions carried forth in their journey, but I was locked in a relentless struggle of hide and seek. No matter where I peered, no welcoming return of ball befell me. I happened across several other lost and discarded souls; A Maxfli, a tattered Top-Flite, even a curious little range ball, but no sign of my freshly struck Pro V1. That ball now reclaimed by nature’s twisting roots and fallen foliage was mine no more. A sacrificial offering to the peculiar God’s of golf.
I’ll have to take a drop.
“Hey, friend… you may as well put me down for an eight.”








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