On a Hot Summer Day
When we arrived at the seventh hole and the temperature was in the high eighties and the humidity kept climbing my golf club grew heavier. Instead of a jaunty walk I plodded along. The golf ball's dimensions changed. My hat felt like an encumbrance-- a wet band around my head.
When I hit the ball instead of following a flight pattern, I watched it dribble onto the fairway. Ungainly.
The sun was in relentless pursuit. My balls never landed in the shade-- instead they sought bright sunlit patches of green. Drawn to my ball I became a reluctant follower.
By the ninth hole my water was tepid and my heel chafed against my golf shoe. My glove adhered to my left hand as if permanently affixed.
Such are the toils and travails of a high handicapper in golf.
When I hit the ball instead of following a flight pattern, I watched it dribble onto the fairway. Ungainly.
The sun was in relentless pursuit. My balls never landed in the shade-- instead they sought bright sunlit patches of green. Drawn to my ball I became a reluctant follower.
By the ninth hole my water was tepid and my heel chafed against my golf shoe. My glove adhered to my left hand as if permanently affixed.
Such are the toils and travails of a high handicapper in golf.
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