I grew up next to a golf course and my family would search for golf balls in the woods; yellow ones, orange ones, white ones, and occasional blue ones. “This is just like an Easter egg hunt,” my mother said. She didn’t notice the golfer on the other side of the fence looking for his ball. He muttered something that probably shouldn’t be written down. We sold them to the old pro shop where I ended up working 10 years later. Then we’d take our money and go to McDonald’s. Train tracks ran parallel to the highway and my mother knew I loved trains. She’d wait for it to pass and then we’d race it into town.

When I got older, my best friend invited me to play golf on a muddy course near an airport. The wind was blowing and there were puddles everywhere. My baseball swing got the ball onto the green in 3 strokes and I was hooked. After my round, I couldn’t wait to go home and practice in the front lawn. I had plenty of balls to hit and I ripped one across the river into an abandoned field. Then I faced the opposite direction and ripped one into the neighborhood. The next day I hung out with my friend two houses down. His dad was puzzled. “A golfer drove a ball into my driveway yesterday; nearly cracked the windshield. This place has been trouble ever since we bought it.” I swallowed a lot of air and acted innocent. A month later, my middle school created a petition for a golf team. I signed it and I’ve been playing ever since.


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