Photo by: Kevin Hutchinson
Of course, a hangover from the night before was not helping him concentrate, and he wished he could remember exactly what had led him to waking in his now-missing caddy’s hotel room. Hopefully the festivities that had given him this headache, and which had probably caused Bob’s no-show, had been worth his current predicament.
If his memory ever cleared, he may even find out where his nine iron had gone. Once he’d neared the trees, a gleam of white appeared in the undergrowth and he headed it for it, the hum in his skull eclipsing that of the Goodyear blimp above.
Wondering how Rule 13 would effect this next shot, he picked up his missing club from the grass, lined himself up, and swung. Crossing his fingers, he hoped that the cameras were not as confused as he’d been about which arc to follow: that of his ball, or Bob’s divot-severed finger. At least, he thought, I played it where it lay.
