The seat rumbles beneath you.
The motor putters along, and the high-pitched whine lets you know that the cart is moving downhill without a foot applied to the gas pedal.
You jolt to a stop, hop out and grab your flatstick.
Above you, the whine of those mid-summer beetles camped out high in the deciduous trees grates at you like nails on a chalkboard as birds and chirping chipmunks try to drown them out with their own cherubic chatter.
A short walk and you stand over your ball, drop a Loonie, a Toonie, a poker chip or a small coin and pick the ball up from the pristinely-cut grass below.
A few swipes across the dimpled surface of the small, white orb erases the smudges of mud caked on its side.
You walk backward, about 10 feet, and crouch like a mantis waiting for its prey.
Perhaps you raise your putter above your head, or maybe you align the head and shaft in front of you, hoping it will magically guide the ball toward the hole if you stare at it long enough.
Satisfied, you arise – sometimes slowly, or sometimes with help – from your crouch and replace your ball at the marked spot.
The bugs get louder.
So do the birds.
And the guy mowing the fairway behind you catches up, and the motor on his mower grinds to a halt.
Finally.
You place your feet shoulder-width apart, your head is still cocked toward the hole, sneaking one last peek at the line you’re sure is right.
First the top hand grips the putter firmly. The bottom hand follows. In unison, the slide the blade back and forth across the shortgrass, attempting to gather the proper tempo for the stroke.
A small step forward, and you sway the head back and connect with the ball. As it rolls, thoughts race through your head.
“Was it enough?”
“Did I get the right line?”
“Oh no! Is that a spike mark?”
“Please catch the lip!”
“I wonder what’s for dinner … I hope it’s pork chops.”
After a short tour of the hole’s rim, the ball rattles at the bottom of the cup – just two-and-a-half feet away.
You reach down, pick up the ball and sigh.
Only 17 more to go.
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