My Precious…Titleist

myPrecious

The golf ball, next to the ping-pong ball, is one of the smallest spheres used in sports, yet wields the greatest power over its user. It can make grown men that tower over the inert dimpled-sphere, whimper like puppy dogs, throw tantrums like 2 year olds, and make priests cuss like sailors. All this goes unknown to the ball. It’s not among the living. Lively but heartless. It’s likened to the “My Precious” ring in Lord of the Rings. The ring, slid onto the finger of Frodo Baggins, made him disappear. The ball, and clubs secretly placed in the car trunk, make men vanish from work. They disappear without a trace except a note saying they are entertaining a client. The ball has the power that only president’s, drag racer’s, and prison guard’s wield. It is “my precious.”

The man takes the ball from its pouch, or new sleeve, and places it gingerly and strategically on top of a small, movable wooden podium. He than starts to murmur under his breath at the ball. He tells it to fly straight, and not veer to the left, or right. The ball hears nothing. He sometimes kisses the ball before placing it on the tee. This sign of affection is likened to kissing the hand of the queen to whom he is subjugated to. He is yoked to the ball, or at least until the ball is forever lost in the rough, but the grieving process is over quick, as the golf bag produces a replacement ball that’s identical. My Precious 2.

Power corrupts, golf-ball-power corrupts absolutely. The more smitten with the sport, the more drastic measures the golfer will take to ensure being able to keep his precious tee times. For thousands of dollars, he will buy a membership to an exclusive club to hit the ball whenever he wants. Hundreds of acres are designed, sculpted and planted with exotic grasses, centered around whacking the “Precious”. Large Houses are built around the ball sanctuary to pay homage to it. they are exclusive communities for the wealthy, or the in-debt-up-to-my-Titliest-hat as well. Some live on the golf course because they are covenant controlled, and the carcasses of dead appliances and deer are not allowed on the front yard next to the fairway.

Purple and yellow striped paint is forbidden on homes, as it may distract ones swing and cause the umpire to yell “Strike One!” The unforgivable sin in golf, totally missing the ball and falling over backwards like Charlie Brown attempting to kick the football while Lucy jerks it away at the last second. A penalty will be swiftly administered and the name of the person will be put in the local newspaper sports section, right after the hole-in-one reports.

Hole-in-one:
Frodo Baggins
#12, Shirewood Country Club, Middle-Earth
Witnessed by Gandalf,
Samwise, and Bilbo Baggins.
Reward: Banned from the Shire, and forever chased by Dark Lord Sauron.

Strike One:
Frodo Baggins
#13, Shirewood Country Club, Middle-Earth
Witnessed by Gandalf,
Samwise, and Bilbo Baggins.
Penalty: Banned from the Shire, and forever chased by Dark Lord Sauron.

The ball is struck violently with a metal stick, than the man walks after it, and strikes it again, and walks after it again, and strikes it again, and walks after it again. He than strikes it again, and walks after it again. If he is good at “my precious” he will than strike it one last time and the ball will fall into a tin cup, the goal of the Dodo bird ritual.

Sometimes the ball will take multiple attempts to roll in the hole. The more attempts made, the more facial colors change. What starts as normal flesh tones, quickly becomes deep-red and the encouraging murmurs that were directed at the ball on the tee box, are replaced with loud expletives as if they will coerce the ball, by shear will and volume, into the hole. The ball wields its power over the addict as Jack Daniels does his. After crisscrossing the green, the man will take the metal putter stick and hurl it into the water hazard, or break it over his leg and hobble off the course. The ball is oblivious to the tantrum.

Yet the man will return. The precious is calling him, “You pay $300 a month to whack a dimpled ball into a tin cup. And you had 100″ of snow last year, buy a new putter and get puttin’ Smeagol.”

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About miningtheword

I'm an artist, hack-writer, musician, bicyclist, runner, father, and husband, living the life in Montana. Always enjoying the Big Sky and hopefully making someone smile, think, laugh, ponder, curse and enjoy the days we've been given on earth. Why? Because nobody gets out alive.
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