Golf Whore
Since that time part of my internal life has been absorbed by this convergence of senses: the smell of freshly cut grass, the bounce of the turf under foot, the hazard wind on my cheek, the weight of a bag of clubs over my shoulder, the sunlight on a white-hot golf ball flung against an intense blue sky and falling to an absinthe-green fairway, where it bounces and rolls to a breathless stop, and the faintest of sounds that is heard when a ball is finally struck along a tightly mowed and sinuously undulating surface of grass toward the inevitable, unsuspecting hole.
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