feel the tingle—our last hole and a chance
for birdie, needing only one in five to drop
it in. If we can’t do this, I propose, no one
should graduate. The first of us lines up
and sends a smooth shot that just misses.
We gasp. The next one is close, too, and
tension mounts: Only three more chances
(not counting Gamer).
Then comes Sandy, the kind woman
who denied hall passes to a generation
or more of high school kids, the wife who
gave the gift of golf to her husband on a
most treasured anniversary, who lines up
her shot, pendulum engaged, rocks her
shoulders back and then forth, and finally
sends our ball at the hole, just a little high
to compensate for the slope …
And it drops. We’ve done it! Five
against the course, in this game that’s been
bringing people together for 400 years. A
birdie for one, a birdie for all. We shake
hands. And we go on to graduate.
Golf School or Golf Lessons?
