The all too familiar Scottish links is behaving itself today. The south-western wind is rolling across the fourth hole at a friendly two miles per hour, barely rustling the trees that frame my final shot to the green, the grains of sand in the bunker beside my feet shifting only fractionally. I don’t even pause as I line up my swing, chipping the ball up and over the rough with a soft tock and rolling inches away from the hole.

  “Come on man,” Bud says from behind me, interrupting the mood “we all want a go.”

  “One second, Bud, just let me sink this,” I say, irritated. My atmosphere absorption would have to recommence later. There were a couple of guys behind me, their orange jumpsuits spoiling the illusion just a little. I approach the hole and eye the lay of the land carefully. I’ve putted this a hundred times before. I know it’s eager tilt as if I’d forged it myself. I compensate, pause only briefly to revel in the hush that is suddenly and strangely on everybody’s lips, and – with a smile – sink it effortlessly.

  “Nice one, bro,” says Bud. There’s a murmur of agreement from my fellow inmates. I earn our team a birdie that I know, with a bit of luck, I can make an eagle next time round. I nod at their approbation and, reluctantly, relinquish the arcade cabinet. Bud steps up to the controls and I head to the back of the line, already impatient for the eight hole to roll around and let me pretend once again that I’m anywhere but here.


~ by Joseph Blame on October 24, 2010.

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