yesterday i went into the heart of a golfer,
walking alone in the night
over a golf course we have in the city.
i have never played the game in my life
and have often wondered
what it is the fun in this game,
hitting a ball with a club
till the ball falls into a hole!
and so i walked
over this golf course,
a million sparkling stars twinkled in the skies
and there were trees, etched in black artistry,
silhouetted against the subdued glow of the horizon,
the grass undulating over the course
and the sandy bunkers,
the cushioned squeak of my feet,
over the wet grass,
a vague unidentifiable fragrance in the breeze,
the hooting of an owl...
and i thought:
if i hit the ball from where i stand,
i will have to factor in the distant
hooting of the owl,
the wind and its fragrance,
the inky blotches of oblivion, dancing still,
in the trees,
my stance and backlift and follow-through
as i swing the club in an arc,
the steel of the club,
the temper and bounce of the ball,
the laws of gravity,
the roll of the gentle slope of the neatly mowed grass,
the wetness of dew on each leaf of grass,
and thence the narrow path to the hole...
and i understood why some people are crazy about golf.