On Disk Monthly 83/odm83.zip/TA3GFX.TA3/TEST007.TXT

Text File | 1993-07-20 | 2KB | 37 lines

Tom cursed softly to himself as he watched his golf ball sail
over the trees into the treacherous no-man's land known as
"bogey alley." The obsequious condolences offered by his
playing partners only added to his frustration and anger at
himself. Who did he think he was, trying to cut the corner on
that dogleg... Jack Nicklaus? Pointedly Tom left his tee
imbedded in the ground as he returned to his bag to dig out
yet another three-dollar golf ball. As the remaining members
of his group hacked their way through their tee shots, he
tried vainly to keep his frustration from seeping into his
muscles. Finally the tee was clear again and Tom carefully
lined up to hit the ball straight down the middle of the
fairway, surrendering to the hole, but ensuring that his ball
would, at least, be in bounds. Drawing the club back slowly,
Tom carefully cocked his wrists, rotated his body, and
accelerated smoothly through his swing. At the instant before
impact, some perverse corner of his brain informed him that
his timing was off, and that the clubface was closed, leaving
him to watch in horror as his ball shot off to the left and
low, then began a screaming hook that carried his ball into
the rough at the left edge of the fairway. At least, he
consoled himself, it's in bounds. Again the mumbled
condolences, meant to mollify him and show sympathy and
support, served to increase his anger and frustration.
Savagely Tom yanked at his golf bag and strode off into the
jungle without a word. His partners exchanged knowing looks
and quietly scattered towards their own personal catastrophes.




~