It’s a golf day, not unlike any other.
It’s a random fourball I’m in, and everyone’s into it. Good shots, bad shots, smiles and grimaces and the occasional “how good is golf!” Normal, like any other golf day.
Mick (let’s pretend that’s his name, but it’s not. It’s really Michael) is a handy practitioner, though a little crouched. He’s been on the quiet side for the back nine, playing well, enjoying himself, and starting to rack up a fairly decent Stableford score.
On the 15th, he sidles up and says as if it’s just popped into his mind. “Oh, yeah. That’s what I was going to ask you. That magazine you write those stories for – the ones that always sound like they’re made up.”
“Yes,” I said cautiously, thinking…
