To the observer, removed, all one sees is monotony, sprinkled with frustration and lonesome fatigue. But look again, beyond the battered, bandaged fingers and sweat-stained ankles, raw from bunker sand and the spray of divots, and maybe this search, this endlessness, reveals a kind of pleasure or satisfaction or even serenity. Another ball in the air. Broken body posed like a trophy. A quiet exhale. The hint of a half-smile. Then, a microsecond and the reach for the next ball. Another swing, and, hopefully, this time, a revelation.…
