You hit a crisp shot, sending a towering blow tracking on a great line. You are frozen, in a motionless follow-through pose watching your ball descend towards the green. “Please, please be enough,” you mutter. Then, catastrophe!
Stunned and still in full pose, your jaws slackens, your eyes widen and you are speechless. Too stupefied to resort to profanity much less close your gaping mouth. By just inches, your swing went from the thrill of victory to the agony of defeat.
Like a statue, you continue posing, dumb-struck, as the ripples from the watery entry of your ball slowly cascade outward. The concentric little waves gently arcing towards you, still slack-jawed and stupefied.
Is this the work of some version of the Golf Gnome?
Then thoughts enter your mind.
“Was the wind stronger than I thought?”
“Should I have hit the 8 iron?”
“I made good contact.”
Why? Why did it come up short? Why do I keep hearing Jim McKay’s voice in my head?”
Suddenly from the rear someone yells, “Suck it up and get a move on, Bud. It’s backing up behind us.”