No. 113

The ball came down onto the eighth-hole fairway with a dull impact. It bounced once then deflected towards us.

“Run!” I told my sister. She took a quick glance at the tee-box then darted out from behind the bush to retrieve the white, dimpled prize.

She made it back before the man who’d hit noticed his drive was missing. “Maybe I put it into the woods,” he’d imagine. By then we’d be on down the path to the pond on eleven.

There is no greater thrill than that of discovery. When you catch a flash of white, or sometimes yellow or pink, amongst the green, it’s a jolt of satisfaction.

My sister and I were here most days during the summer. We supplemented our allowance with used balls sold back to the pro shop. The bounty wasn’t much, so sometimes we had to be creative with our collection methods.

Once, my sister had to fight off an angry goose to get to a ball that had rolled into the nest. Did you know that geese can bite? We found out that day.

I’m sure you’re thinking now that I send my sister on all the dangerous missions. That’s not entirely true. She’s proven to be faster than me, so she draws those assignments. I get to root through the thorn bushes, or deal with anything muddy.

Today we have a good haul—almost a ball per hole, so far. Terry Lancaster and his brother must not have been by this morning, although I’m not sure why they try to compete. They’re not any good.

I think I’m going to get an ice cream with my half of the profits.