“Hey, what are you doing here?”
“Is it your first one?”
It is spring and a young man’s fancy turns to, oh, never mind.
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I laid out a five and the cashier handed back a bucket of balls and two quarters.
They’ve all gone up by a buck or so. The guy sees the shake of my head, so he adds, “They plan to make improvements. Compare it to what Phelan did to the county courses: it costs $31 to make a reservation on weekends.”
“Watch out.”
But then I remember Tuesday. One more out and I’d have had a scorecard to frame. Missing a stupid sign on the driving range is nothing. Missing a no-hitter with two outs in the ninth inning is something else. There I was leaning over the rail in the center-field bleachers clutching what I hoped would soon be a historical scorecard and Jose Guzman lifts that pitch up in the strike zone and Otis Nixon promptly whacks it into left field. Now that’s regret.
