“Cool it and let me focus on this shot. You’re already 2-up and we’re only on the fourth hole.” She addressed the ball, worked through a laundry list of her coach’s instructions, and completed the swing. She made good contact and the ball disappeared in the morning haze. They both were confident it was down the middle although the only ball visible was Leroy’s white Titleist—a manly ball. They bagged their drivers and, 3-wheeled carts leading the way, walked to their shots while yakking about something out of ear-shot.
“I can see my ball out there clear as can be,” Leroy continued as they approached the vicinity of her drive. “Yours should be nearby but I’m afraid we’ll never know,” he added with a chuckle.
She ignored him, furtively glancing right, then left, as if searching for a lost ring in a carpet of freshly fallen autumn leaves.
“Oh, here it is,” she announced, sounding relieved to have had such trouble locating a golf ball in the middle of the fairway. “I suppose switching to pink might actually be wise.”
“Whatever,” dismissed Leroy, secretly reveling in his meaningless victory.
Assignment: Point-of-View (from the perspective of a green golf ball)