Hole in None

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Mr. Fingerhaver, cherubic and bovine, sat on a bench in the locker room of the Elmwell Club.

He was depressed. He had just finished a round of golf with his business partner, Bert Upson. They had started golf together, twenty-six years ago, and Mr. Fingerhaver had improved not at all. He now had to take a thirty-stroke handicap to play even.

He remembered Bert’s air of careless superiority as he’d said, “You just haven’t got it, George. No muscular co-ordination. You’ll never get any better at the game.”

He had tried so hard. The careful backswing — and then something always happened. He looked down at his fat arms, realizing that there was a lot of muscle under the fat. Maybe if he could try it with nobody around...

He padded over to the window and looked out. It was dusk. He grabbed his driver, a ball, and a tee and hurried out the side door. He walked to the seventh tee, a three-hundred-and-thirty-yard par four with a ravine to the right of the fairway.

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