D
oug Nelson chipped another yellow Srixon golf ball out of the sand and onto the practice green.
“There you go,” he said to himself as the ball rolled close to the flag. “Where was that shot today?”
Twice today, it had taken him two shots to get out of a bunker or what he grew up calling a sand trap. Both times it resulted in his scoring a double bogey, and as every golfer knows, double bogeys can kill your score. His sixteen-handicap didn’t give him bragging rights back home, but with this group, it put him near the top, and he liked that position.
He climbed up onto the green, retrieved his balls, and returned to the sand for one last round of practice shots. His first shot went sailing out of the trap and over the green.
“Damn.”
A squirrel darted away from the side of the green as an approaching shadow got his attention. Doug turned to look into the setting sun. Despite the glare, he recognized the person.
“You coming out to practice, too?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He knew the answer since he saw the golf club. At least he thought he knew the answer. Doug felt the impact of the first strike as the seven-iron slammed against his right ear. He went down on one knee.
“What the –,” his words were cut off with another blow to the top of the head. He didn’t fall, remaining there on one knee, and despite the desire, he couldn’t move. A third and then a fourth blow came before Doug collapsed onto the sand and died.