"Move it!" he was yelling. "This isn't a driving range!"
We moved along, taking turns advancing the one ball we had left. The 9th hole yielded ground begrudgingly, like the Japanese soldiers dug into those machine-gun nests in The Thin Red Line.
It grew late. It was starting to look like we might have to pitch camp and attack the green at dawn.
"Dad," Willie said in the gathering darkness.
"I hate golf."
"So do I, son. I think we all do."
"It reeeally sucks."
"Yes, son. It really does." Suck. ?