Nice shot

With a sharp, clear sound, the ball flew like an arrow into the bright blue sky. J's mouth was slightly open, her sharp hawk-like eyes following the ball. It landed gently on the green, close to the flag.

"Nice shot~"

A chunk of grass and dirt flew off to the side, and the ball barely moved. L carefully placed the turf back into the divot and pressed it down with her foot. Then she hit the ball again, but it still landed weakly, like a balloon with no air.

I rested my chin on the golf cart handle and watched my two friends play. Golf is supposed to come with tension — focusing your mind, making that perfect swing, sending the small ball flying into a tiny hole beneath the flag. But me? I don’t really feel like putting my energy into getting the ball into that little hole.

I’ve been to a golf course only three times, always dragged there by my friends. The first time, I had never even held a golf club before. I felt awkward stepping onto the perfectly trimmed grass, so I just sat on a hill and waited for the game to end.

The second time, I was at the driving range trying to swing when the guy next to me must’ve gotten frustrated.
“That’s not how you do it~”
he said, suddenly stepping close behind me.
“This is how you swing.”
His sweaty scent hit me — ugh, it was such an unpleasant feeling. Whether my ball flew or sank into the ground, what gave him the right to interfere?

Maybe if hitting the ball and getting it into the hole meant making money, I’d be more motivated. But honestly, golf just isn’t for me. People say you can get addicted once you get a taste for it — maybe I’m just ignorant of that thrill.

Our daily lives already feel like a game of golf — constantly trying to hit a small target, under pressure, competing, staying tense. We go to the golf course to escape that pressure, not to carry it with us. So struggling there too? It doesn’t appeal to me.

J, full of confidence, swung her club again. The white ball soared into the blue sky and landed near the flag.
“Nice shot,”
I found myself saying — but in my own way:
“Aigoo.”
A little burst of joy escaped me. Maybe this is why people enjoy golf. J, shouting something I didn’t quite understand — “Par four!” — raced off in the cart to the next hole, not even looking back.

The green grass began to fade under the setting sun.
“It feels like it’s time to head home,”
I thought,
“but when will J and L be ready to leave?”