Gerald considered himself a golfer of remarkable talent. He was not.
On a Tuesday morning, he stood at the seventh hole, three strokes above par and deeply in denial. His caddy, a teenager named Marcus, had already texted three friends about the disaster unfolding before him.
"Just keep your elbow straight," Marcus offered helpfully.
Gerald swung. The ball launched at a promising angle, then seemed to reconsider its entire life trajectory and swerve violently to the left, sailing over the fence and directly through the open window of a passing hot dog cart.
The vendor's scream echoed across the course.
Gerald stared. Marcus stared. A nearby squirrel stared.
"That's..." Marcus began.
"Fine," Gerald said sharply, cutting him off with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no basis for confidence. "Completely intentional. Advanced technique."
Marcus slowly lowered his sunglasses.
The hot dog vendor stormed onto the green, delivering what could only be described as the most profane monologue either of them had ever witnessed. He invoked things Gerald was fairly certain had never been invoked on a golf course before. Possibly ever. In any language.
Gerald tipped his visor politely. "I'll pay for the hot dogs."
"You'll pay for my THERAPY!" the vendor shouted.
Marcus gave Gerald a slow, solemn nod. "Want me to call the cart?"
"Yes," Gerald said quietly. "Yes, I think that's best."
He never did break par. But he did receive a surprisingly heartfelt holiday card from the vendor that December, which Gerald chose to interpret as forgiveness.