We searched on hands and knees, thistles stabbing our palms. Chip found it nestled in a fox’s footprint. He played our second shot. The brassie clanked off a buried rock. The ball screamed sideways into the gorse.
The fairways became silver rivers of moonlight. The bunkers were craters of absolute shadow. And the rough… the rough breathed. hurleypurley foursome ts07-54 Min