The persimmon wood made a sound like a gunshot. The ball rocketed off the face, rising, rising, a white speck against the African sky. It carried 280 yards, splitting the fairway dead center.
Mapona stood in the parking lot, the sun rising over the blue gums, the sound of practice putts clicking like marbles. He heard a voice behind him. Mapona South African Amateur Pon Part 1
Mapona picked up his tee, put it in his pocket, and began to walk. He didn’t look back at Pieter. He didn’t look at the official. He just walked down the fairway, chasing the ghost, one quiet step at a time. The persimmon wood made a sound like a gunshot