When Dennis, who had lived a long and happy life, took his last breath, he was watching The Golf Channel.
Dennis loved The Golf Channel. Though unable to play anymore, he had teed off all over the world. Whenever he watched a tournament, he revisited the course in his mind, walking through and replaying the round.
Dennis closed his eyes, and his spirit left his body, drifting toward the course he had been watching. Then, while admiring Phil Mickelson’s swing, a part of his soul left the solar system, and travelled to the far side of space. It was there, while yet another part of him stayed behind on Earth--smiling as he ywatched a father teaching his son the basics of a good putt--that he watched the galaxies hit the links.
Hoisting invisible clubs, they drove asteroids with the forces of gravity, aiming them at stars millions of light years away. The asteroids curved around planets, and occasionally fell into one, which was a two stroke penalty. Sometimes they fell into Black holes, and it took a well placed shot with a wedge to dislodge the ball from the bunker that absorbed everything, even light.
Yet every so often one of the galaxies would launch that perfect shot that went right to the pin, and when it fell, a supernova heralded the accomplishment. Then the leader board of constellations recorded the shot, and the gallery of comets cheered wildly.
Dennis travelled through time as well, and now he was at the 1950 U.S. open at The Merion Golf Club, a member of the gallery in the immortal photograph of Ben Hogan in the fourth round at the 18th hole fairway.
He gasped, along with those around him, as Hogan, who had been in an auto accident just a year before, took a one iron out of his bag ("God can't hit a one iron," Lee Travino had once said). Then he was part of the gallery’s roar as Hogan, in perfect form, managed to get just the right loft on the ball, so that it landed on the green.
As that perfect moment stretched to infinity, Dennis teed off at Saint Andrews, Bethpage Black, Augusta, and Pebble Beach and a hundred other places all at once. There was no humidity, and the temperature was in the low 70s. He swung his Callaway, a perfect stroke that sent the ball past the rough, past the water hazard, past the bunker, and right to the green, where it rolled, and disappeared from sight.
Dennis loved The Golf Channel. Though unable to play anymore, he had teed off all over the world. Whenever he watched a tournament, he revisited the course in his mind, walking through and replaying the round.
Dennis closed his eyes, and his spirit left his body, drifting toward the course he had been watching. Then, while admiring Phil Mickelson’s swing, a part of his soul left the solar system, and travelled to the far side of space. It was there, while yet another part of him stayed behind on Earth--smiling as he ywatched a father teaching his son the basics of a good putt--that he watched the galaxies hit the links.
Hoisting invisible clubs, they drove asteroids with the forces of gravity, aiming them at stars millions of light years away. The asteroids curved around planets, and occasionally fell into one, which was a two stroke penalty. Sometimes they fell into Black holes, and it took a well placed shot with a wedge to dislodge the ball from the bunker that absorbed everything, even light.
Yet every so often one of the galaxies would launch that perfect shot that went right to the pin, and when it fell, a supernova heralded the accomplishment. Then the leader board of constellations recorded the shot, and the gallery of comets cheered wildly.
Dennis travelled through time as well, and now he was at the 1950 U.S. open at The Merion Golf Club, a member of the gallery in the immortal photograph of Ben Hogan in the fourth round at the 18th hole fairway.
He gasped, along with those around him, as Hogan, who had been in an auto accident just a year before, took a one iron out of his bag ("God can't hit a one iron," Lee Travino had once said). Then he was part of the gallery’s roar as Hogan, in perfect form, managed to get just the right loft on the ball, so that it landed on the green.
As that perfect moment stretched to infinity, Dennis teed off at Saint Andrews, Bethpage Black, Augusta, and Pebble Beach and a hundred other places all at once. There was no humidity, and the temperature was in the low 70s. He swung his Callaway, a perfect stroke that sent the ball past the rough, past the water hazard, past the bunker, and right to the green, where it rolled, and disappeared from sight.
