I see him standing in our living room
Golf balls placed intentionally behind his
putter, huddled together at his target
He grabs an iron from his golf bag
flings a dimpled, white globe into the air
catches it steadfast on the side of his club
We begin to count as he bounces the ball
up and down, up and down
waist high and almost to the floor.
Our voices become shrill
two hundred eleven, two hundred twelve
tap tap tap
The ball finally hits the carpet with a soft thud
We groan and we cheer in the same gasp
He beats his own record every time
Soon, I can't just watch him anymore
I get up and try it for myself
and laugh as I clumsily fail to recreate
what he did so effortlessly, with one hand
in one swift motion
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