Ace
One fine day, the day before Thanksgiving to be exact, I took a stroll through the local municipal golf course. Sunlight shone through a spotless azure sky, birds sang mellifluous tunes to coat the ether with dewy musical airs. Grass underfoot retained its verdant strains, while only a few brown blades spotted the undulating plains like a gracefully graying gentleman. Fall's scent of decaying leaves and earth wafted across the grounds as I pondered what possibilities lay waiting to be discovered. The first hole left a uneventful par on the score card, while the second hole was witness to a twenty-five foot, down-hill, right-to-left breaker for a spectacular par. A near hole-in-one on the third left the building crowd gasping and wondering what might have been if Riley had only judged the wind correctly. A horrible travesty of justice marred the fourth hole led by a ignominious three-putt. Then magic happened. The Golf Gods smiled on brave Riley. The years of dedication, hard work,
