The Sorrowful History of a Golf Ball

I expect after you read my sorrowful story, you will be feeling pain for me in your gentle hearts. My name is Titlist, or at least that’s what’s written on my side, Titlist ProV1 X to be exact. I am a golf ball. Hah, you say, just a golf ball, why should I feel sympathy for a golf ball? Well, I’m going to tell you why. I used to be the envy of all others of my kind. I was a figure of perfection; something rich golfers would pay a whole $4 for. I was bought at a small shop called Golf Paradise with eleven others by a cruel and unsympathetic golfer. When he picked up the box we were all so carefully packaged in, we bounced about uncomfortably and there would have probably been a lot of shouting if we had any mouths. He then proceeded to plop us down on the desk where a clerk began to brandish about some sort of beeping device. When he grew tired of the noise, he dropped us in a plastic bag. More bouncing. Then the man tossed us and we landed with a thud on the ground, then the ground began to move.

After about an hour of this awkward sensation of moving ground, the bag we were in was lifted and swung about again. Then we were taken out of the bag and our box was opened. A man with a toad like face and a bushy white mustache was looking at us. He took several of us out of the box and poked us with a marker. After this, he put us back in the box and carried us away. We were placed back on the moving ground.

Soon enough we heard the sound of golf clubs jingling around. The voices of men and women alike could be heard around us along with the sound of innocent golf balls being hit into the great expanse of grass that was a golf course. The man took us out of our box and dumped us all into his golf bag. All except me. He kept me in his hand and carried his bag over to the tee box. He picked out a club and put me on the ground. I tried to get away, for I knew what was to become of me, but being a golf ball, I didn’t have arms, legs or any other means of escape so I submitted to my fate. The man towered over me and aimed his club. He swung. I wobbled through the air and soared toward a huge field of tall grass. I landed with quite a thud. I heard the man yelling and kicking up the grass in search of me, but he never did find me.

I sat in the field for over a week with the fear that I’d never get out of there. The only thing that kept me sane was the thought that if I were found, I would only be hit again. Soon enough though, I felt a hand close around me. A young boy of about twelve was turning me around and around, reading the name printed on my side.

“Dad!” he yelled, “Guess what I’ve found! A ProV1 X!”

“Good job!” yelled a voice.

The boy carried me over to a waiting golf cart and put me in the cup holder. The voice I’d heard before was that of a thin man of about forty. He had a horse face and buckteeth and the boy was the same but with a more youthful appearance. The man played a round of golf and there was such a fear in my plastic heart that he would hit me, but he never did. The boy offered me to him several times, but the man refused. Each time he said, “You found it, you keep it.”

When the man was finished (if you must know, he hit a 92) I was put in what they called a car. I soon figured out that this was the moving ground that I rode on when I was in the box. I was taken to their home, which was a cute cottage on the countryside. The front door opened as the boy picked me up and opened the car door, and out bounded a great black dog.

The dog loped over to the boy, who scratched him on his head. I’d heard legends of dogs, monsters that tore helpless golf balls like myself apart. If I had a mouth, a terrible scream would have been heard. The dog pushed his nose toward me, but the boy pulled his hand away.

“No, boy,” He said, “This is a ProV1.”

Well at least I knew the boy wouldn’t let the dog have me, but what would he do to me? Would he take me back to that horror zone and hit me until my plastic insides came out? Only time would tell.

The boy took me into the house and put me on the kitchen counter. The dog was snooping awfully close to me. He put his front paws on the counter and sniffed at me for a brief moment. He then closed his great jaws around my tiny body. I screamed a completely silent scream as the dog proceeded to carry me over to the kitchen rug. He lied down and placed me carefully between his massive paws. I was just about to pray my last prayer when the dog jumped up, his tail between his legs. The boy was picking me up gently in his hands.

“NO!” he yelled at the dog, “NO, NO, NO!” The dog looked up at him with such guilt written across his face and for the boy that was enough, but I knew better. The dog was only putting on that face so the boy would feel bad for him, but I knew the dog would snatch me up again if he had the chance. He was pure evil. The boy put me in his pocket and there I stayed, bouncing about for about three hours. When I was finally taken out of the pocket again, I found myself looking upon a familiar place. It was Golf Paradise, the place where I was originally purchased.

“I’ll give you a dollar for each.” Said the clerk to the boy. I noticed that there were several other ProV1s on the table. “Thank you, sir.” The boy said, smiling as the man handed him a 10-dollar bill. He left me on the counter. The clerk picked me and the other balls up and dumped us into a basket that had a sign over it that said: $2 Each.

I sat in the basket for two whole months, a hand brushing against me and pulling out the golf balls around me. One day, a small, dainty hand picked me up. It belonged to a somewhat pretty woman who paid the $2 for me and took me home with four others. She took us to a golf coarse where she pulled me out of the bag. She put me on the ground and fear washed over me again. She aimed and swung. I flew cleanly through the air and landed with a good thud on the green. She then putted me into the little hole and yelled loudly, “Birdie!”

This went on for sever hours, and by the end of the day, my sides were aching very badly. Over the next three weeks, I was the woman’s primary golf ball. Once chilly day, she hit me and, I, being so banged up and ruined, flew straight into a grove of pine trees. I was never found. To this very day, I sit among the trees, rain or shine, once the meaning of perfection, now only a piece of trash. I had been thrown about, chewed by a dog and now lost in a massive grove of trees. Now that you have read my story, do you still believe that golf balls are nothing to feel bad for? I expect that you weep now when you see a cruel person hitting a poor, defenseless golf ball into destruction.