A breeze filtered through the leaves; the rustling a constant comfortableness.
We sit in the stands, watching the artists swing and lifting their white balls into the air and then to hear a thud against the hard green – a short distance from the pin. Claps reciprocate.
Although a selfish sport, where it is played for and against themselves, the players carry an arrogance to support their endeavour; else they would not continue. They have turned recreation into sport and sport into art; a mastered craft. Days, months and years of determined practice to contort their physique and will into a perfected finish.
And we sit in the stands, hearing in the distance the balls smack against the titanium shells of the clubs’ heads like muted iron spurs in the distance. Yet the sound comes later than the swing, as if to reassure us their art is not for nothing. Against the whispers of the crowd they continue to administer such detail. They are for themselves, and they are the goal. And that goal is forever fueled.