Arnold Mashie was sitting in a deckchair when the call came to him. He was dozing in the afternoon sunshine when he happened to look up. Clouds parted and a throng of angels, each holding a golden putter, descended upon his lawn. They spoke to him of the wisdom of golf. At that instant he knew a life without golf is not worth living.
And then there was his son Ed, a clean living young man who had never been tempted by golf. Just say no was what they’d taught him in school, and that was good enough for him. It all started to change the day he was painting the side of Mrs. Plessy’s house. He first noticed the reflection in the texture of the wall. He took off his sunglasses and rubbed them with the tail of his shirt. He peered closer, and could just make out the image of a number 9 iron.
Two days later at breakfast, he saw the outline of a golf bag burned into his toast. And his fried egg looked like a putting green. This was not a normal start to his day. He went for a lie down.
In the quiet of Ed’s bedroom he heard a faint song, as if from across a great distance: a woman singing. Such a soothing voice. The song called to him to follow. Of course, as every golfer knows once one hears the Call to Golf no one can resist.
Ed was mesmerized by the siren call. The voice was warm and liquid. He pictured the singer in his mind’s eye; driver slung over her shoulder looking at him straight in the eye. Her’s was a voice of pleasure. The voice was all around him now. He bathed in its sound.
And then he remembered nothing until he woke up with a stiff neck in the back seat of his little car outside of a pub he didn’t recognize.