Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. My story starts after the picture prompt. Other stories can be found by clicking on the blue frog at the end of this post. Enjoy!
My dad took a home video of me showing how I could hit a golf ball over 200 yards. I was eight years old. My dad knew a money machine when he saw one. At the age of sixteen, just a sophomore in high school, I won the state youth golf tournament. My father was happy. His pot of gold was growing closer.
It became easier to win even in college. I left after my junior year.
I spent the next two years on the junior golf circuit because my father wanted to refine his money-making machine. I was ready to make it happen for him.
My first pro golf would determine my future and potential earnings.
On the third home my caddy, Jason, turned to me and told me the yardage was five hundred and sixty-five yards and a par five with a slight dog leg to the right. “Water will come into play if you hit it left.”
I knew I hooked it when it left my club. I saw a splash and I knew I was in trouble. As I walked into the lake to retrieve my ball, I looked up and among the spectators I saw my father shaking his head. I felt like a man who had just gone over Niagara Falls in a barrel.