Wicked Drive
He could feel it in his chest before he saw it.
The hush.
That reverent, early-morning silence that lives between heartbeats.
Like the course was holding its breath with him.
A puff of white mist escaped his mouth as he exhaled.
Cool Georgia air, thick with the scent of pine and perfectly cut grass.
It bit at his nose, kissed his cheeks.
His glove was already on. Tight. Familiar. Like it belonged.
He stepped out onto the tee box.
The dew clung to the soles of his shoes, a gentle drag that reminded him he was really here.
Augusta.
Thursday morning.
His name was on the board.
His name.
He hadn’t slept the night before. Who could?
There were patrons already lining the ropes, bundled in pastel and green.
Quiet, courteous, expectant.
And then the voice.
“Now driving, from Boston, Massachusetts… Michael McDonough.”
The murmur swelled and fell again like a wave.
He nodded once, blinked toward the fairway.
Hole 1 — Tea Olive.
It stretched out like a dream.
No wind. No sound. Just the faint hum of anticipation.
He set the tee.
Placed the ball.
Took one breath.
Then two.
The club rose and fell.
Contact.
That sound—the purest click—rang like a bell.
Clean. Fast.
His follow-through held like a painting.
He didn’t even have to look.
The gallery behind him exhaled.
Someone yelled, “Wicked drive, Michael!”
He smiled.
Then everything faded.
And he woke up in his living room recliner, dog licking his face, SportsCenter running in the background.
Michael blinked, sat up, wiped a bit of drool off his chin.
From the kitchen, his wife called out, “You hittin’ the course today?”
He scratched his head, looked at the screen, then down at the dog.
He smiled to himself. Best swing of my life. I’ll never swing that pure again.
He leaned back into the recliner. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.
