Kids and Golf

In the backyard we had a net set up for my dad to practice his golf swing. It looked like a miniature backstop attached to a length of astro-turf. An auxiliary net was hung loose from the back of the apparatus, with a box indicating where a good drive should be located in space five feet after impact.
My dad had taken an old set of clubs and shortened them down to miniature size, so I could go duff around with him and mom on the occasional weekend afternoon. I liked golf, but I really liked the contraption in the back yard best.
The neighbor kid and I would spend a number of unsupervised hours practicing drives. As will happen, we took the activity to its logical conclusion – aiming at one another. We would take turns, positioning ourselves between the target net, and the back of the cage and deftly dodging golf balls that struck the target and fell harmlessly to the ground.
Hours we spend doing this. Breathlessly taunting one another, probably squeeling in that way little kids do when they are certain they are doing something unusual, dangerous and awesome.
The game came to an end when I hit him in the forehead. It was probably the best contact I’ve ever made with a golf ball and the ease and beauty of my swing must have stunned him because he didn’t dodge. He stood there frozen, even for a time after the ball struck him between the eyes, hands extended to his sides palms forward.
It was a hollow sound, like tapping a fresh mellon at the grocery store. The welt came up immediately dashing my hopes of playing it off. I still think he could have gotten out of the way.