I had the best golf day of my life.
I had the worst golf day of my life.

I putted with confidence and accuracy.
I wore golf shoes for the first time.
In a best ball format, my ball was best part of the time.
I had several clutch shots.
It was cool and breezy.
On the green, my foursome looked to my stroke.
I laughed with joy.
I was part of an 80.

I killed a goose.
Standing over a drive, I hit with sureness of my stroke.
I heard it before my head rose up from the swing.
I killed a goose.
I stood there, tears streaming down my face.
I watched it suffer.
I watched the other geese gather round in confusion.
I wanted in horror as it bled and died.
I killed.

That is not the way golf is supposed to be.
Fancy and Madison carry my heart.
I find joy in my avian visitors who partake of my backyard offerings.
Even now, as I type, the tears are flowing once more.
I killed a goose.

This was my best day of golf.
This was my worst day of golf.