Putting.
I practiced some golf swings with my little 9-year-old buddy, Rocky, today on this this rather chilly, green afternoon. I'm a left-handed golfer....I took my 7-iron and a bright orange golf ball and placed the tiny, plastic, citrus-coated sphere on the backyard green. It's been a while since I've practiced. Mmkay. I engaged in my two-second primordial golf instinct - feet parallel, straight arms, slightly bent legs, back straight, relax, rotate, swing! Bam! Nice shot. Nice shot into the backyard of the neighboor's roofing. Remember that game, Mouse Trap? You know, the one with the little metal ball that swerves and skims its way through those different colorful platforms and down through plastic tubing? I invited myself to a larger version of the Milton-Bradley Game. Ages six and up, might I add. I think I'm old enough physically for the game, but my mentality still regresses to a needy little infant. That's a different story, though. So I watched the ball hit the shingles, roll across the entire coffee-colored roofing, swerve back, swerve forth, crash head on into the rain duct, bounce off, and fall into the grass. Hee hee hee! Rocky, watch me hit another one! I position another brightly colored ball onto the grass; this one is a juicy, lemon yellow. two-second setup. And bam! The citrine sphere flew right onto the roof, fluttered back and forth, took a sharp turn and fell onto the side of the house. My little buddy clapped and giggled and blushed with delight. I climbed on the wooden posts of my fence to see where the golf ball landed, only to discover two pairs of eyes from two wrinkly, old men looking straight at me.
Oops.
Oops.