The woman’s face tightened. But she nodded.
“Good. Don’t talk. Don’t breathe. Just hand me clubs and keep up.” Mapona South African Amateur Pon Part 1
“A letter of affiliation from a club?” The woman’s face tightened
He found a broken 5-iron in a dumpster behind the maintenance shed. The grip was chewed up by what looked like rats, and the shaft had a slight bend, like a question mark. He took it home and practiced in the sandlot behind the spaza shop. He didn’t have balls, so he hit stones. Pebbles. Crushed beer bottle caps. Each swing sent a sharp sting up his wrists, but he learned to keep his head down. He learned that if you hit the bottle cap on the smooth side, it would fly straight. If you hit the ridged side, it would slice violently into the thornbushes. Don’t talk
“This game is kak ,” he snarled.
Pieter was a big man with a red face and a swing that looked like he was trying to kill a snake. He hit a drive into the thornveld on the first hole, a snap-hook into the dam on the second, and by the third, he was throwing his putter at the golf cart.
Pieter turned to Mapona, his bloodshot eyes wide. “Where did you learn that, boy?”