Look at that.’ He looked down at the ball beside him on the ground, then rubbed his arm. We could see the man who’d hit the ball walking back toward the clubhouse, his driver swinging beside him like a walking cane. He had no idea where the balls were falling. He hadn’t dreamed he’d hit my father.

My father stood and watched the man disappear into the long white clubhouse building. He stood for a while as if he was listening and could hear something I couldn’t hear–laughing possibly, or music from far away. He had always been a happy man, and I think he may simply have been waiting for something to make him feel that way again.

‘If you don’t like football,’–and he suddenly looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there–‘then just forget about it. Take up the javelin throw instead. There’s a feeling of achievement in that. I did it once.’

‘All right,’ I said. And I thought about the javelin throw–about how much a javelin would weigh and what it was made of and how hard it would be to throw the right way.

My father was staring toward where the sky was beautiful and dark and full of colors. ‘It’s on fire out there, isn’t it? I can smell it.’

‘I can too,’ I said, watching.

‘You have a clear mind, Joe.’ He looked at me. ‘Nothing bad will happen to you.’

‘I hope not,’ I said.

‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘I hope so, too.’ And we went on then picking up golf balls and walking back toward the clubhouse.

When we had walked back to the pro shop, lights were on inside, and through the glass windows I could see a man sitting alone in a folding chair, smoking a cigar. He had on a business suit, though he had the jacket over his arm and was wearing brown and white golf shoes.

When my father and I stepped inside carrying our baskets of range balls, the man stood up. I could smell the cigar and the clean smell of new golf equipment.

‘Hello there, Jerry,’ the man said, and smiled and stuck out his hand to my father. ‘How’d my form look to you out there?’

‘I didn’t realize that was you,’ my father said, and smiled. He shook the man’s hand. ‘You have a blueprint swing. You can brag about that.’

‘I spray ’em around a bit,’ the man said, and put his cigar in his mouth.

‘That’s everybody’s misery,’ my father said, and brought me to his side. ‘This is my son, Joe, Clarence. This is Clarence Snow, Joe. He’s the president of this club. He’s the best golfer out here.’ I shook hands with Clarence Snow, who was in his fifties and had long fingers, bony and strong, like my father’s. He did not shake my hand very hard.

‘Did you leave any balls out there, Jerry?’ Clarence Snow said, running his hand back through his thin, dark hair and casting a look at the dark course.

‘Quite a few,’ my father said. ‘We lost our light.’

‘Do you play this game, too, son?’ Clarence Snow smiled at me.

‘He’s good,’ my father said before I could answer anything. He sat down on the other folding chair that had his street shoes under it, and began unlacing his white golf shoes. My father was wearing yellow socks that showed his pale, hairless ankles, and he was staring at Clarence Snow while he loosened his laces.

‘I need to have a talk with you, Jerry,’ Clarence Snow said. He glanced at me and sniffed his nose.

‘That’s fine,’ my father said. ‘Can it wait till tomorrow?’

‘No it can’t,’ Clarence Snow said. ‘Would you come up to the office?’

‘I certainly will,’ my father said. He had his golf shoes off and he raised one foot and rubbed it, then squeezed his toes down.