by Brig Balwinder Singh Sandhu (Retd)
Born in fire, I emerged a molten plastic orb, molded into perfect sphericity within the steel womb of a behemoth machine. My core, a marvel of compressed elasticity, was a secret pact between science and the green cathedral of golf. Alongside hundreds of brethren, I rattled down a metal conveyor, each jostle a baptism into this world of divots and birdies.
Packing was a swift affair. A dozen of us nestled in a gleaming box emblazoned with a champion golfer unleashing a drive that promised impossible distances. We were shipped, jostling against each other in joyous anticipation, dreams of soaring trajectories filling our non-existent hearts. Then, glorious light! A sterile shelf in a vast store, a display fit for champions. But euphoria waned with each passing day, until one day, a hand, calloused and weathered, reached out and plucked me from the sea of white.
Big Sandy, they called him. A mountain of a man with muscles that strained against his shirt when he swung his club. It was an explosion of sound and force, the first time I met wood. He sent me skyward with a power that stole my breath. Wind tore at my dimples, the world a blur of emerald fairway and distant flags. Exhilaration coursed through me – this was flight, this was purpose!
But alas, my moment in the sun was short-lived. A rogue gust of wind, a cruel twist of fate, sent me careening off course. A white speck disappearing into the forbidden zone: the woods. Sunlight dappled through the dense canopy as I plummeted, landing with a soft thud on a bed of pine like needles. Here, the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. A curious squirrel chattered at me, mistaking my pristine surface for a giant nut. Days bled into one another, spent nestled amongst the roots, a silent observer of this forbidden world.
Then came the deluge. The ground rumbled, and I was swept away in a torrent of rainwater. My once-proud, shiny surface became slick with mud. I tumbled down a cascading stream, a helpless bobbing apple in a raging current. Finally, with a plop, I landed in a serene pond, the water a cool caress after the chaos.
A pair of beady eyes peered down at me. A crow, mistaking me for a breakfast delicacy, cawed in annoyance when it realised its mistake. I spent a tranquil week underwater, watching schools of fish dart around me, the gentle gurgle the only sound.
But fate, fickle as ever, had another twist in store. On a bright sunny day, an adorable young girl with pigtails spotted me. With a triumphant squeal, she fished me out, a trophy from the wild. She cleaned me with gentle hands, the grime a badge of honor for my adventure. My flight may have been forever altered, but my story lived on. Tucked away on a shelf, amongst childhood trinkets, I became a silent testament to the journey of a golf ball – from factory floor to flight, from fairway hazard to cherished souvenir. The circle, in a way, complete.
Later, I found myself displayed amongst other trophies: a mounted fish, a framed scorecard, and a worn-out leather glove. I was a testament to a hole-in-one, a cherished souvenir. My journey, from fiery birth to watery sojourn, was now a silent story for all who cared to see. Though my golfing days were over, I had lived a life most balls could only dream of – a life of adventure, witnessed from a tiny, dimpled sphere.
