Polish stories from people who still have the stub

“My 6-iron had a heel moon like a postage stamp. Nyla rammed it two degrees and Hobble Creek stopped leaking toward the canal. I still have the stub in the bag pocket.”

“A Salt Lake bay told me I was upright because of my height. Reed painted the sole. The toe was the only thing that had ever touched Utah dirt. Cascade makes more sense now.”

“The sand wedge was ‘bouncy’ according to a poster. Inez photographed a toe scuff you could read from the pew. We flattened a hair. Rock Canyon lips stopped grabbing the flange.”

“Putter toe sat up like it was greeting Y Mountain. Inez checked loft while she was in the neck. East Bay still has slow mornings; the ball now starts on the line I thought I had in April.”

“I wanted the driver cranked. They refused, took fifty-eight dollars for the audit, and were right. The irons were the leak. Full-bag ticket the next Saturday. Worth the pew.”

“Winter I only hit mats. They wrote that on the ticket and told me to come back in June before any second bite. I did. The June shine was a different vote. Glad they waited.”