It wasn't the perfect swing of a pro; it was the desperate, rhythmic lunge of a man who had spent ten years chasing a ghost. The ball took flight, a white speck against the bruised purple of the late afternoon sky. It hung there, agonizingly long, before dropping— clatter-thump —right onto the short grass. "Nice leave," Leo whispered.
The contact was pure. A soft click . The ball arched high, dancing with the breeze, and bit into the green ten feet from the pin. [S1E13] Breaking 80
He took his stance. Keep the head down. Pivot. Follow through. It wasn't the perfect swing of a pro;