Dad makes every shot. Nothing fazes him, not the windmill blades, the narrow bridge, the ripped carpet on Hole 7.

“They should fix that,” he notes, then drains the tricky putt.

My own ball rims out. Again. I curse it.

“Relax,” Dad tells me, as if he ever could have.

Jim Anderson is a retired college lecturer who lives in Michigan where he reads a lot and writes a little. More of his micro-fiction can be found at JimTheWriter.net.