With the fire crackling in the background, my friend said, “I don’t think I ever told you. I am a tin cup.”
“A what?”
“A tin cup. Like the movie with Kevin Costner, but not at all,” he said, staring into the lovely heat.
“I play golf, but I’m not the ball or the club. Or the bag,” he said smiling.
“I’m the tin cup catching putts. Sometimes I move the cup just a hair for golfers I like. I’ve also been known to jiggle a little to get the ball to go in.”
“And if you don’t like them?”
“Same thing. Either way, I’m always ready to help or hurt.”
I nodded.
“But I have to be very quiet, and I can’t let the cameras ever detect it!”
“I’ll bet!”
“Yes. I had couple of friends who were blades of grass. A golfer questioned the lay of the blades of grass during one very high-profile tournament. It was ugly.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t call it questioned. More accurately, they were cursed at to the high heavens. Both of them had to go to therapy.”
“Oh, I didn’t know they had that.”
“Yesirree. Golf has more therapists than any other sport. All of us have had to seek help at one time or another.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s the truth.”
The fire had died by then. We sat in the dark and I wondered what I would like to be for my second job. If only I had a better imagination, I could be a writer.