I remember playing golf with my Dad and brother Rock at Prestwick CC near Akron. The second hole was a 160 yard par 3 over the corner of a lake. Both my brother and I hit onto the green and Stevie G, unfortunately knocked his short into the corner of the lake. The lake was a tad thin in the water department and the ball was embedded in a greasy lie of mud and algae hugging the edge. My brother and I had a good chuckle which ignited that twinkle in my Dad's eye, a twinkle my brother and I knew well and he asked for his wedge and we headed for cover. One foot in the hazard and the other stretching for the green grass above the lake's rim, my Dad reared back and blasted the soup, splattering a mass of scattered material everywhere. We ducked the twisting splotches and hurtling blotches, yelling disapprovingly. When the crud had settled, Stevie G's white shirt was a dalmatian speckled mess of gooey spots and oozing gunk dripped from his face and hair. He grinned as he toweled off. We then turned to look for the ball, and noticed a large clump of black mud and sludge with just a peekaboo of white dimpled golf ball an inch from the flag. I doubt he even remembers now, just another expected result in the life experiment of Stevie G.
