Congratulations Golf Ghost!

You’ll rest your spectral hand on the young boy’s shoulder.  He’ll look up at your translucent form, at the moonlight filtering through you, and smile.

“Thanks for everything,” he’ll murmur to you.  You’ll smile back him.

“Keep your eyes on the ball.”

He’ll nod in response and put his head down.  Line up his shoulders.  His arms will stay in line with his shoulders as he moves, the motion of his hips dominating his swing.  He’ll catch the ball dead center and the driver will carry it up and away slightly, pressing it forward desperately towards the green.  The ball will be virtually invisible in the moonlight, but you and he will both know exactly where it’s landed: just a quick pitch away from the green, smack in the middle of the fairway.

He’ll look back at you expectantly.  You’ll just stand there, ghostly arms crossed, and nod at him.  He’ll nod back, pick up his clubs and heave them over his shoulder.  You’ll smile as he turns and walks away, whispering after him.

“Don’t trust Blacks…”

He’ll turn around and look into your eyes as you speak.

“…and Jews are dirty.”

He’ll smile back at you and say, in an even, clear voice, without shouting.

“I know, Golf Ghost.  I know.”  Then he’ll walk away and you’ll de-materialize, awaiting the next young white person who seeks to excel at the sport of golf using supernatural assistance, a vague sense of satisfaction, the last feeling you experienced, becoming the centerpiece of your existence.

Congratulations Golf Ghost!