The first one is from my only birdie. The Eighth hole at Dearborn Hills with Zeke, my Uncle John. August 1991. On the green, 180 yards, with a 4 iron. Then one putt, a hard left to right, about 25 feet. Drained it. Still have that ball.
Yesterday I earned my only other keeper. I hit it off the tee and it drove hard to the right. Way to the right. My buddy Ron yelled, "Fore!", as he should have. It landed, took a hard bounce, grazed the brim of my friend Kevin's hat, whistled by my other friend's (yes, I have two friends) Scotty's ear, and landed in the basket of the golf cart they were in.
But the story does not end there. I ran over to them, apologizing profusely. Then I asked for my ball. Hey, those things cost, like, three bucks apiece. I wanted it back.
They said they left it off the fairway behind them. Jerks. So I walked back to the spot where it lay, and picked it up. And carelessly written on it, in indelible ink, was a message. It read: 'Nice try Marty, but we're still alive. Scott and Kevin'.
I'm keeping that ball.