Yesterday was sixty-five degrees, calm, and sunny so I went to the golf range to practice. I bought my seven dollar large bucket of balls, laced up my golf shoes, and started hitting easy sand wedges to the red flag on the right of the range about 85 yards away. I was trying to keep the trajectory of my shots down so I could control my distance better. About thirty minutes into my session high school golfers began setting up shop on the range. Then what looked to be the junior varsity team hopefuls came over. These kids didn’t look a day over pre-adolescence, but they talked a big game. They talked it loudly, as if they were addressing a elderly foreigner. Naturally, they started their warm-up by trying to smash drivers to the edge of the woods. I felt compelled to get my driver out and hit the ball well into the woods. I did, easily. Having satisfied my ego, I returned to hitting easy eight irons to the yellow flag 160 yards away. But, the range was filling up too fast for all of us to hit. These kids were moving in on my nice patch of grass. A runt of a boy directly in front of me swung a driver equal to his own height. A lanky youngster was joyously topping, slicing and shanking balls behind me. I feared for my life. Instead of visualizing the shot I wanted to hit, I began imagining what it would feel like when cold steel met my skull. Not good. It was like I was standing it the middle of a chinook helicopter. Clubs were spinning, balls were flying. The kid in front of me actually lost his grip and his club flew over my head. The kid said woops then blindly walked in front of me. I decided it was best for me to leave at that point, so I hit my last ball, tucked in my clubs and shook my head. This was chaos – unlike any golf practice I had ever participated in, but it still made me miss high school golf.