He turns over, slapping the top of the alarm clock he regrettably set for 6 a.m. on a Sunday. His feet gingerly slap the ground as to not disturb his sleeping wife any more than he already has. A quick shave in the bathroom before he's dressed. His clubs rattle in the bag as he drags them through his house and places them in the trunk of his Corolla. The garage opens as the car starts and takes him to the golf course.

He puts on his sunglasses tucked neatly in their overhead compartment. The rising sun was blinding but he didn't need the road signs, he knew the route better than he knew the 14th hole on his home course. That hole drove him mad. He's birdied every other hole on that course, but not the forbidden 14th. He could bogey, double bogey, even quadruple bogey, but that damn hole always kept the birdies away from him. It was simple enough, long tee shot to the fairway, another hit down the dogleg left, and then… he was there. It was 6:27 when he arrived at the course.