The Last Hole for Life
Dear The Ripper,
I'm terribly sorry, but we've reached the eighteenth hole. We always had a special connection together and you never led me to far left or right. It's hard to think that just one hard, crisp shot of mine ended up breaking something more important into two pieces, you. You were the one and only club that I could hit on the sweet spot about ninety eight percent of the time. The other two percent only happened when unfortunately, you broke along the shaft. I really cared about you, but maybe it was just time for me to find a new club to hit with and maybe, just maybe, I can hit it as well as I had hit you.
It was always nice knowing that I had you, my 3-Hybrid, there to back me up off the tee, or even straight off the deck of the fairway. When I needed you, you never failed at placing that white, small, dimpled ball right up on the green next to the flag itself. It seemed as if you were a robot that had one specific task programmed for it to do. I still remember that one time, that one time where you put my new golf ball, the yellow one, straight into the cup to help me win my tournament. Life on the course was nice knowing I had you, but I will have to move on to some other club. I'm sorry it had to end like this, but it could be for the better, but also for the worse.
I'm still in the prime of my career and I have many more rounds in me, that is why I need to move away from you. We may never be friends again, but like I said, it may be for the better. The hardest part is the fact of your beauty by your grooves that caught the ball like a saw blade catches into the wood. You will soon be forgotten and I will move on, but for now, lets reminisce of that last eighteenth hole together. You will be missed, The Ripper.
Sincerely,
Jon Needham