Stanley Park Par Three

Our hands were clammy. Our rain jackets had raised a white flag, but we finished the round. 18 holes at the par three course felt epic. The raccoons watched under the cover of cedar trees. They listened to muffled curses, and snickered to themselves as t-shots flew into bushes and chips rolled over greens. When the round was finished, our scorecard was used tissue. The scores I was proud of were gray smudges that wouldn’t mean a thing to anyone but me. We were glad to have played, but even gladder to have such an excuse to go for donuts and hot chocolate.