The Fox Thief
A Golf Ball Can Look Like an Egg
Thock! A great iron shot off the ninth tee that landed right on the green, as I approached dreaming of the birdie a fox appeared. It trotted out and before I could even think to yell or chase it away it snatched my white Wilson ball and darted back to the wooded area it had emerged from. Back into the woods.
Annoyed I placed a new ball on the green near to where the original landed. Then I took my shot. In my flustered state I three putted a bogey. That fox, I thought, stole my ball and my birdie. After a long look at the woods I determined my only course was to retrieve the stolen ball and reset my putt.
With my clubs secured behind a tree I ventured forth in search of the fox. I looked along the ground for any sign by which I could track the fox. Thoughts turned to John Wayne and the old westerns. If I were an Indian tracker I would see all the signs before me. I shook my head. If I didn’t stop day dreaming I could forget the ball. This wasn’t the frontier expanse. These woods were narrow and there weren’t many places to hide. I walked and looked for where a fox might make a home.
I checked under a fallen tree, I looked inside a discarded refuse bin. The journey remained fruitless and I met the treeline along the adjacent fairway. Turning around in half defeat my spirits lowered and my pace slowed. I made my way back to the ninth green. Just as I was resigning myself to the misfortune I spotted a telltale movement and saw that brownish red fur. It was the fox and in its mouth a golf ball. But not mine. It was one of the cheap orange ones sold by the course pro shop. Not my white Wilson. My feet took off and I went after the fox. The sound alerted the creature which accelerated and moved with such smooth speed that I thought it resembled a fish moving through water. It may have been an illusion but I swear it’s paws weren’t even touching the ground. Though the speed was amazing it wasn’t enough. When the fox dropped and disappeared I knew that meant it had entered its den.
The hole was beneath a tree and easy to miss. I knelt and shined a light down. I could see nothing, just darkness, then I heard a growl from deep inside and something moved. It moved fast. Too small to be a fox. It was a golf ball. My white Wilson bounced out and rolled stopping at the toe of my right shoe.
Having reclaimed my ball I left and returned to the ninth hole. With my shot reset I made that birdie and one more on the back nine. I still have that white Wilson bearing the tooth marks of the fox. To this day I always look for a fox when I am on the ninth hole of that golf course and, occasionally, I still see it there just off in the woods, waiting.