The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
The white sign with “Big Dawg” painted in red sits 318 yards away. Maurice Allen, wearing white pants, black shirt and white hat, pushes a pink tee into the ground and picks up his white-shafted driver with the gleaming dark blue head.
Allen begins his swing. The club head climbs the clock face, as golfers call it. Starting at 6 p.m. it goes past nine, past 12, past 3 – when will he stop? – until it reaches five, almost all the way back around his body.
Then the anger is unleashed. The club begins its journey back around until it punishes the golf ball. The sound is different. It’s a sharp crack with an echo, much different from the thuds and curse words often heard on the driving range. A few of the range rats look up after Allen’s drive. The ball screams into a sky so hazy it’s white, easily clearing the sign, coming to a violent stop in a bank of green kudzu that rests some 20 yards further away.
“How far did that go?” someone asks.
“355, 360,” Allen answers dismissively, unhappy with the rocket-shot anyone else on the range would have traded their new $400 driver for.