Urban golf

The empty lot next to the Boston Globe's headquarters is occupied by a narrow estuary subject to tidal rhythms. The grass is matted down from the high water mark down to the little stream that wends its way through the mud flats. The ground between the blades of grass is thick with fine seaweed awaiting the return of high tide.

Some people find this surface a fine place on which to practice their putting. We observed a couple today. The woman was playing with their terrier, tossing a tennis ball inland so that the dog could fetch it. The man was practicing his putting on the hard-packed mud. He had also brought a driver with him as well as his putter and he took breaks to tee off in the direction of Morrissey Boulevard. He would plunk golf balls into the brook, never once reaching as far as the bridge that carries cars over the estuary. It was just as well he seemed to lack upper body strength.

While the woman was keeping the dog occupied, she sang. At certain key phrases, the man would accompany her because the song she was singing is written as a duet. They weren't Dolly and Kenny but the song was appropriate, especially after the man hit a ball onto a hummock of saw grass in the stream. When I got home I fetched a dusty volume of Hemingway off the shelf.