"According to our founder, minotaur goff was outlawed at least seven times in Atlantican history. So many citizens played that the civilization began to crumble. Stores and factories were empty, babies perished unsuckled in their cribs, crops rotted as the Atlanticans putted and putted . . ."
We both begin to nod off.
I say, "Does this visionary live in Myrtle Beach?"
He says, "Goes and comes."
"Does he ever come around?"
"In and out."
"Can you possibly be any vaguer?"
"Maybe yes, maybe no."
To fully appreciate minotaur goff, you need to smoke an herb not sold in the pro shop. We play it straight and eventually reach the final hole, a long, ever-narrowing peninsula with a cup at the end. A hole in one gets you a lifetime pass. My shot hugs the carpet for ten feet before veering into the abyss. Daisy takes her time. But just as she finishes her backswing, the old knight appears. Spooked, she slams her avocado ball into the bottomless chasm.
I had told Daisy there would be days like this. But I'd forgotten to warn her about the knights.