An attractive ensemble of golfers stands idly chatting on the plush-green fairway of Hole 1. Their arbitrary conversation is typical golf course banter used to pass the time walking from shot to shot. But this contest is just beginning and Rick is up. He steps out from the other competitors attempting to ignore the backhanded jabs from his trio and sounds of not-so-distant traffic hurling his way. He approaches the ball with a confident swagger and his beaming white visor stands out with a striking contrast to the otherwise dreary landscape. He focuses on the lie of the ball sitting neatly among blades of grass three-quarters of an inch high. Nothing fazes him as he lines up for the shot.

Twice he check-swings his nine iron. Drawing back with the club again, it hovers in the air, level with his head. There is a diminutive pause, and then he brings the club down, striking the ball and propelling it into the air. With an impenetrable, steely gaze he follows its path in the sky. His opponents squint as they, too, are mesmerized by the ball's perfect arc.

It's a 120-yard lob over thick Maple trees and other hazards, dissipating as it falls gracefully back to Earth. Because of the rugged terrain of the par four hole , these eager individuals hear but not see the ball drop onto the green.

After the others on Hole 2 hit their tee shots, Rick finds his ball exactly where he intends, 10 yards from the pin. In an odd maneuver considering the close range, the golfer again swings his nine iron. There is no caddy suggesting he use a putter, and stranger still, his ball bounces once then comes to a stop on a sewer cap at the base of a towering flagpole. The golfer pumps his arm, basking in grandeur because he hit an eagle.