A golf ball.
Maybe at some point in my life it had meaning. Maybe I found it somewhere while something interesting was happening with someone important.
I’ve only played golf twice. Once with my grandfather, the other with my brother in law. I broke my ribs riding in a golf cart, drunk, at the age of 38. It didn’t come from any of those days.
Most likely, I found it while working as a sports writer and have held on.
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