Memory

On my way to a conference I pass a young man with a golf bag over his shoulder, and unexpectedly there comes to mind the excitement I felt as a teenager setting off to play a round: the potential for delight and disappointment, the uncertainty as to whether this might at last be the day when I played well. And the memory of the walk past the clubhouse, from the eighth tee to the ninth green, and the taste of the cheap ice-cream we'd buy, came back to me astonishingly vivid.