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62Mrs. Wagner and her son Ben liked to hit golf ballsfrom their freshly clipped lawn down into the water. Theylived on a piece of property that overlooked a steep ravine,which they owned, and the Narragansett Bay, which theydid not. Mrs. Wagner was good at golf—especially for awoman, and a woman of her age—but Ben was better andhe would often instruct his mother on her swing. Crouchingon the ground, safely out of range, he would say, “You’relifting your knees, Mom—you’re looking to see whereit’s going before you hit it, so you’re topping the ball.Remember when I took those lessons at the club? Scotttold me that the key to a solid drive was to keep your bodyrelaxed.” Mrs. Wagner would adjust her stance; she, too,took lessons at the club, once a week in season, and herswing was a great source of personal frustration. It wasdifficult for a woman to accumulate enough power in herupper body for a good, hard shot.agawam golf & hunt rosetta youngAs a family, the Wagners belonged to AgawamGolf and Hunt. Of course, for Ben and his mother, hittinggolf balls from their lawn was an irreplaceable activity; itcontained a plunk of victory that a full game never would.However, they learned to extend this pleasure—one couldn’tpretend, Ben often thought, that golf was a game of drivesalone. To forget it was a sport, to forget it occurred ona tailored course, with greens and flags and holes andscorecards, would be a lie. And the course at the club wasbeautiful. Impeccably maintained, the only imperfectionwas the telephone tower and its wires, and these hadalways been there; the course had been built around them.If you hit the tower—its tack-metal skeleton looming nearthe seventh hole—you had the option of taking a mulligan.Ben and his mother repeated this rule often betweenthemselves and even more often to guests. They loved thefair, firm line of it; they wished they could live their lives byits logic.