Perfection & Less

6 min readSep 24, 2026

Headline from nypost.com: “Sinister network of Russian agents busted in Cold War-style plot to infiltrate the US Secret Service using American tech CEO.” Which makes one wonder if there are others already ensconced.

That’s the only fresh item I spotted in today’s news. My thanks to the kind folks who bought and donated today at the Anti-Inflation Book Shop. Here’s my latest short story, approximately a six-minute read:

Perfection and Less

Vin looked up and smiled, the stars twinkling in the clear sky, a crescent moon smiling down on planet Earth. He turned left at Ocean Parkway and strolled along the newly, beautifully renovated grounds of what he still referred to as Coney Island Hospital, which had been renamed to honor the memory of liberal Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. He would have preferred the intrepid Clarence Thomas.

No one was in sight. There wasn’t much light in the windows, patients asleep. It was just past five AM. He turned left again at the corner, toward home. He shook his head and chuckled at the foolishness of his thoughts, recalling his most memorable moment on the golf course. 16 years had passed since he’d last played. How he’d looked forward to those Monday late afternoon, early evening rounds, rushing to be first in line for the twilight-time discount at 4PM.

Once the Exchange closed down, his long-time playing partner, Cuz, became a chauffeur working long hours, and their beautiful run ended. He tried playing on his own, but it wasn’t the same, as he restrained the outbursts of frustration the easy-going Cuz tolerated. “Like a little bull,” his friend had described him.

At first Vin had missed it. He’d now reached the point where he rarely took even a phantom swing. He supposed having attained his goal of breaking 80 tempered the loss a great deal.

Forest Park in Queens had been their domain 90% of the time. It was just minutes from Cuz’s home in Middle Village. Vin would drive to the A train in the morning and take it into Manhattan. He’d done it 20 years, such was his passion for that weekly outing.

He did not recall how far back it was, but his most memorable moment occurred at the 16th hole, a par-four less than 300 yards. They dubbed it “Ike,” although the tree stood in the left side of the fairway and not in the center like the one President Eisenhower had struck so often at Augusta National, the site of The Masters. Cuz had nearly driven the green several times. After a good tee shot with a three-wood, Vin was about a hundred yards out. He pushed his approach a bit and the ball came to a rest on the hill to the right, just short of pin-high. To his relief, he found it sitting up in the tall grass. He stood about ten-feet above the hole. He fought his conservative nature and chose the correct approach. If the grass hadn’t been so high, he might have dribbled the ball onto the green rather than risk flubbing a chip shot, a common occurrence. That strategy would likely have led to a long par-putt and have him settling for bogie, which wasn’t so bad, although he realized it was negative thinking. He opened the club face so that the blade was parallel to the ground, hoping the ball would pop high into the air. As soon as he struck it his hopes soared. The ball landed with a plop just past the fringe, bounced twice and rolled to the center of the cup as if magnetized. Oh the joy–the exhilaration! A pro couldn’t have done it better. It was a rare instance of perfection, mentally and physically. For a brief shining moment all was right with the world. Cuz did not witness it, as he’d driven his lefthanded tee-shot way left, missed the green with his approach, chipped on, and now was driving the cart toward the asphalt path that ran along the boundary of the grounds. The gentleman the starter had assigned them verified it. Vin and Cuz competed quietly, never gambled. He did not recall if he’d prevailed that day. Cuz usually won out, as he played on Saturday morning as well, honing his skills. Vin would post the better score less than a handful of times in a season. Cuz had broken 80 three times, and had had a hole-in-one at the 7th hole. The closest Vin had ever come to an Ace was less than an inch.

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He had a similar moment at the 8th hole at Marine Park, a long seaside course similar to those of the British Open, during a round that must have come during a vacation week when he allowed himself to play more than once. His solid tee-shot landed at the top of the bunker of the par-three. To his chagrin, the ball was less than a foot from the lip of the trap. He had no recourse but to play the shot sideways, away from the pin. He struck it smoothly, just clearing the lip, the ball stopping approximately 25 from the cup. It was the best he could have done. To his astonishment, he made the putt, saving par. The middle-aged woman in the threesome to which he’d been assigned offered gushing praise, dubbing him the best golfer she’d ever played with. He blushed. He was a hacker she’d caught on a rare day. His best score at that site was 86. He lacked the length to do much better there, especially when the wind was strong and he would be lucky to break a hundred. Cuz consistently outdrove him by 75 yards.

He supposed he would never forget those instances. Here he was, 76, and they were still crystal clear. Was it vanity if he kept them to himself, did not share them with others, brag? What he liked most about golf was the quiet struggle with self, which fit his personality perfectly. He had plenty of fond memories from his participation in team sports, but they paled in comparison. In fact, the most dominant of those memories were of failure, of the times he’d let teammates down or made a bad decision coaching football or managing a softball team or on the trading floor. He was nagged by failures that no one else likely remembered. His highest level had been freshman football. None of the failures mattered an iota in the grand scheme of things and yet…

He shook his head. Even the memory of breaking 80, as satisfying as it had something his mom had warned him about regarding the perils of remaining single. There were days it seemed he recalled every mistake he’d ever made, every failure, every time he’d embarrassed or disgraced himself. He hoped this wouldn’t be one of them.

Let ’em go, already, you old fool, he said to himself. At times he wondered why he had always been so well-liked. been, did not lift him the way those two moments did. After all, Douglaston was a short course even from the championship tees, par 67. And he’d picked up after four putts at the 7th hole. He told himself his 77 covered the putt or putts he’d eschewed, but there was no telling if he would have recovered psychologically from a six-putt or worse. Forest Park, also a 67, was much tougher from the blue tees. The best he’d done there was 81.

76-year-old stooge, he said to himself, walking along, head down. Why wasn’t he able to dismiss the bad and celebrate only the good in his golden years? What kind of personality is this? he thought. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t have a family whose trials and tribulations might have driven out minimally important thoughts, which was sort of something his mom
had warned him about regarding the perils of remaining single. There were
days it seemed he recalled every mistake he’d ever made, every failure,
every time he’d embarrassed or disgraced himself. He hoped this wouldn’t be one of them. Let ’em go, already, you old fool, he said to himself. At times he wondered why he had always been so well-liked.

Photo from Google Images/Magnific: