The Chestnut Putt

I slipped through the gap under the front gate to see what lay beyond the gravel drive. Right beside the curb, half-buried under curled yellow leaves, was a round, glossy brown chestnut. Finding a stiff Y-shaped twig on the mossy flagstones, I gripped it like a walking cane and lined up my stance. With a deliberate push of both hands, I nudged the chestnut forward. It wobbled over a seam in the concrete, hopped a stray twig, and rolled straight into the shallow drain gap between two paving stones with a crisp clatter. Scoring that single goal felt like conquering an entire playing field.