“Plop.” My shiny-white ball dove from sight.
“Birdie!” shouted Dr. Freed.
“Wow.” Bubba stepped and gave me high-five.
“Our team’s alive,” said Mr. Vondemeir.
I should say it was. After seven holes of play, with Bubba eagling number 14 and draining three putts for birdies, Bubba’s team was six under and Stegosaurus sharp.
“Nice,” I added. I went on with my planet-talk. I spun and waved my wedge. “But, nasty, unfortunate, like a snowman on a par four, fishermen, trawlers, have been plucking up fish, draining catch the last hundred years. Grouper,” I gushed, “why…”
“Meow,” Jinx called.
I’d caught everyone off-guard as I’d switched to a fishy subject again. Jinx licked lips.
“We’ve depleted major fishing zones of the world,” I followed. “The big-big fish such as tuna, the marlin, the swordfish, even sharks of all kinds, they’re…”
(Image of baby megalodon close by in lake aside fairway)