Watching Hormonal Bombs in Action
The first tee
I’m watching fresh hormonal bombs in action, swinging their clubs and planting their back foot gracefully into the ground like wannabe ballerinas at the first tee, just beyond a sunny terrace. I came to the golf club hoping to collect some old-timers’ wisdom, but none are here today. So it’s time for teenage boys instead. Only a woman can get away with saying that.
They all look similar in their golf caps, short-sleeved shirts, shorts, golf sneakers, and sparse facial hair. Some walk confidently like adults, then jostle each other like five-year-olds.
To their left, sets of parents in tightly closed jackets chat tensely about their sons’ grades, shoulders stiff, hands on hips. Nearby, middle-aged men in school-branded t-shirts sit with ice-cold beers, keeping a close eye on the kids.
“Stop wagging your tail and relax!” shouts one of the men to a teen with a pig nose, nervously fidgeting with himself through his shorts’ pockets.
Four loud boys with light mustaches and deep voices sit at a table next to me. The loudest, who also has the broadest shoulders, shouts, “Got to check the snap, Brah! 1.1 million views!”
The tallest one giggles. “Do you know how many snaps that is?!”
