Drew Tate stood there, sun shining on his skin. He'd just nailed a 6-iron hole-in-one at the Aegon Golf Tournament, and afterglow of channeled perfection refused to leave his body. (HT: Austin.) It was one of those shots that from its initiation to its finish felt like a single, long, perfect equation: the immaculate curve of backswing, the inevitable crash of the downswing declining by fixed degrees toward the impact of the ball at the exact center of the clubface, culminating in the thwock! of the ball and club's transferred energy exploding in the noise of collision and its perfect harmonics vibrating through the club. $25,000 dollars in a single swing. He stood, ready to sign the papers, when...
FROM THE SKY! Myles Brand, swooping down in his stately robes to prevent young Tate from accepting the illegal benefit he rightfully earned with his golfsmanship. "Whew, that was close," says Brand, cheerfully yanking the 3 x 6 check away from Tate. "We almost had a violation there, and wouldn't that have been something."
"Sure would have," says Tate as he tosses his club disgustingly to the ground.
"You're welcome, son. Any time." Myles then kicks Tate in the balls, turns and soars skyward, becoming a tiny, billowy black dot of righteousness in the stratosphere.
Myles Brand: soaring the heavens to prevent NCAA violations, coming down to kick you in the nuts.