Rock knew at once that his wedge shot had gotten away from him. He looked up to see it fly over the top of his house and into the backyard. "I put a little too much mustard on that one," he said.
Rock was with Tommy Smith, a friend he'd known since his radio days thirty years earlier.
"A little?" Smith said.
They both laughed. "Fuck," Rock said. "I was trying to hit it twenty feet."
Rock later found the ball on the flat end of a small vertical branch he had once trimmed. It was at least fifteen feet off the ground and perched on a surface roughly the size of a quarter. The result was so improbable that he couldn't get anyone to bother to look for themselves, not even Smith.
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