Thin green plastic flakes, tightly woven to the hard ground; textile corn rows. They smell like hot shoes, fresh out of an oven from being baked in the afternoon sun. I am kneeling down with my face against the surface of the astroturf, burning hot against my face, scratching me like flimsy exfoliants designed by Picasso. I hear each green fleck of turf bending and flicking like a tiny deck of cards being shuffled by a potato bug in Vegas, brimmed hat around his head, cigarette in his mouth, waiting to send some poor stink bug home with nothing. I wonder why this beautiful outdoor carpeting isn’t used in every front lawn; it never needs maintenance, it stays green all year and it’s perfect for putt-putt golf. I look up, remembering it actually is my turn. A light breeze carries the scent of the hot pretzel stand nearby right up into my nose; hot salted dough, the smooth baked surface of those warm brown knots wrapped in crinkling wax paper…maybe I should forfeit my shot to go get one. I turn back with the thin steel club and begin to forget about the astroturf and start focusing on how I will nail this hole in one.