ackson approaches the putt on eighteen, the Tuesday evening breeze light in his face, and finds his mind wandering. To his wife, to his kids, to the mockingbird miming a goldfinch in the oak tree over his shoulder. Four and a half feet, he tries to see, breaking a half-cup to the left and with the grain. But in front of his eyes appears only yesterday’s headlines and this afternoon’s snack, the chicken wrap he’d ordered had been a bit on the soggy side.

It shouldn’t be the case, this lack of focus, he’s had this putt dozens of times before. Made it, too, at least most of the time. One-handed, raked-in, see-it-and-hit-it kind of stuff he’s still pretty good at even at fifty-five. And nobody’s watching, so he doesn’t have that as an excuse. No one in the fairway waiting impatiently, stomping from cart to ball and back again, no one at the first tee box across the way, chattering about the round to come. No one at the bar overlooking eighteen even, it’s closed for some long overdue remodeling. It’s just Jackson and the four and a half footer, which now that he’s behind it, looks closer to five.

But there they are anyway, the thoughts that intrude. The bills he has to pay, the work he has to do, the places he has to go. Tomorrow he has a half-day meeting with one of the newer European accounts, he has to wake and turn on the video at a quarter past four. Something about a large purchase, their biggest one yet, he knows he should try harder to care. And then when he’s done he has to pick up Marlene from the office around noon, her car is in the shop and she needs to get home to meet the plumber. Marlene, whose birthday it is next week, he should put in an order for her favorite yellow roses.

He knows why they’ve arisen, these distractions, but that doesn’t make it any better. Knows he’ll have to face it, when he lets the putter head go. Normally it’s the opposite, his mind empties when he’s out here, he plays the shots thinking only of his swing. A few weak ones at the outset, he’s never been a strong starter, but then the better ones begin to mount. A driver struck true, drawing into the fairway, an iron so pure it sizzles off the club. A sandy with a nice thump, a chip that rolls out perfectly to tap-in range. And several putts nicely holed, as the television people say, curling left or right from the high side into the cup with the satisfying clatter.

Sometimes there’s enough of them to raise hope that it will at last be the day. The day he enters the pleasing number on the scorecard, the one beginning with a seven instead of an eight. Seven has magic that eight does not, those old childhood novelties notwithstanding. As chance would have it, he found one in the garage the other day, when he was consolidating the boxes of memories. Don’t count on it, the black ball said when he shook it. Destination uncertain.

But seven? Seven offers only certainty, majesty, it’s prime for a reason. Seven will get you in to places, while eight will leave you standing at the door. The seven wonders of the world, a seven-year itch, four score and seven. Lucky seven. No one enters a casino planning their fortune around the cube of two. Hard eight, they call it. A desperation play.

It even looks better, seven, the two lines meeting at an angle. Horizontal, then diagonal, with a slash across the latter if you’re fancy. An arrow pointing the way, not fat and doughty, like the two circles resting on top of each other. The snowman when they stand alone, a ruin. The two rings mock him at the end, torment him, the last time he was close he didn’t bother writing them down. 39/42, 43/37, the total doesn’t matter. The first digit is always the same.

It’s the rough patch that gets him, always there is one. A slice off the tee might start it, a shank from a thick lie, the hero shot poorly tried. But whatever the cause, the weak swings return. Worst is the wedge that doesn’t quite carry, like a wounded pheasant it falls, into the pot bunker on eleven or the water guarding seventeen. He’s been there many times, needing something to carry on seventeen. It’s as far as he’s gotten when he’s being honest with himself, the splash an old friend who appears at an inopportune time, looking to borrow money or for “just an hour” for help in moving.

Next time, the splash says. Maybe next time.

Today the wedge flew though, you should’ve seen it. Soared into the mauve sky, there was just enough light left to finish the round. Like an eagle it soared, like the osprey by the fairgrounds near his house, high above the channel by the shore. Downward strike, ball first, the sound that he’s always searching for. Smack, thwack. Two feet uphill, the birdie couldn’t have been any easier.

He should be able to do that every time, he thinks, as he sizes up the putt once more. He doesn’t know why, or rather he does, but simply can’t abide it at moments like these. He struck the iron on eighteen just as pure, he heard it and felt it as he watched the ball climb. But a gust or a wobble and then the shot’s dying on the collar, trundling down the false front into the lightly mown rough. Leaving him a pitch he admittedly babied, if he’d swung like he’d planned he’d have only three feet left instead of five.

One last look from his crouch, just enough until he thinks he’s sure. He should have hit it by now, this delay can’t be helping. Though at least the distractions have left him, the workaday concerns, he imagines only the ball’s path now, as it will travel towards the cup. You have to see it to make it, everyone says, he’s gotten better at that over time. Fewer visions of disaster, of sneezing during his swing, of grounding the club and the putt dying. No, no. None of that. Into the hole and to the bottom, there really isn’t any other way.

He picks up his coin, postures himself at the ready. Eyes over the ball, arms hanging loose — he’s never had a lesson for this, though he knows they’re available. Gates and sticks and lasered silver mirrors, he’s seen them on the practice green when he plays on the weekend. The golf shop doesn’t carry them though, the pro says they’re overrated. Is that something in his line, a speck of dirt or a grain of sand? Stop it, Jackson, stop it. Just hit the damn ball.

Two practice swings, one final, that’s his routine. Back and through. Back and through.

Back and through.

The stroke is a good one, neither pushed nor pulled, the putt starts where he intended. A fine roll, as they say, end over end, a billiard ball after a kiss from the cue. Over the green and towards the hole, the logo on the front blurring wonderfully into a line.

If it goes in, it won’t matter, he tells himself, if it doesn’t, the same. He’ll still have to rise too early tomorrow, he’ll still have to pick up Marlene. The snacks at the grill will remain imperfect, the news on his phone will ever make him groan. In or out, lipped or not, Jackson will still be Jackson, whether it’s the cube or the prime.

But watching it he knows differently, the numbers always count. Validation or confirmation, there will be no avoiding it. To be shared or kept secret, bragged over or brooded about. Grace or cruelty, the game has them all.

It’s on the last foot now, headed towards the center. A twitch, a twinge — his arms begin to rise. Like Jack, like Tiger, his putter crests his knees. And then his waist and his sternum, headed towards his shoulders. Light as air, he barely even notices it. A weight about to lift, he hadn’t really known.

He plans, he schemes — he will share, he will brag. To whom he isn’t certain, perhaps only to himself. He can do it, he thinks, that is what this means. Whether at work or at play, at home or away, once, just once, he reached high and grasped it, held it, didn’t let it go.

But then . . .

He stares at it balefully, the ball tottering on the edge. And then back a little, just a skosh, digging the knife in. He waits a few seconds, for what he doesn’t know. That gust from the fairway, a tremor from the earth below. But nothing will move it, it carries an unnatural weight. An anvil, a boulder, designed only to stay still.

Hard eight.

He walks over to finish it, looking at it there. There’s his name in bright green, the five dollars extra seems hardly to have been worth the expense. He should change the printing next time, in honor of this day. Virtually; nearly. Almost. He brings the putter back to hole out, then stops, studying his name once more. JACKSON, it says, on the brink, on the precipice. He’s always there, it seems, before he takes that one shot more.

And that’s where he’ll stay today, he’ll be damned if he gives in. Not now, he thinks, not ever, as he walks away from the hole. Let someone else have the small trophy, let them find it and wonder. Was it for par or for bogey, for an unsightly 80 or a beautiful 79? Because tomorrow Jackson has to get up early, at lunchtime he has to pick up Marlene. Though he should play again on Thursday if he can, perhaps his fortunes will change. Next time, always there’s next time.