What will it take for Mark to break the "jinx" on hole number 7?

Source : http://www.highlightskids.com/Stories/Fiction/F0600_number7Jinx.asp...


The Number 7 Jinx“You can do it, Mark.”


I gripped my five iron and swung. The ball soared through the air and dropped right into the pond on hole number 7. Plop.


“I’m jinxed, Dad. I can never keep the ball out of that water.”


“There’s no such thing as a jinx,” Dad said.


Easy for him to say. His ball was five feet from the flag. Mine was five feet underwater. But at least it wasn’t lonely. It had the company of the million other balls I’d plunked into the pond on number 7.


The next weekend Dad and I played at the county golf course again. “Nice easy swing,” he said when it was my turn to hit on number 7.


Maybe I overdid it with the nice and easy part. My ball trickled down the fairway and rolled into the water.


“Try again,” Dad said. “Pretend the water’s not even there.”


I might as well pretend the Atlantic Ocean isn’t between here and Europe.


“Go ahead,” Dad said. “Tell yourself there’s no water there.”


I put a ball on my tee and mumbled, “No water there, no water.”


I hit the ball. It made a beeline for the water that wasn’t there and skipped like a stone. Unfortunately, it stopped skipping before it reached the green. And it sank like a stone.


The next time we played number 7, Dad had a new idea. “Maybe you need a different club.”


I took the three wood out of my bag.


“Fire away!” Dad said.


I did. But the water on number 7 put out the fire.


“It’s the number 7 jinx,” I cried.


Dad didn’t even argue.


That night I dreamed the number 7 pond came alive. It had a face on it like the faces on the trains in my old picture books. It was sticking out its big red tongue at me and going, “Nah nah nah-nah nah.”


I hit ball after ball. The pond gobbled them up and said, “Mmm, good.” I flung my club. The pond said, “Yum, dessert,” and ate it, too. I waded into the water to get my club. The bottom was squishy and slimy except for the bumpy spots where my golf balls had landed.


I woke up in a sweat.


Every ball I hit on that hole went straight into the water.“Dad,” I said at breakfast, “I’m going to conquer number 7.”


“Hooray!”


I took some of the money I’d been saving for a new putter and bought a big bag of used balls.


“Can we go out to the course just before dark?” I asked Dad. That way everybody would probably be finished playing number 7.


The sky was starting to turn pale by the time we reached the number 7 tee. I took out the bag of water-hole balls I’d bought. They call them that because they’re old balls that you’re not supposed to mind losing in the water. Yeah, right.


“You can do it, Mark!” Dad said.


I put the first ball on the tee. Plop. Second ball. Plop. By the time I had hit the twentieth ball it was so dark I could barely see the green. We lost sight of the last couple of balls. The katydids were chirping so loud I couldn’t hear the plops anymore.


“You can try again next weekend,” Dad said. “I’ll even buy you more water-hole balls.”


“Thanks, Dad.” I appreciated the offer, but I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to see another golf ball.


“Let’s get back to the club-house,” Dad said.


I pulled my cart past the pond and gave one more glance at the number 7 green.


“Hey!” I cried. “Is that a ball?” I pointed to a whitish speck on the green.


“Go check,” said Dad.


Sure enough, there was an old ball right in the middle of the number 7 green. “It can’t be mine,” I told Dad.


“It must be one of the balls we lost sight of after you hit it.”


“I hit that?”


“You did.”


I wish I could say I never again hit another ball into the water on number 7, but that wouldn’t be the truth. One thing is true, though. That was the end of the number 7 jinx. Now, if I can only figure out how to stay out of the sand trap on hole number 9.