It all hinges on us—without us, there would be no game. But do they see it that way? NO! How desperately they want to win and gain social status. Even the little attention we do receive from them, it’s not for us. They keep us clean so we work better. We slave away just to prop up their public image, and once we’re “broken,” we’re simply thrown away.
My life started when I was put into a small box with my two identical twins. Then, I was chosen, taken from the shelf, and purchased. When the time came, when the box was opened, they separated me from my triplets and tossed my home in the trash can, never to be seen again. But what do they care? To them, we all look the same. They hit us to play their game. The harder they hit, the happier they are! Oh how my head hurts! And “putting” us into the hole is their final goal! Isn’t that simply hilarious?
I have to admit, I am among the lucky ones. Few of us don’t even have the privilege of being found and hit in the head again. Oh, how fortunate it is to be whacked again and again and again! Our less fortunate brothers and sisters are just left in the bush—forever lost. But the driving range ones have the worst of it. They’re used for practice; their life is just an endless cycle of abuse.
You know, it's not all bad. We do have our moments of guilty pleasure. What joy it is when they miss and hit the ground—they chunk, we chuckle. I cannot put into words how gratifying it is when they hurt their wrist. Their profanity is music to our ears. And let’s not forget those jolly moments when they putt us and we lip out. Our wicked delight, which occurs once in a white moon, is when one of these geniuses hits us so well that we return to hit them in their head. But our hole-in-one—they may not see it as we do—is our every flight into the watery grave beyond the green. Oh, what splash of defiance! They are teed off, and we get a great tee-hee out of it.
The golf ball is one of the few survivors; all those swings to the head and we still haven’t completely lost our mind. Let’s consider, for a moment, our more vulnerable brothers and sisters. The baseball is constantly thwacked with the bat, the tennis ball has a long history of being smashed with the racket, the squash ball always has her cheek slammed against the wall. The basketball actually likes it when one of those weirdly tall ballers takes it to the rack, because the net is the one soft place away from all those sweaty, whopping palms. What about the good old hockey puck? She’s been hit so many times that she no longer looks like a ball; she’s a puck, for God's sake! Take a look at my brother the ping pong—no brain left in his soft head. And have some pity on the poor soccer ball. How would you like it if twenty-two idiots chased you around a field and repeatedly kicked you in the butt? But do you know who has it the worst? Well, let me enlighten you. He has twenty-two American giants throwing themselves onto him! I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s going through. We all envy the lucky volleyball. She just gets slapped around a bit by a bunch of players. And then there’s the cue sports. The abuse our coloured brothers and sisters suffer at the hands of the chalked cue is Machiavellian. They are pitted against each other; they are hit to hit one another. At least for dodgeballs, they use them to hurt themselves. As you can now see, most of our cousins have been hit so much they don't feel the pain anymore. But we do—we’re not just another ball in the basket. We are the voice of those who have lost theirs.
Even us golf balls with our puny brains have realized what they turn a blind eye to: the inequality between women’s and men’s golf. We can easily tell that their men earn WAY more than the ladies. We also hear of the inequality in other aspects of their society—racial discrimination, sexism, the wealth gap. But do we care? NOPE! We’ve got our own problems to deal with. So, you know what? Why don’t they stick to sports like wrestling and boxing? At least they take their rage out on each other. Leave us balls alone.