Leo didn't cheer. He just wiped the rain off his grip and looked at The Eagle. "I believe the grass stays," Leo said.

"One shot, kid," The Eagle sneered, leaning against a gold-plated golf cart. "Land it in the cup from the tee, and I’ll tear up the contract. Miss, and the bulldozers move in at dawn."

The ball hopped onto the green, caught a tiny ridge created by an unpatched molehill, and began a slow, agonizing roll toward the flag. The world went silent. With a soft clink , the ball disappeared.

The rain didn’t just fall at Wellworn Grove; it apologized. It was a soft, misty drizzle that clung to the rusted gates of the once-grand country club. At the center of the ninth green stood Leo, clutching a wood-paneled driver that had belonged to his father.

Leo wasn't there to win a trophy. He was there to save the lease. The local "Land Baron," a man who wore a silk tracksuit and insisted on being called The Eagle , wanted to turn the fairway into a luxury parking lot for his nearby shopping mall.

It was a 400-yard par 4. Impossible for a normal golfer. But Leo wasn't normal; he had spent the last six months practicing his "Trick-Shot Soul." He didn't just hit balls; he talked to the wind.

The Eagle grumbled, kicked his gold cart, and retreated into the fog. Wellworn Grove was safe, at least until the next tournament. Leo looked up at the sky and smiled; for the first time in years, the sun was finally peeking through the clouds of the back nine.

The ball soared, a white comet against the gray sky. It struck the bronze statue’s outstretched club with a metallic ping , ricocheted at a sharp 45-degree angle, and skipped across the surface of the "Water Hazard of Despair" like a flat stone. The Eagle dropped his cigar.