Commentary: A dark drive of the soul
A golf course in Encino. A phone call.
It’s my college roommate, from the East Coast. A friend has died.
“Oh, no.”
“But you don’t know how he died.”
I’m still playing.
“He was murdered ... by his son.”
“Oh my God.”
Approaching the 15th green, I tell my golfing partner the news, then sink a 24-foot putt for par.
“If you’d gotten that call three hours ago, you’d have had your best round ever.”
We laugh a lot.
It’s the drive home that wrenches me
