The Game :: Creative Writing Essays

The Game     They tried to hide the huge needle, of course. He laid with his memorial tablet planted hard into the sheets. His father and a nurse held him down by his shoulders and legs.The needle was pushed in just above his hip. He took it better than nearly boys his age. He clenched as it made its way through his skin. It stop when it met his hipbone.The cook had to ratchet it this instant, hard, to penetrate the bone. He clenched harder. The doctor now rocked the needle around in every direction now, to break of the move of marrow that was drawn. The boys lips finally opened. His father would never forget the scream that came out. both he did was tighten his grip as the boy thrashed. It was this, or it was death.      The doctor had all that was needed for now. A sample to analyze before devising a final decision. Tomorrow, if all was good, the needle would have to go in four more times, it wouldnt hurt though, promise. "Dont wor ry, David, youll get anesthesia next time. Youll be numb, youll never feel a thing."     He stepped out of the car and looked around. forward him he observed a stately building, manicured flowers, lush green grass. He noticed some men wearing spotless shoes, and neatly creased fiddle standing on the grass observing a small face cloth ball and trading remarks that made them smile. Everyone, everything, seemed so peaceful, so clean, so faultless at Timuquana Country Club.     David Duval was just nine. He was so short that his clasp of clubs almost dragged on the ground. He was slightly chunky, with freckled skin. His bottle-thick glasses sit on his nose. He carried six bags of golf balls to the driving range. If you watched how he carried himself, you wouldnt have sex that he had really just started playing, or that the bag of clubs was irritating a string of puncture scars on his hips.     He poured the balls out and began sending them fast across the grass. The men finished and moved away. David left only to uplift six more bags of balls, about 150 more balls, and returned, again and again. "David," Woodrow Burton, a club employee, begged, "you better leave some of them balls for the members." David, saying nothing, opened his palms for the balls. in brief those calluses would be hard, those hands wouldnt feel a thing.