Some golf balls spend their eternity clanging around in a drawer or a compartment in the trunk of a car. Others sit on a wall plaque commemorating a hole-in-one or a favorite round. Others rest deep in the woods, after rattling through the trees. It hears the occasional group crunching through the forest but can’t call out for help. It watches time go by, leaves turning and growing, rain falling, sun blazing. The cycles of the year slowly helping the ground swallow the ball up until it’s completely buried, never to be found by another golfer again.