I am watching fresh hormone bombs, swinging their clubs, and elegantly planting their back feet into the ground like wannabe ballerinas on the first T-shirt, just outside the sunny terrace. I came to the golf club hoping to gather some old-fashioned wisdom, but not today. So it's time for the teenage boys. Only one woman can say this.
Their golf caps, short-sleeved shirts, shorts, golf shoes, and sparse facial hair all look similar. Some walk confidently like adults, then argue with each other like five-year-olds.
To their left, a group of parents in tightly fitted jackets nervously chat about their son's grades, with stiff shoulders and hips. Nearby, a middle-aged man in a school-branded T-shirt sits with a cold beer, closely watching the kids.
“Stop wagging your tail, relax!” a man yells at a teenager, who is nervously fidgeting in his shorts pocket.
Four loud boys with beards and deep voices sit at the table next to me. The loudest one also has the broadest shoulders, shouting, “Gotta check the snapshot, Bra! 1.1 million views!”
The tallest one chuckles. “Do you know how many snapshots that is?!”