I don’t golf. I accept it as a good game, just not my game. I have passing familiarity with the sport’s current stars. I spent Sunday afternoons with my dad while the hushed voice of some British-accented commentator filled in the spaces in our own conversation. Think of all that as background. I understand that those who play the game sometimes need to practice hitting balls. I thought that is what driving ranges are for. Why blast the balls into the lake? No one is going to retrieve them. I don’t know exactly what they are made out of, but they don’t melt away once they find their final watery resting place. They are littering our clear lake’s lake bottom and that’s a shame. I used to think that at least they are too big to hurt our lake creatures. Nothing would try to eat one, I thought. Then I saw a snapping turtle with a mouth big enough to swallow a small eastern seaboard state in Ghost Bay and I wondered if it might think one of the white ones is an egg of some sort and scarf it down.