By sixteen, Mapona was a ghost himself. He had grown tall and lean, with shoulders that seemed to hinge too loosely, allowing him to coil and uncoil like a spring. He worked caddying at the local municipal course, Randfontein Links—a dusty, brown-burnt nine-hole track where the greens were baked mud and the bunkers were more likely to contain dog waste than silica sand. The real golfers called it “The Dustbowl.”
The silence on the tee was absolute.
The registration official, a thin woman with spectacles, looked at him over her clipboard. “Son, do you have a SA Golf handicap card?” Mapona South African Amateur Pon Part 1
“Then you cannot play.”