Jim was not the luckiest person in the world. In fact, he may well have been the unluckiest. His house was uninsured when it burned down. His wife ran off with another man. He lost his job when the business went bankrupt. He lost all his money when the stock market took a nosedive. His dog bit him. And the pizza delivery boy ran over his toe while backing out of his driveway.
But there was one saving grace in Jim's life. Golf. He loved to play golf, not that he was any good at it. Every weekend was spent on the course. He took lessons from the pro. He avidly read all the golf magazines. He watched golf tournaments, both in person and on the television. Jim could not get enough of golf but, as I said, he was not good at the game. He chopped and sliced to his heart's content but the ball invariably went where Jim did want it to go. He loved golf and often wished he could at least break 100, if only once.
It was not to be. One day, while teeing up, Jim had a heart attack and died. Jim had often expressed the desire to be cremated when he died and his ashed spread on the seventh green, which had the most beautiful view of the course. And so he was duly cremated and his ashes brought to the seventh green.
And as they emptied the urn, a wind came up and blew Jim out of bounds.