The human body is a very precious thing. 

An extraordinarily precious thing. And once, when I was six, seven, eight, or nine, I struck a human body. I struck it with a golf club. It was hot and sticky outside when I hurt my dad. 

Did I ask to visit the range? Or was I dragged there? I can’t remember. 

The range is down the road from the state facility for violent juvenile offenders. 

There was junk food at the range. 

I was drinking Coca-Cola a lot. I was exercising that privilege a lot. And Pepsi’s okay. I like Dr. Pepper, too. And Mr. Pibb, whenever I can spot Mr. Pibb. 

My older brother is a very decent person at the range. He never criticizes me at the range. He never hurts me at the range. He never corrects my posture. Or my swing. And I smack those golf balls. And sometimes, they go pretty far. At least it looks that way. 

But on this afternoon: my father’s attempting to correct my posture. He’s attempting to correct my swing. He’s attempting to correct me. He’s behind me. And I strike him. With my backswing. And could I have killed him? I could have killed him. 

He’s on the grass now. He’s in some real agony. But there’s no blood. I’m standing there. I’m watching him. He’s hiding under a picnic table. Mom’s coming. Nowadays, we all laugh. But I could’ve killed him. 

I would just smack those golf balls. 

And sometimes, they would go pretty far. 

MYLES ZAVELO lives and writes in Brooklyn, NY, and attends Stony Brook University’s Creative Writing MFA Program. His writing has appeared in New York Tyrant Magazine, The Harvard Advocate, and elsewhere.