I grew up beside a public golf course and we would skip on at the 3rd and play. One day, I was about 14 and as I was preparing to take a shot I noticed a little field mouse sitting cleaning it's it's face with its front feet. A guy was walking along the rough with a stick looking for list golf balls and he saw me looking down and could see something moving. He asked what's that. A wee mouse I replied. He then swung the stick and hit the little mouse on the side of its head, taking a patch of its head off. It writhed in agony and died. He was laughing at this. . I felt sick and the red mist descended, I took my 4 iron and swung it down on his head. He moved his head to the side and I smacked it, spitting it open. He turned and ran and I followed him and swung again to hit the back of his head, I missed his head and struck him on the back, breaking my club.
I have often thought about that and felt deep shame that I wasted my favourite club on the ****. Never had another like it.