Return to Earth

For all his galactic fame, for all the reality-bending trick shots and philosophical putting lessons, there was one thing Mike Delaney had never done since arriving in Puttaria:

Go home.

Earth had become a memory wrapped in fog — familiar, but distant. He never asked the Core of Reality to send him back. He never even stepped through the portal door labeled “Origin World 019-A” in the League’s travel wing. Maybe he thought Earth didn’t need him. Or maybe... he was afraid it did.

But then one day, something strange happened.

Mike was teaching a class of lava-bunnies on Hole 8 ("Volcanic Spiral with Hazard Ducks") when an alarm rang through the League’s crystalline halls — a sharp, echoing tone that hadn’t sounded since the Gorvax incident.

“Interdimensional breach,” came the voice of the AI Referee Spirit. “Source: Earth. Unauthorized putt energy detected.”

Mike froze.

“Repeat: Earth. Unauthorized putt energy. Class-7 signature. Artificial.”

His eyes narrowed. Artificial?

Someone — some thing — on Earth was using golf energy. And not the natural kind. This was synthetic. Built. Engineered.

Weaponized.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The travel portal buzzed with ancient power as Mike approached it later that evening. He stood alone, the Stroke of Destiny on his back, a duffel bag of tools in one hand, and a single thought in his head:

Who the hell’s putting on my planet?

With a breath, he stepped through.

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He landed on a familiar street. Cracked pavement. The smell of car exhaust and fast food. The dull orange glow of a Taco Castle sign blinking in the distance.

Earth.

Home.

And then he heard it — a low, mechanical whirrrrrr-click.

He turned the corner and saw it: a gleaming black SUV, parked outside the old abandoned Putt Paradise. The fence was torn down. The sign, once faded and flickering, now glowed with clean neon.

A new name had replaced the old:

“PUTTNET: A Competitive AI Putting Experience™”

Mike’s stomach dropped.

He approached the gates cautiously. The once-whimsical course had been gutted. Replaced with sleek black panels, LED-lined hazards, and automated drones hovering over every hole.

No heart. No soul. Just tech.

Inside, he spotted a group of kids playing — or at least, trying to.

Their putters were chrome sticks with grip sensors and digital guides. A machine voice barked after every stroke:
"ANGLE DEVIATION: 1.3°. SKILL RATING: INADEQUATE."

One boy, maybe ten, sank a clean 2-stroke putt. He grinned — until the machine voice followed with:
"OPTIMAL STROKE WAS HOLE-IN-ONE. SCORE: SUBPAR."

The kid’s face fell.

Mike’s hands curled into fists.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

He stormed into the central office, kicking open the door with the confidence only a man with a cosmic golf weapon could muster.

Inside stood a man in a grey suit — pale, wired with thin data cables embedded in his skin — watching security feeds.

“Mr. Delaney,” he said smoothly, without turning. “Or should I say, Puttaria’s Prodigal Putter.”

Mike narrowed his eyes. “You’re using putt energy. On Earth.”

“I’m optimizing it,” the man said. “We are Project PUTTNET. A division of Synth-Sport Systems. Our AI analyzed cosmic golf data and found... inefficiencies.”

Mike looked around at the cold, lifeless screens. “You’re turning it into a grind. A leaderboard rat race.”

“Isn’t that what sport is?” the man asked. “Measurement. Mastery. Control.”

Mike slung the Stroke of Destiny into his hands. The runes along its side pulsed with a quiet blue glow.

“You’re missing the point.”

The man smiled. “Then prove me wrong.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night, on the new Course 7 — a robotic mockery of the classic Windmill Hole — a crowd gathered. Word spread fast that Mike Delaney had returned. Locals came. Old friends. Curious kids. Even a few washed-up mini-golf champs who remembered him from the old days.

On the other side of the green stood the Synth-Sport Rep — now connected to a glowing mechanical rig fused with AI putters, vision-targeting goggles, and a servo-arm designed for “perfect” stroke calibration.

The Referee Spirit appeared from a flicker in reality.

“Unofficial Challenge. Stakes: Earth’s golf energy rights. Format: Classic 5-hole duel. No AI interference. No reality bending. Just skill.”

Mike stepped up to the first tee.

Hole 1: The windmill — rebuilt with sleek blades that moved at random.

The Synth Rep analyzed wind speeds, RPM timing, and nanosecond precision. He hit a flawless line, timing it exactly between the blades.

Mike smiled.

He didn’t calculate.

He felt it.

Clink.

Hole in one.

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Hole 2: The Bounce Bridge — a zigzag ramp meant to test angle control.

Synth Rep’s ball followed a laser-guided ricochet path.

Mike used the slope’s imperfections, the crack in the second rail, the slight tilt from decades of weathering. It bounced three times and curved in like a dancer’s pirouette.

Another tie.

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Hole 3: The Spiral Dome.

Here, Synth Rep’s AI faltered.

It overcompensated. Went too precise. The ball bounced off the inner lip.

Mike tapped his shot with a smooth backspin, letting it roll like syrup along the spiral edge.

Plunk.

“Point: Delaney.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hole 4: The Memory Hole.

Images from Mike’s past shimmered in the terrain. His old apartment. His sister’s laugh. A voicemail he never deleted. The green shimmered with grief.

The Synth Rep stumbled, confused.

Mike knelt. Pressed a hand to the green. Let the memory wash over him.

Then, with a soft stroke full of love, he sank it.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Final hole: The Core Shot.

A direct recreation of the last hole he faced in Puttaria.

The Synth Rep glitched. “This is... not regulation.”

Mike smiled. “Neither is real life.”

He swung.

Perfect arc. A soft rise. A gentle curve.

And one last bounce off a loose screw on the metal edge — just enough to drop it into the cup.

Game.

Mike.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The crowd erupted. The kids dropped their AI putters. Ran to hug Mike. A few even cried.

PUTTNET’s systems began to shut down. One by one, the lights blinked off.

Mike turned to the Synth Rep, who now stood alone in the dark.

“Golf’s not about being perfect,” Mike said. “It’s about being present. About finding joy in the game. The moment. The miracle of the green.”

The man nodded, quietly.

He wasn’t smiling. But he understood.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mike stayed on Earth for a few months. Helped rebuild Putt Paradise. Added a few Puttarian features — nothing too wild. Just a floating ramp here, a gravity loop there.

He called it “The Heart Course.”

And one day, a little girl with thick glasses and a nervous smile asked, “Mr. Delaney... can anyone be a champion?”

He crouched, smiled.

“Kid, a champion isn’t who wins the most.”

“It’s who puts the ball back after they miss — and tries again.”