Frozen lake turf
Ice hides a late trough until the ball comes out fat.
Eau Claire lies in January are rarely kind. A bob that still looked fine on a mat will throw a skull from frozen rye and a knuckle from the lake path.
We do not own a lake. We own a gallows and a memory of how this town's grass actually sits: rye that goes glass after a thaw-freeze, park turf that never dries under live oak, Carson infield dirt that grabs a late face.
If your card says you live on the ice line, the beat call gets stricter. A poster bob on a scoring iron is a fat shot waiting for the next Phoenix Park evening.