The rails do not care about the letter on the ferrule.

A four-iron that looked long in a catalog photo will stall when dew sits on the Lincoln Home turf and the head is too willing to stay asleep. Otis hangs it, the needle sits in a thinner county than the seven, and June writes 'exile' on pink before anyone mentions loft.

Players blame the rails. The rails are a fence. The neighborhood is the file. We add mass or we send the four home. We do not average it with the seven as a souvenir of the walk from the plaza.