Hours after the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks, the writer stood in the rubble of the World Trade Center.

He passed buckets of debris down a line of volunteers and first responders.

A small white object in the gray ash caught his eye.

It was a dirty, scuffed golf ball.

Someone nearby told him not to throw it out.

The writer never learned that person's name.

They both understood what it meant.

They found something personal in the acres of crushed concrete and twisted steel.

He put the ball near a pile of shredded metal.

People believed the metal came from the hijacked planes.

In those first chaotic hours, people dug through "the pile."

They searched for any sign of life.

Early hope quickly turned to despair.

Very little was recognizable.

Finding a torn photo, a paperweight or a shoe felt like a punch in the stomach.

Each object told a story about someone now gone.

The writer was a keen golfer at the time.

So the ball hit him especially hard.

He imagined it sitting in a jar on a desk with other balls.

Each ball had a company logo on it.

He liked to believe it marked a happy moment.

Maybe it was a closed deal or a good shot.

Golf is mostly frustrating, he notes.

But it is also about hope and friendship.

That is why the ball still matters 25 years later.