Hours after the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks, the writer stood in the rubble.

The rubble was the World Trade Center.

He passed buckets of debris down a line.

The line had volunteers and first responders.

A small white object caught his eye.

It was in the gray ash.

It was a scuffed, dirty golf ball.

Someone nearby told him not to throw it out.

The writer never learned that person's name.

They both understood something.

It was special to find something personal there.

The area had acres of crushed concrete and twisted steel.

He set the ball near a mound of shredded metal.

People believed the metal came from the hijacked planes.

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

They looked for any sign of life.

Early hope quickly turned to despair.

Very little was recognizable.

Finding a torn photo felt like a gut punch.

Finding a paperweight felt the same.

Finding a shoe felt the same.

Each object told a story about someone now gone.

The writer was an avid golfer at the time.

So the ball hit especially hard.

He imagined it on a desk in a jar.

It sat with other balls.

Each ball had a corporate logo.

He liked to believe it marked a happy moment.

Maybe a closed deal.

Maybe a good shot.

Golf is mostly frustrating, he notes.

But it is also about hope and friendship.

That is why the ball still resonates 25 years later.