The concrete
A sill does not bruise in the middle first. The toe takes the barge.
Lock concrete records the keel where the hull actually sat, not where the captain wished it sat. A golf face does the same on Washington Street: carbon migrates to the toe long before the player believes the lie is upright.
We dust a thin carbon film and read the stain after six balls on the rye we keep in the chamber, then six more into a fan that mimics Ice Harbor afternoons. If the stain walks toward the toe only in the fan, the problem is wind posture, not the sole. If it walks in still air too, Niles marks flatten.
When the long irons scar the toe and the pitching face still prints inside the third score, we refuse a single lie verdict. That bag is two barges in one chamber. The five gets a degree; the wedge stays until a later cycle.
People who want one number for every iron are asking the lockmaster to average a coal barge with a pleasure boat. The sill keeps separate scars.