My tee shot, a duck hook, caromed off one of the pine trees just beyond the gate and bounced back into the fairway. Mike’s was a pop-up, just beyond the entry road, but down the middle.
When we holed out, both with bogeys, around 11:00 AM, I called Wanda, the clubhouse manager. “We’re starting number seven. Could you put two hot dogs on? Thank you.”
Some days are magic, especially for two old duffers in a gas-fueled cart — cloudless, windless, and 60°.
Even the weiners were perfect.
We each had a few pars and a shot or two we could recollect on a snowy February morning. For Mike, two fifteen-foot putts; for me, a six iron at the pin on number four.
On the last hole, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed two young guys carrying their bags.
I stood at attention and remembered.
____________________________________________________________________________________
