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POPSTROKE

BarTenders Eatery

All-American
Dog

Char-grilled Gleezy Dog on a toasted bun

July. Three in the afternoon. Heat rising off the course in waves you could almost read the break through.

Danny and I played Little League together, back when our biggest problem was a curveball. Now we have mortgages and knees that make noises. Once a summer, we meet here, play 18 holes and pretend nothing has changed.

On the 9th, a long downhill putt, he barely touched it. It trickled, and trickled, and kept on trickling, past the cup and right off the far edge of the green. We laughed so hard a family on 10 turned around to look. Halfway point. We stepped off at the turn and ordered on the patio.

The All-American Dog. A classic hot dog, no disguises, no fuss. A char-grilled Gleezy Dog on a toasted bun. Ketchup and yellow mustard, red and gold, painted down the length of it the way it was always meant to be. Crisp diced onions for crunch. Chopped pickles, green and briny, scattered like confetti after a parade.

I bit in and I was eleven years old, sitting on a bleacher with a sunburn on the back of my neck and nowhere to be.

Danny had mustard on his chin. I didn't tell him. That is what friends are for.

On the back nine, he sank a thirty-footer and pointed at me like he'd planned it all along. He had not. Neither of us cared.

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