All You Can
Eat Ribs

Thunder, somewhere past the parking lot. The kind of August night where the air feels like a damp towel and the cicadas have opinions.

My rival was a man named Gil. We have been playing each other for six summers. He wears sunglasses after dark. I have never asked why.

On the fourteenth at PopStroke The Colony, a two-tier green, I left my lag putt hanging on the upper shelf like laundry on a line. Gil smiled. Gil always smiles.

We retreated to the patio as the first fat raindrops arrived, and I made a decision a lesser person might regret. All you can eat ribs. Endless ribs. Rack upon rack, as long as the will holds out and the napkins hold up.

There is something primal about it. Meat on the bone. Fingers sticky. Conversation reduced to grunts of approval and the occasional, reverent silence. The rain drummed on the umbrella overhead. Gil, a man of considerable appetite and very little shame, matched me plate for plate.

I want to tell you I won that night. On the course, I did not. Gil parred out while I chased a birdie I had no business chasing.

But at the table? At the table I was magnificent. Gil tapped out first. He folded his napkin, set it on the bones, and said, quietly, "Rematch." I said, "Bring the sunglasses."