Brisket-blend
Burger

Rain. A soft gray Tuesday afternoon rain, the kind that empties a course and leaves only the stubborn and the romantic.

I was both. I played alone under a borrowed umbrella, the greens slick and quick, every putt running a foot farther than I meant it to. On the eleventh at PopStroke The Colony, a long downhill lag with a slope that pulls everything hard to the left, I simply stood there and admired the view.

A stranger under the patio awning called out, "Hit it softer than you think." I did. It died six inches from the cup. Tap-in par. I raised my putter to him like a sword.

He was eating a brisket burger, and he pointed at it like a man sharing a stock tip.

The brisket-blend burger. A 1/2lb triple blend beef patty, thick and serious, the sort of burger that asks you to sit down properly. Your choice of cheese, melted over the top like a blanket over a sleeping dog. Lettuce, tomato and red onion, crisp and sharp and cold. A toasted brioche bun, golden, faintly sweet, holding the whole affair with quiet dignity. And a pickle spear on the side, briny, emphatic, a full stop at the end of a long sentence.

I ordered one. Then I sat beside him and watched the rain dimple the greens.

We never exchanged names. I think of him every time I leave a putt short.