Chick
Magnet

Cornhole is a game of quiet dignity. Nobody tells you that. They see the bean bags and the wooden boards and they think it's child's play.

It is not. It is war, conducted with underhand tosses.

A cool November evening, the string lights coming on over the patio at PopStroke Hamlin, our round of putting finished and scored. I'd three-putted the 16th from the top tier, a disaster I prefer not to revisit. My opponent at the boards was a stranger named Lou, sixty if he was a day, wearing a sweater vest that meant business.

Before the first toss, I ordered a Chick Magnet. You get a choice: Flecha Azul Tequila, warm and agave-forward, or Aspen Vodka, clean as fresh snow. I went tequila, which makes it a cranberry margarita with ambitions. Lou, a traditionalist, went vodka.

Triple sec, a glow of orange. Cranberry juice, tart and ruby-red, the color of a Christmas ribbon. A squeeze of lime juice to keep everyone honest. It came out cold, pink, and handsome, the kind of drink that makes people at the next table ask what you've got.

I took a sip. I tossed. The bag slid across the board, kissed the edge, and dropped clean through the hole. Lou raised his glass in salute.

Then he threw four in a row. I bought the next round, and Lou taught me how to hold the bag.