Grilled
Wings

Golden hour in late August. The light came in sideways and turned every blade of grass on the 9th at PopStroke The Colony into a filament of amber. My younger brother Pete, home on leave, was up two strokes and would not stop mentioning it.

Little brothers are like that, especially with big sisters. Forever.

I had a long downhill putt across a slope that fell away like a ski run. I barely touched it. It trickled, curled, and stopped at the lip, peering into the cup like a man looking over the edge of the Grand Canyon. Pete laughed so hard he had to sit down. So we stepped off at the turn and ordered grilled chicken wings on the patio. While the wings were on the grill, he beat me at ping pong too, which felt excessive.

Jumbo brined wings, off the grill, with the char in all the right places. Big wings. Wings with presence. Wings that walk into a room and everyone turns. And you choose how they're dressed: homemade BBQ, hot BBQ, garlic parmesan, mango habanero, and more. Pete went straight for hot. I chose honey-roasted garlic, because one of us had to have some class.

Blue cheese or ranch to cool things down. We ordered both and argued about it the entire time.

We ate standing at the patio rail, napkins tucked in our collars, sauce on our knuckles, watching the sun slide behind the trees.

He won by three. I let him think it was skill. It was the wings, mostly.