Hand Breaded
Wings

Rain. Not a storm, just a long, gray November drizzle that made the greens run a touch slower and turned every putt into a philosophical question.

I was alone. A stranger in a waxed canvas jacket asked if he could join me on the 3rd at PopStroke Cedar Park.

He had a putting stroke like a metronome and the patience of a lighthouse keeper. He never said his name. On the 6th, with a lag putt that climbed one tier and dropped down another, he left it six inches short and simply nodded, as if the ball had kept an appointment. We ducked under the patio cover and he ordered chicken wings for the table.

Hand-breaded traditional wings, golden and craggy, each one an armored little masterpiece. And the choice. My word, the choice. Homemade BBQ. Garlic parmesan. Mango habanero, for those who flirt with danger. Even Nashville hot dry rub. We went sweet heat. Then, after some negotiation, another round in honey-roasted garlic.

Blue cheese or ranch on the side, your call. He took blue cheese. I took ranch. Neither of us judged the other.

The rain kept falling. Water beaded in every cup. We finished the round soaked to the ankles, tied on the scorecard, and parted at the gate without a single introduction.

I still think about his follow-through.