Kids Grilled
Cheese

My grandson, Eli, is six, and he putts the way he does everything: fast, hopeful, and with total disregard for the slope.

On the 3rd at PopStroke Katy, a gentle left-to-right break, I knelt beside him and pointed. "See how the green leans? Aim a little high." He nodded gravely, aimed directly at the hole, and hit it with the force of a small locomotive.

It rattled the back of the cup, hopped once, and fell in.

He turned to me, eyes enormous. I told him that was exactly what I meant. Grandparents are permitted these small lies.

By the 10th, his energy had a certain wobble to it, so we took a seat on the patio in the late afternoon sun. Kids Grilled Cheese, the grilled cheese sandwich of every childhood. Bread toasted in butter until it went crisp and golden and gave off a smell I last remember from my own mother's kitchen. Inside, American and Mozzarella cheese, melted together into one long, glorious stretch.

Eli pulled the halves apart slowly. A bridge of cheese held on, thinner and thinner, until it gave way. He laughed like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened. Maybe it was. Then he ran to the playground, came back for the last bite, and ran off again.

Back on the course, he aimed a little high. Just a little. I saw it, and I'll remember it longer than any putt of my own.