Kids
Tenders

Early evening in May. Lilacs on the breeze, the course at PopStroke The Colony starting to glow, and my granddaughter, Ruby, nine years old and deadly serious, standing at the start of the 13th.

It's a short hole. A straight shot, if you read the slope right. She read the slope right. She drew the putter back, smooth as a metronome, and sent the ball rolling up the little rise, across the flat, curling ever so slightly to the left.

It went in. One stroke. An ace.

She did not jump. She did not shout. She simply turned and looked at me with an expression I last saw on my late husband's face the day he won the club championship in 1987. Then, very quietly, she said, "Grandma, I'm hungry."

So we walked to the patio. Kids Tenders, of course, her standing order from the kids menu. Hand-breaded chicken tenders, crispy and golden, with that satisfying crunch that announces itself across a table. Chips piled alongside. The kind of meal you eat with your fingers and your whole heart.

She ate the first tender in four bites, then slowed down, savoring, the way champions do. Then she ran off to the playground, coming back every few minutes for another chip like a car making a pit stop.

On the way out she asked if we could frame the scorecard. We did. It hangs in my kitchen now, beside a photograph from 1987.