The Early
Bird Plate

There is a certain kind of person who believes the day is wasted after eight in the morning. My father was one. I have, to my surprise, become another.

So I was there early. Cool air. Long shadows across the greens at PopStroke Scottsdale. Not a soul on the course except me and a pair of retired schoolteachers who play every Tuesday and keep score in pencil.

They invited me to join. I accepted. On hole 2, an uphill putt with a tier halfway, one of them told me to "hit it like you mean it, then forgive yourself after." I have been thinking about that ever since.

After nine, we sat on the patio and ordered The Early Bird Plate, three times over.

A two-egg cheese omelette, the cheese melting out at the seams like it had somewhere to be. Your choice of sausage or bacon. I chose bacon. The schoolteachers chose sausage and looked at me with mild pity. Breakfast potatoes alongside. And fresh fruit, cool and sweet, a palate cleanser for the soul.

It was simple. It was honest. It was exactly what a morning should be.

We played the back nine before most people had finished their coffee. I took a bogey on 15 and a birdie on 17. One of them wrote both down in pencil, carefully, the way you record something that matters.