Transfusion

My father-in-law does not say much. A nod means approval. A grunt means disappointment. Silence means he's thinking about the stock market.

We played on a crisp Saturday morning in early fall, leaves gathered at the edges of the greens like spectators. He read every putt from four angles, crouched low, one eye closed, as if the green were a document he intended to sue.

On the 7th at PopStroke The Colony he faced a twenty-five-footer, sidehill, breaking hard right off a ridge. He hit it. It broke. It dropped. He nodded. Once.

I took that as permission. I ordered us a round of Transfusions, delivered right out to the course.

Every golfer knows the transfusion cocktail, or should. Tito's vodka, smooth and dependable as an old leather bag. Owen's transfusion mix, the drink's whole reason for being, the color of a bruised plum at sunrise. A squeeze of fresh lime juice to sharpen the edges. Simple. Classic as a pleated trouser.

He took a long sip on the walk to the 8th. He looked out at the green, at the slope rolling away from the cup. Then, for the first time in nine years, my father-in-law spoke without being spoken to.

"Good drink," he said. I've been calling him Frank ever since.