Whiskey
Business

October rain. Not a storm. Just a steady, sideways insistence, drumming on the awning while the course at PopStroke Sarasota glistened under the lights like a freshly waxed bowling lane.

Hollis and I had made it through twelve holes before the sky lost patience. He was up two strokes, thanks to a lag putt on the ninth that rolled sixty feet across a double tier and died at the lip like it had run out of things to say. I am still not over it.

We retreated to the bar. Two stools. Wet jackets. Unfinished business.

The bartender set it down without ceremony, which is the only way a whiskey cocktail like this should arrive. Woodford Reserve, amber and warm, tasting of old libraries and leather armchairs. A dark cherry, glossy as a church pew. A curl of orange. A few dashes of bitters, the way a good story needs a villain. Simple syrup, just enough to keep the peace.

I swirled it. Hollis swirled his. Neither of us spoke for a while.

Then he nodded at the ping pong table in the corner, dry under the overhang, paddles waiting.

Best of five. I took it three games to two, the rain still falling, my glass still half full. The scorecard says he won. The scorecard does not know everything.