He has his windbreaker on and the Tradition cap. His eyes follow people on foot, while his son works his way into the left lane, ready to turn at the gatehouse. And finally, they see the sign at an opening in the tall hedgerow: MEMBERS, PLAYERS, HONORARY INVITEES.
The son waits for oncoming traffic to clear and then turns in. A uniformed guard steps up on the passenger side and bends forward. The old man lowers his window and says, simply: "Herman Keiser."
The guard smiles. 'All right, Mr. Keiser. Go right on in."
The Cadillac rolls forward, under the canopy of magnolias—but slowly, like a processioner at a wedding. The son leans over the wheel and looks up at the arching branches. He says, "It doesn't get any better than this."
In a wavering voice the old man concedes the point. "It is beautiful, isn't it?"
On this they're in complete agreement.