Russell Wilson’s golf cart tumbled helplessly, carried ever downward by the slope of the 5th green’s approach. The sand trap’s embrace was no softer than the laminated plastic seat cover now pressed obstinately to the flat of his cheek. Both the sand and the seat were a great deal more comfortable than the metal bar that had supported the shell-like plastic roof of the golf cart, which was now jammed uncomfortably deep into his abdomen. Fog eclipsed his vision for a moment. A woman’s voice was muffled by the insistent blaring of a car alarm. “I hate the offseason,” Russ heard himself declare as consciousness escaped him.

Russell Wilson found himself laid comfortably next to the cartoonish wreckage of his golf cart. It had the features of a child’s plastic two-door buggy, one that had been perhaps thrown too casually onto someone’s front lawn, the carelessness of the throw’s force causing the riding toy to disassemble itself on impact. The thought elicited a chuckle from the QB that was stifled quick by the ache of his ribs. The fall must’ve knocked him pretty good if he’d been out until after sunset, he thought. The lights on the course were intermittently obscured by sprinklers that were kicking on in the distance. Better to get up and out before I get soaked. The sound of the water spraying against healthy grass and plants numbed his aching head.

Just over the hill on the east bank of the 4th hole lay the patio of the Front 9, the clubhouse restaurant. The ocean-dark glass reflected an impressionist’s vision of the world around it, punctuated brightly by the QB’s orange-clad frame. As he approached, the reflection was wiped clear with the click of a light switch from inside. The windows revealed an empty series of booths and tables, and a small but proud mid-century styled bar. A frail man in denim overalls stood astride the seam where the seating area’s birch wood floor met the slick pale tile of the bar’s floor surface. His face exaggerated his age; deep-cut wrinkles and weary eyes framed his frowning expression. Russell Wilson approached the window and gave it a couple taps with his index finger. The elderly janitor put down his dirt-stained rag on the bar top and shuffled to the door without glancing in the QB’s direction.

The door of the Front 9 squealed on its hinges as it begrudgingly swung open. Russ jogged to the opening and made to shake the janitor’s hand, but he had already turned back to his work. “Thanks for letting me in,” he intoned, trying not to sound annoyed at the lack of greeting.

“You’ll catch cold out there,” replied the old man, without so much as a glance in the direction of his audience. His voice was the tambor of a complainant bullfrog, at once rich with body and pained with effort.

Mr. Wilson squeezed the door closed and invited himself to sit at the bar. “That’s for sure. If I hadn’t woken up when I did, I’d probably have been drenched by the sprinklers.” He paused to watch the janitor scrub a stubborn spot on the countertop behind the bar. Above his head floated a triple-framed ornate clock with no minute or hour hands. The seconds hand ticked absently around its axis. “What time is it, anyway?”

The man grunted in his way, and responded when it suited him. “Three. First tee time’s not for a few hours.” Russ shook his head, trying to piece together a timeline.

“I’m, uh, not here for a tee time. I was golfing with my wife and our daughter yesterday morning, accidentally rolled my cart and I guess I hit my head. I woke up and it was dark.”

“Ah!” The janitor’s voice brightened slightly at the story. “The girls, yes, they came through here.”

Russ’s eyebrows snapped up. “You saw them? How long ago? Were they alright? Where did they go?”

A small laugh escaped the old man’s cracked lips. “Not curious why they left you laying there? No matter, they headed for the parking lot just down the trail. Surely you’ll catch up to them if you quit dallying here.” The bar stool groaned as Russ urged it backward and stood.

“Thanks for the help!” The QB’s voice carried a little frustration now, but he still gave a polite wave before heading out the way he’d come in. The thump of the door closing behind him played perfectly in time with the flick of the lights extinguishing inside. A meandering, well-manicured gravel path carved its way though a sparsely decorated glade, lilting up and over a small series of hills, atop which were placed a few putting greens for golfers to practice before taking the course. Russ cleared his throat and began to jog.