"Dad, can we - can I just sit by the pool instead? I hate golf."

"Lyla," Buddy sighs, "Today is family bonding day. And since I get to choose the family bonding activity, I choose golf. Right, Buddy Jr.?"

"Right, Dad," Buddy Jr. rolls his eyes at Lyla. Lyla smirks.

"Comeon kids, this is gonna be great - I got my clubs, my little girl, even my son here for the weekend," he breaks into a broad grin as he throws an arm around Buddy Jr. "So let's just - let's just enjoy ourselves, okay?"

"Right," Lyla mutters, stepping out of the golf cart and squinting into the sunshine. She makes a mental note for the next family bonding outing that three bottles of wine and sunshine do not mix.

"So, Buddy - did you tell your sister here that you're gonna be playin' football come fall?"

"No," Buddy mutters.

"Yeah, that's right," Buddy looks at Lyla as he pulls a club out of his bag. "Buddy here is gonna be on the ole football team up there in ole California," Buddy gestures vaguely above him.

"Great," Lyla replies unenthusiastically. "That's what we need in this family - more football."

"You're the one that keeps dating football players," Buddy Jr. retorts. "Think you'd be happier about that news."

"I don't -keep- dating football players," Lyla snaps. "I date one football player. One. And why should I be happy that you're probably going to end up spending the next two years of high school in a drunken haze?"

"Well, if I'd known that -that- was what football was all about, I'd have joined the team years ago. But I guess I'd need to have spent more time with Riggins and his buddies to understand what makes a successful football player. Lots of beer and sex," he grins.

Lyla glares at her brother. "Buddy, you don't have a clue -"

"I don't have a clue? Dillon's a small town. I think we -all- know how much Riggins got around. Before you, that is," he smiles sweetly at his sister. "If he's not still getting around at San Antonio State. If I were Tim Riggins, I'd definitely still be getting around."

"Enough," Buddy interrupts, glaring at Buddy Jr. with a warning edge in his tone. "Enough, Buddy Jr. Lyla. Both of you. We're tryin' to have a good day here, not a . . . brawl."

"It's not my fault," Lyla pouts. "He's being a jerk."

"And you're a snotty bitch," Buddy Jr. retorts.

"Enough," Buddy repeats, his voice booming, cutting through their argument.

Lyla glares at Buddy Jr. silently, before turning her eyes to her father, who drives his golf ball from the tee deep into the green. Buddy smiles with satisfaction, and steps aside for Buddy Jr.

"So why doesn't Emily have to be here?" Buddy Jr. complains, stepping up the tee and dropping in his golf ball.

Buddy's smile immediately disappears. "You know that wasn't up to me, son. If she has a soccer game she has a soccer game, yunno? Your mom didn't want her missing a game. She'll visit when she can."

"Right," Buddy Jr. mutters, as he takes a swing. He watches as the ball cuts through the air and lands on the green next to his father's ball. "Let's go, Lyla, you're up."

Lyla reluctantly ambles toward the tee, dropping her ball and swinging carelessly toward the green. "I really golf, Dad, have I mentioned that already?"

"Honey, now come on now, this is a good time, we're having fun here, aren't we?" He looks pleadingly at Buddy Jr. Buddy Jr. raises an eyebrow silently.

"Lyla?" Buddy turns back to Lyla. Lyla doesn't respond.

Buddy sighs again, forcefully replacing the golf club into his bag. "Now, kids, I worked really hard on this day - I wanted to make it special for us. Can't we just have fun here?"

"Dad, I'm exhausted," Lyla says. "Can't I just go home and sleep? Why does it matter anyway? We're having dinner together tonight."

"Why does it matter?" Buddy explodes. "Why does it matter, Lyla? I'll tell you why it matters - I'll tell you both why it matters," he glares at Lyla and then shifts his glare toward Buddy Jr. "It -matters- because I never get to spend time with y'all anymore. You," he points at Buddy accusingly, "you don't live here anymore and never come visit me and barely acknowledge your ole dad at all anymore. How many Christmases have we spent together since you moved to California? Thanksgivings? Summers? I'll tell you exactly how many: a big fat zero," Buddy spits out angrily. "That - that - tofu-eater over there in California has completely taken over my place in your life. And the fact that you don't come to me for advice anymore - not even about football. -Football,- son. I just can't believe it's gotten to that. That you can't talk to your daddy about the most important thing on the planet. And then there's the fact that your little sister doesn't even want to come visit me at all. Barely acknowledges me. Her daddy," he whimpers.

Buddy Jr. and Lyla both look stunned.

The words continue to spill from Buddy. "And you," Buddy continues, turning and pointing at Lyla with the same accusing finger, "My precious little Lyla - you act like you're too good for this place now, like you don't even want to be here with your daddy anymore, like you can't spend one day on the golf course with me because you're just -so- busy, far too busy to spend time with lil' ole me. Since you've been home this summer, you've spent the entire time either moping around about Tim Riggins or planning your move to Austin with Tim Riggins. You haven't spent more than five minutes with me - with me - just talkin', like old times. It's all about Tim Riggins and Austin and getting out of Dillon as fast as possible. Now I -know- that I didn't send my little girl off to Vanderbilt just so you could come back here and turn your nose up at everything - and everyone - that brought you up."

Buddy pauses and looks at his children, both of whom are staring at him with wide eyes. Neither of them are complaining now.

"So, if I want to spend one afternoon - one lousy afternoon - playing golf and pretending that we're one big happy family, then goddamn it, do me that favor, will y'all?"

Lyla and Buddy Jr. look at each other and then back at their father, nodding quietly. Lyla swallows hard and grabs her club. "Whose turn is it?" she asks, with forced brightness.

"I think we're up, son," Buddy nods and plasters a smile back onto his face.

"Right," Buddy Jr. scurries toward the green. "Right."