Not the kind of hat two brothers grab at a gas station because the sun’s in their eyes. The kind of hat two brothers named Ernie and Pat would.
The sweat stains come first. Then the brim curves — just enough to let everyone know who the wise, steady one is.
The screen print on the front and side once looked new. Now it looks right — a little faded, like an old story you’ve told too many times to tell again.
It smells of salt, gunpowder, outboard oil, and the kind of summer nights when you promised you’d only take Pat to see the neighbor’s goats for an hour.
This hat doesn’t just say Finn’s Tackle Shop. It remembers it. Not new. Not pretty. Just perfect.
