Author: James Fraser

Publisher: Xlibris

Published: 2004-05

Total Pages: 0

ISBN-13: 9781413448528

Danny O'Malley, a fairly decent amateur golfer, is tricked into selling his soul to the devil in exchange for a promise of winning the richest prize ever offered in a professional tournament! A history of the game and many of its greatest players is interspersed throughout the story. Why do people from every culture attempt to master this cruel game when there is so little chance of success? Can you name a great Italian golfer? Trust me, my friends. There are no great Italian golfers. In the spring, when the first bold blossoms of bougainvillea splash down the hillsides of Sicily in a glorious crimson tide and gondoliers ply their trade along the romantic canals of Venice, a young man is more intrigued by the upward slash of a signorina's skirt than the downward slope of a green, and more beguiled by the lie on her lips than the lie of a dimpled white ball in the fairway. The English, self-deprecating and stoical, are as emotionally suited for golf as they are for espionage. They know the fairways and greens are as duplicitous as any double agent and will ultimately betray them. It is not a question of if, but a matter of when. For years, Nick Faldo was the personification of a golfing machine, an assassin of par whose deadly game struck fear in the hearts of opponents. His sponsors tried to humanize him to enhance the sale of their products, and on rare occasions, an involuntary twitch in the shadowy recesses of his stiff upper lip created the fleeting illusion of a smile. But their feeble attempt to cast the dour Brit as Prince Charming fooled no one, and was as futile an exercise as painting a happy face on the Sphinx in order to alter its enigmatic essence. Still, in fairness to "Sir" Nick recently knighted by Queen Elizabeth it should be noted that as tournament prize money has escalated to astronomical levels, the Americans and Europeans have also developed a decent impersonation of Faldo's English scowl. With the exception of Bernhard Langer, the Germans have fared miserably in their efforts to master the game of golf. Because their minds are rooted in a pathological adherence to order and precision, they simply lack the creative bent the sport requires. A significant percentage of the nation's work force is engaged in the design and manufacture of automotive marvels that can travel the Autobahn at speeds of 160 miles per hour. But, lacking the soul of true romantics, it doesn't offend the sensibilities of these Teutonic tinsmiths that most of their extraordinary creations end up in the hands of laid-back California drivers who, with cell phones stuck in their ears, lumber along the arteries of the Los Angeles freeway system at a pace that would embarrass an overweight snail. Raised in a culture where humility is prized as a virtue, the Japanese lack the required aggressiveness and ego to succeed in the sport. They fail to realize that competitive golf, while appearing to be a civilized endeavor, is actually hand-to-hand combat. Golf instructors impress upon their students the importance of visualization if they hope to master the game. Players are encouraged to develop mental snapshots of their drives landing in the center of the fairway, their putts disappearing into the hole. Unquestionably, the performance of Japanese golfers would improve dramatically if they visualized a Calloway Big Bertha as the country cousin of a samurai sword. Considering their country's modest population, Australians like Gregg Norman, Peter Thomson, and Graham Marsh have fared well over the years while leaving a number of impressive marks on the record books. But their success is not as surprising as it first appears. Their ancestral home was a penal colony, and the blood of convicts runs deep in their Down Under veins. They understand the importance of picking the course's pockets for a few quick birdies when it is not looking. The French have exhibited little interest in golf because they