The holidays this year would be in Florida and next year, if all proceeded as planned, they would be in Arizona, and the year after in Europe, and then, eventually, they would be at home and he could rest. If all proceeded as planned.

One day, Bogart Jackson hoped, he would be able to see snow. Bogart Jackson was a professional golfer, and December for him was just one more divot on the fairway of life. At 25, he was spending this Christmas as he had every other that he could remember--haunting driving ranges and practice putting greens, playing a few satellite tour events, reading Dan Jenkins golf novels, and waiting. Waiting to tee off, waiting to string three solid rounds together, waiting for the front-runners in qualifying tournaments to falter so that his score would earn him a TPA card, which would enable him to play with the Nicklauses and Trevinos and Watsons.

Bogart Jackson had all the skills at his disposal. His muscular legs allowed him to drive with uncommon force; his cat-like reflexes and vision gave him uncanny distance judgement and an unusual capacity to escape sandtraps and rough. He had a steady putting stroke and knew the nuances of the elusive game as well as anyone on the big tour. Yet Bogart Jackson was 25 years old and still scrambling to make it, hanging around courses at dawn to finish his round before the stars started theirs. This December, he told himself, he would succeed. And by the time he was 30, he vowed, he would have collected $1 million in winnings. And then he could rest.

* * *

His father had been awarded tenure at the University of Georgia after becoming friendly with a politician named Jimmy Carter. The last time Bogart Jackson and his daddy spoke had been three years ago.

"How can you waste your life worrying about approach shots and low-irons?" his father, Dooley Professor of Political Science, had asked.

"How can you waste your life entertaining the doctrine of winnable nuclear war?" Bogart Jackson had responded, before picking up his clubs and leaving.

As Bogart Jackson walked out the door, his father said, "You know, the groves of golf are not quite as colorful as they appear on the television."

Bogart Jackson hadn't been listening, but occasionally the words came back to him when he watched grounds crews mixing green food coloring with turf builder.

It used to be that Bogart Jackson's father had no qualms about his son's chosen vocation. It had a certain element of class in the non-sociological sense, and there had been no doubt his son would prove to be the next young, handsome--and rich--professional golfer. At 14, Bogart Jackson had shot a scorching 64 at the Atlanta Golf Club, From the back tees. At 18, he seemed a sure bet to gain his tour card, holding down a three-stroke lead with one round to play in the qualifying tourney.

The TPA media machine was well-oiled for Bogart Jackson. His background was anomalous; most pro golfers were culled from denizens of the pro shops, but Bogart Jackson's daddy inhabited the h alls of academe. Bogart Jackson was quick with a quip and a smile and would fit neatly in an ABC 30-second profile. Officials in crested blazers drooled at the prospect of Bogart Jackson trading wisecracks with Dave Marr or Byron Nelson or the writers. They pictured Bogart Jackson in a pink Izod t-shirt, navy polyester slacks, Spalding shoes, crunching the all-new dimple pattern off of Dunlop Max-Flis. "Bogart Jackson has angled his ball to within four feet of the cup, a remarkable effort here at Augusta," British CBS announcer Ben Wright would intone softly. "The Masters belongs to him."

The Dooley Professor of Political Science-to-be had acknowledged his son's talent, accepted his son's future lot, and not without a trace of envy. Jim McKay had made a luncheon arrangement to "get acquainted." Cliff Roberts, head of the Masters, had duly noted Bogart Jackson's name on a list of probables, feeling confident he would win a tournament soon and merit a berth in the most prestigious of TPA tournaments.

All Bogart Jackson had to do was go out and play par golf for one more afternoon, and he would become the hottest new property on the tour since the once-chubby Jack Nicklaus shed 60 pounds and began playing--instead of eating--like a Golden Bear.

And then, 18-year-old Bogart Jackson met Her, and that afternoon he carded a 78. Cliff Roberts scratched his name off of the Masters list. Jim McKay broke the luncheon date. His father tried to convince him to enroll in college. But Bogart Jackson just cleaned his dirty irons, packed up his golf bag, and headed to Texas with Her.

* * *