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.

* * *

Seven years later, Bogart Jackson lipped his final practice putt before heading to the first tee for yet another attempt to acquire that small card which would permit him to play the pro circuit. He sighed as the ball rimmed the cup and stopped spinning half-an-inch from the hole. This would be his last qualifier, he promised himself. If he didn't make it, he would quit.

As he stepped into the cart for the winding drive to the first hole (a short but tricky par-four, with water on the right), a few of his cohorts wished him well in muted voices. Since he had squandered his lead as an 18-year-old, he had been stamped as bad luck, and most young "rabbits," as they were called, avoided him. He had come close a few times after that initial effort but had choked in the clutch. He hated them in every detail, from pearl-white smiles, to their clone-like personalities. "Thank y'all. 'Preciate it," they would invariably say when congratulated for a good shot. "Well, I jus' try to play one hole at a time," they would slowly explain to sportswriters. No character. They composed a lumpy, mushy group of golfers, with all the sensibilities of a tow truck.

Of course, now he hated Her too. She had drawn his attention away from two-woods and fairway bunkers, and his life had become confused. There is no simple or pleasurable thing that compares to a clean golf shot, yet She had diverted him from practice, pulling him away from his Spalding sweet-spot. And when her esteemed husband, 11th on last year's money list, had discovered her affair, he had waged a personal campaign to disassociate Bogart Jackson from the world of professional golf. Bogart Jackson would return from a long round, and his shoes would be missing. Or his plane ticket. From time to time, his putter would be stolen--anything to upset his concentration or throw off his rhythm, the two essential things a pro requires besides a modicum of skill.

But he put up with his excommunication because he loved the sensation of a pure golf shot. And Bogart Jackson had a dream: he would be lounging around at the Bing Crosby, and a tournament official would inform him he was paired with the Husband. Bogart Jackson knew exactly what he would do. The Husband would be searching the woods for an errant tee shot, and Bogart Jackson would play away. Bogart Jackson would use his three-iron and peg the ball low and hard, curling it into the woods where the Husband would be bent over. Perhaps if the three-iron were perfectly aimed....

"Mr. Jackson is away," barked the TPA marshall. Bogart Jackson sauntered up to the ball, smiling at the memory of all the wayward three-irons he had hit on the practice range. Thwack, and Bogart Jackson was striding down the fairway, grinning at the knowledge that his characteristic fade placed him in an ideal position to go for the flagstick and had avoided the water on the right.

It was an exhausting round of golf in the Florida sun. But as Bogart Jackson approached the 18th hole, he realized he must be among the leaders. A few precision wedges out of the sand had kept his score to 64 with the rigorous par-four 18th still to play. Passing the leader board, he noticed that his name was at the top--five shots ahead of his nearest competitors. This was nothing new, so he shrugged. He had two days remaining in which to lose the tournament.

Cautioning himself against fatalism, he addressed the ball after a round of polite applause. The gallery consisted of a few golf cognoscenti, out to see potential comers on the tour. They all recognized him by now. ("There's Jackson." "He'll be past his prime before he makes the tour.") Bogart Jackson twirled his three-wood and considered the heavily-forested 18th and its narrow fairway. Scanning the three bunkers on the left, he was distracted by a couple of stragglers making their way through the woods. And then, he spotted Her. She was with the Husband. They were about 175 yards from the tee area on the right. She was wearing sunglasses. The Husband was squinting back into the sun.

Bogart Jackson went back to his golf bag and extracted his three-iron.

("I wonder why he's doing that." "Probably wants to stop short of the bunkers." "Nearly everyone else has used a three or four-wood." "Jackson has no confidence." "Yeah, I guess you were right about him being past his prime." "Past his prime? I take it back. If a guy uses a three-iron here, he ain't got no prime."

Bogart Jackson took a practice swing.

("What's taking him so long?" "Jeez, it's getting late. Who does this guy think he is, Jack Nicklaus?")

Bogart Jackson saw the Husband kneeling in the grass, motionless in deference to the golfers on the tee. He had always been polite. Bogart Jackson took aim, and brought his club back slowly, his eye on the ball.

* * *

It had all been quite embarrassing and upsetting for everyone concerned.

Bogart Jackson, the tournament leader, had notched an incredible eagle two on the 18th, with two perfectly crafted three-irons from tee to green. And then, without explanation or justification, the first-round leader had departed, withdrawing from the tournament with nary a word to any of the officials.

("Jackson doesn't have any guts. He knew he would lose.")

He was tooling up U.S. 1 now, heading north, 15 miles over the limit. Soon, he thought, he would be far away from the fake-green lushness of functional golf courses. For a moment, his eye caught the still-soiled golf clubs in the rear-view mirror. He smiled. This December, Bogart Jackson would see snow.