could lose in the real world." Win looked up in the air.

"But . . ." His voice drifted off "But?" Myron repeated.

"But you may be on to something."

"Oh?"

Win steepled his fingers. "You see, fighting is life and death to me. That's how I treat it. But the athletes we've been talking about take it a step further. Every competition,-even the most banal, is viewed by them as life-and-death and losing is death."

Myron nodded. He didn't buy it, but what the hell.

Keep him talking. "I don't get something," he said. "If Jack has this special 'wanting,' why hasn't he ever won a professional tournament?' '

"He lost it."

"The wanting?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Twenty-three years ago."

"During the Open?"

"Yes," Win said again. "Most athletes lose it in a slow burnout. They grow weary or they win enough to quench whatever inferno rages in their bellies. But that was not the case with Jack. His fire was extinguished in one crisp, cold gust. You could almost see it. Twentythree years ago. The sixteenth hole. The ball landing in the stone quarry. His eyes have never been the same."

"Until now," Myron added.

"Until now," Win agreed. "It took him twenty-three years, but he stoked the flames back to life."

They both drank. Win sipped. Myron guzzled. The chocolaty coldness felt wonderful sliding down his throat.

"How long have you known Jack?" Myron asked.

"I met him when I was six years old. He was fifteen."

"Did he have the 'wanting' back then?"

Win smiled at the ceiling. "He would sooner carve out his own kidney with a grapefruit spoon than lose to someone on the golf course." He lowered his gaze to Myron.

."Did Jack Coldren have the 'wanting'? He was the pure definition."

"Sounds like you admired him."

"I did."

"You don't anymore?"

"No."

"What made you change?"

"l grew up."

"Wow." Myron took another swig of Yoo-Hoo.

"That's heavy."

Win chuckled. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Win put down the brandy snifter. He leaned forward very slowly. "What is so great about winning?"

"Pardon?"

"People love a winner. They look up to him. They admire nay, revere him. They use terms like hero and courage and perseverance to describe him. They want to be near him and touch him. They want to be like him."

Win spread his hands. "But why? What about the winner do we want to emulate? His ability to blind himself to anything but the pursuit of empty aggrandizement?

His ego-inflating obsession with wearing a hunk of metal around his neck? His willingness to sacrifice anything, including people, in order to best another human being on a lump of AstroTurf for a cheesy statuette?" He looked up at Myron, his always serene face suddenly lost. "Why do we applaud this selfishness, this self-love?"

"Competitive drive isn't a bad thing, Win. You're talking about extremes."

"But it is the extremists we admire most. By its nature, what you call 'competitive drive' leads to extremism and destroys all in its path."