"Half?"

"Chinese," Norm said. "Or Japanese. Or whatever. I

think she's half white too. What do you think?"

"Good-bye, Norm."

"Fine, be that way. See if I care. So tell me, Myron, how did you hook up with the Coldrens? Win introduce you?"

"Good-bye, Norm."

Myron walked off a bit, stopping for a moment to watch a golfer hit a drive. He tried to follow the ball's route. No go. He lost sight of it almost immediately. This shouldn't be a surprise really it is, after all, a tiny white sphere traveling at a rate of over one hundred miles per hour for a distance of several hundred yards except that Myron was the only person in attendance who couldn't achieve this ophthalmic feat of hawklike proportions.

Golfers. Most of them can't read an exit sign on an interstate, but they can follow the trajectory of a golf ball through several solar systems.

No question about it. Golf is a weird sport.

The course was packed with silent fans, though fans didn't exactly feel like the right word to Myron. Parishicners was a hell of a lot closer. There was a constant reverie on a golf course, a hushed, wide-eyed respect.

Every time the ball was hit, the crowd release was nearly orgasmic. People cried sweet bliss and urged the ball with the ardor of Price Is Right contestants: Run! Sit! Bite!

Grab! Grow teeth! Roll! Hurry! Get down! Get up!

almost like an aggressive mambo instructor. They lamented over a snap hook and a wicked slice and a babied putt and goofy greens and soft greens and waxed greens and the rub of the green and the pursuit of a snowman and being stymied and when the ball traveled off the fairway and on the fringe and in the rough and deep lies and rough lies and bad lies and good lies. They showed admiration when a player got all of that one or ripped a drive or banged it home and gave dirty looks when someone loudly suggested that a certain tee shot made a certain player "da man." They accused a putter who did not reach the hole of hitting the ball "with your purse, Alice."

Players were constantly playing shots that were ' 'unplayable. ' '

Myron shook his head. All sports have their own lexicons, but speaking golfese was tantamount to mastering Swahili. It was like rich people's rap.

But on a day like today the sun shining, the blue sky unblemished, the summer air smelling like a lover's hair Myron felt closer to the chalice of golf He could imagine the course tree of spectators, the peace and tranquillity, the same aura that drew Buddhist monks to mountaintop retreats, the double cut grass so rich and green that God Himself would want to run barefoot. This did not mean Myron got it he was still a nonbeliever of heretic proportions- but for a brief moment he could at least envision what it was about this game that ensnared and swallowed so many whole.