Jack Brannon, a golf writer in his forties who has been bunkered more than once in the marriage game, covers the sport for a big-time magazine. Bored with the PGA, he decides to check out “the Lolitas,” on the LPGA Tour. Jack chooses as a magazine subject Ginger Clayton, a fiery eighteen-year old whose killer looks and killer game make her the kind of star who can take the LPGA to the next level. She is, indeed, The Franchise Babe, and everyone wants a part of her, but someone, it seems, is trying to knock Ginger out of the competition-permanently. Filled with dead-on take downs of sports moms, adventurous promoters, suck-up corporate sponsors, double-dealing sports agents, and just enough menace to make golf dangerous, Dan Jenkins latest tale of hijinks on the links is not to be missed. “A satirical round of intrigue, sex and golf for those who like to discuss their reading at the 19th hole.”— USA Today “A raucous romp of a novel . . . that skewers the game's lunacies and lunatics with dead-solid perfection.”— Sports Illustrated "The best sportswriter in America."—Larry King“Dan Jenkins is the nearest thing to Ring Lardner this generation has ever seen. No one has captured the essential lunacy of the twentieth-century sports (and TV) scene as accurately and hilariously.”— Los Angeles Times “Jenkins is hilarious, providing more laughs per page than any other writer in the ‘bidness’.”— People ”Dan Jenkins is a comic genius”—Don Imus“His writing and his ear recall—there is no higher compliment—Ring Lardner, though in different times and different Americas”—David Halberstam, New York Times Book Review Dan Jenkins is the author of eighteen novels and nonfiction books including Semi-Tough , Dead Solid Perfect , Baja Oklahoma , Life Its Ownself , Rude Behavior , Fairways and Greens , and most recently, Slim and None . Jenkins was an award-winning writer for Sports Illustrated for more than 20 years, and currently writes an enduringly popular column for Golf Digest. After a semi-lifetime in New York City, he now lives full-time in his native Fort Worth, Texas. 1 All it took to bring out the Texas in me was one look at the lady in the -jacked--up mini standing by the ninth green. I thought, man, if this is a golf mom, you can dip my ass in batter and fry me for dinner. The -jacked--up mini was bright blue, the legs were tan. They were toned and shaped and it was a good guess she could kick a hole in the ceiling of a motel room if she was on her back doing what it looked like she could do best. I might add that she was also -first--team upstairs in a -formfitting, sleeveless, -scoop--neck white top--and if those were -store--boughts, she damn sure got her money's worth. But all this was merely the opinion of Jack Brannon, white man, -forty--seven, sportswriter, and spiritual person of great depth, which was me. I was at this tournament for chicks. You could say I was trying to change my luck. Or you could say I'd grown tired of writing Tiger Woods, comma. For more than twenty years I'd been covering the PGA Tour, but in the last ten or twelve years all I'd done was write about Tiger whipping up on a bunch of slugs--in his sleep, blindfolded, with one endorsement contract tied behind him. I needed a break from watching him beat guys who all dress the same, get rich for finishing tenth, and couldn't give you a good quote if you stuck a shoehorn down their throats. There's a joke in the pressrooms now that the tour should be known as Black Jesus and the Dwarfs. So I decided to check out the ladies. See if the rumor was true that the LPGA Tour was suddenly interesting, more heterosexual than it used to be, and even halfway glamorous. There was supposed to be a surprising batch of young babes out there now--a new wave of Lolitas--who could solid play the game and were -good--looking along with it. Anyhow, it was a warm day at this tournament, and the -jacked--up mini was behind the gallery ropes with a leather bag slung over her shoulder. Her streaked blond hair was falling open in the middle like the showstoppers on Fox News. She wore tinted shades. I watched her glance up at the big scoreboard on the veranda and then back down the fairway. For all I knew, she could have been a golf aunt, a golf sister, or a golf cousin as easily as she could have been a golf mom. What I did was, I decided to ask one of the obvious golf moms about her. I had choices. The ladies over by the putting green were obvious golf moms. I could tell. How? Because they looked like -middle--age flight attendants and were in possession of chair seats, binoculars, and pairings sheets. What else could they be? I strolled over to a lady who looked pleasant, helpful. Ann Wendell she said her name was. Fortyish. Adequate brunette. I pointed to the -jacked--up mini and asked if she knew the person's identity and wittily wondered why security hadn't called for backup. Ann Wendell ignored the attempt at humor and looked at me like