The hilarious sequel to Rick Reilly’s beloved bestselling golf novel Missing Links
Life is going pretty well for Raymond “Stick” Hart. He’s happily married to the former Ponkaquogue Municipal Golf Club assistant pro, the beauteous Cajun firecracker Dannie, raising his rambunctious son, Charlie, and getting by writing smart-mouthed greeting cards for fifty bucks a pop. Best of all, nothing has changed at Ponky, the worst golf course in America. You still have to hook it past the toxic waste dump on No. 1 and under the billboard on No. 8, the fried-egg sandwiches are terrible but cheap, and his pal Two Down is always up for a sucker bet.
Then, one disaster of a day, Stick’s world does a ten-car pile-up. The cheapskate bastard owner of Ponky announces he’s retiring to a nudist camp in Florida and selling the club to the Mayflower Club next door, a bastion of blue-blood snobbery that plans to pave Ponky over. Worse, its membership includes Stick’s hated father.
Who promptly drops dead.
Just before Stick’s pal Two Down loses $12,000 to a golf hustler who turns out to be funded by the Russian mob.
Which is about the same time that Hoover, Ponky’s worst golfer and the owner of an impressive array of useless golf gadgets purchased with his wife’s money, learns she’ll cut him off if he doesn’t break a hundred in one month.
Then a practical joke makes Dannie believe that Stick’s been stepping out with the gorgeous new clubhouse girl, the eye-popping Kelly, and he’s soon living on the forty-year-old couch in the Ponky clubhouse.
Luckily, Stick has a solution to all his problems.
He’ll qualify for the British Open.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of eBook: Shanks for Nothing|
|Release Date: 05-02-2006|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group|
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|Parent title||Shanks for Nothing|
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Shanks for Nothing
I distinctly remember the day my life started smother-hooking toward Hell. It was just another day of gentlemanly golfing competition among the Chops at Ponkaquogue Municipal Golf Links and Deli, known across the land as America's worst golf facility. It was our usual fivesome: Two Down, Hoover, Cementhead, Dannie-the hot-tempered, hot-blooded little five-handicap who also doubled as my wife-and me.
"Are those shorts heavily padded?" Dannie asked Cementhead.
"What's it to you?" Cement said.
" 'Cause I'm about to give you a serious butt-kickin'."
Across the way, the hyper Leonard "Two Down" Petrovitz-half-man, half-cappuccino-was locked in mortal combat with me in a game of $20 one-down automatic press bets. Of course, he couldn't have been too worried, since he was beating me like Liza's ex. I'd given him half a shot a hole, plus a hundred-yard head start on every hole, plus one throw a side. And yet, just because he was beating me didn't mean he was going to stoop to any gamesmanship.
"I see you changed your putter since last time," Two Down observed. "I guess that last one didn't float so good."
"Keep it up, Chirpy," I said. "And you'll be joining it."
Ponky was famous around Boston for three things: 1) Being full of morons who bet way more than they had; 2) Being to golf what Velveeta was to French culinary schools; 3) Being next door to one of the great courses in America, the blue-blooded high-hatted Mayflower Club, whose members were so choosy about who they accepted they simply stopped letting people in three years ago. The line arou