Publisher Description

When a group of middle-class buddies obsessed with golf set up a bet to see who can finagle their way onto the nearby private course, their friendship is tested in ways they had never expected in this humorous novel from Rick Reilly, one of America's most popular sportswriters.Missing Links is the story of four middle class buddies who live outside of Boston and for years have been 1) utterly obsessed with golf and 2) a regular foursome at Ponkaquoque Municipal Course and Deli, not so fondly known as Ponky, the single worst golf course in America. Just adjacent to these municipal links lies the Mayflower Country Club, the most exclusive private course in all of Boston and a major needle in their collective sides. Frustrated by the Mayflower's finely manicured greens and snooty members, three of Ponky's finest and most courageous-Two Down, Dannie, and Stick-set up a bet- $1,000.00 apiece, and the first man to somehow finagle his way on to the Mayflower course takes all. Lying, cheating, and forgery are encouraged, to put it mildly, and with the constant heckling and rare aid of Chunkin' Charlie, Hoover, and Bluto--a few more of Ponky's elite--the games begin.One of the three will eventually play the Mayflower's course, but their friendships--and everything else--will change as various truths unravel and the old Ponky starts looking like the home they never should have left.

Author Biography

Rick Reilly has been voted National Sportswriter of the Yeareleven times. Formerly a writer for Sports Illustrated and ESPN.com, he continues to deliver his opinion essays and features on ESPN SportsCenter. He is also the author of eleven books, several of which have been New York Times bestsellers. His Sports From Hell,My Search for the World's Dumbest Competition was a finalist for the Thurber Prize. Reilly lives in Denver, Colorado.

Review

"Don't get started reading this book.  It will take three burly men
to pull you away from it."
--Bob Costas, NBC commentator

"You don't need to know your bogeys from your birdies to find at least three laughs per page in this novel."
--The New York Times Book Review

"If you're obsessed with the 'green game,' and it's raining or snowing, or we're under nuclear attack so you can't get out on the course, Missing Links should give you a temporary fix."
--Rocky Mountain News

"Snappy prose, believable characters, and the funniest take on blue-collar hacking and gambling since Dan Jenkins's The Glory Game at Goat Hill...it's social satire and pure irreverence that keep this story in the groove."
--Los Angeles Times

"Part Damon Runyon, part Raymond Chandler, and part Caddyshack...I was hooked for the full 18."
--Entertainment Weekly

"A great piece of fiction."
--Denver Post

Review Quote

"Don't get started reading this book.

Excerpt from Book

The day The Bet began to assume its hideous form was the day Hoover lost $208 to his shadow, which is a lot of cash to drop for a man who takes the bus to the golf course. Hoover wasn''t much to look at. Dannie said his mother must''ve had to borrow a baby to take to church. He sort of looked like that skinny guy in Westerns, the one that''s always first out of the saloon whenever it looks there''s gonna be gunplay. For somebody who was supposed to be Italian, he was white as plaster of Paris and looked like he tanned nightly under a 40-watt bulb. Two Down saw him in shorts one time and said, "And now, students, your circulatory system at work." He had this Lettermanesque gap in his teeth, a little red hair that he covered up with one of those Jackie Stewart racing caps, skinny white arms that were mostly elbow and a score counter on his belt, which had been rubbed shiny with use. Come to think of it, Hoover wasn''t even his real name. We called him Hoover because he very much sucked. After most rounds, he was awarded the puke-orange Naugahyde La-Z-Boy in the Pit of Despair, reserved for the day''s biggest loser. Hoover''s real name was Alberto de Salvo, which also happened to be the name of the Boston Strangler. That figured. Hoover apparently had all his luck surgically removed as a small boy. Still, Hoover loved the game. He had every color book Harvey Penick ever wrote, including the Little Red Book, the Little Green Book, the Little Shoebox of Stuff Harvey Penick Forgot the First Two Times, the Little Blue Two-Volume Videocassette featuring the 13 Most Important Things Harvey Penick Asks You to Remember at the Moment of Impact, and the Little Fuchsia Book: New Stuff Harvey''s Agent Wanted Him to Include. Hoover would spend sleepless nights worrying about shaft kick points. He actually knew what his swing weight was. He was obsessed with equipment. He would no sooner have just received his boron-headed, titanium-shafted Big Bertha in the mail than he would banish it to his trunk and bring out a brand-new, French-bubble-shafted, graphite-headed Whaling Wendy, which, unfortunately, the factory forgot to de-shank, and so then he''d have to dump that and go to his mercury-loaded, airstream Colossal Cathy. He was some kind of MIT scientist and somebody said his IQ was 153, which goes to show you golf is not a game you want to think too much about. Bless his heart, Hoover thought way too much. He believed in a person''s inner "chakras" and had his adjusted after very bad rounds. He tried pneumatic balls, which actually did add 15 yards to his drive, until it got hot and they started exploding in his bag, which caused most of the guys in his group to dive for cover, thinking the darling youngsters that live in the Roosevelt Park projects off 13 were spraying the course again for amusement. After that, he played nothing but Titleists 8s. "Wh th fck you nly ply Ttlst 8s?" Thud (the Almost Human) asked him one day with his mouth occupied with his ninth fried egg sandwich of the day. "Because," Hoover told him. "The number eight is the only perfectly aerodynamic number you can get on a golf ball. Any other number will affect the flight." "Rt. Nd I''m Jck Fckng Nckls." Thud munched. As much as you wanted him to succeed once-- just once --it was hopeless. He would take the club back very, very, very slowly, stop halfway up, raise his elbows straight over his head and twist his body like he was trying to win Hernia of the Month. Then he would come crashing down at the ball in hopes that maybe it would not have time to see him coming. Dannie said he sort of looked like a man trapped in a moving car with a bee. His goal was to shoot his weight, which was 105, but he''d never done it. Of course, he''d only been playing Ponky seven years. And after each horrible shot or bad break or terrible round of high-tension golf, Hoover would plunk himself down in the puke-orange La-Z-Boy, loose a large sigh, fling his Jackie Stewart cap toward the hatrack, miss and say, "Rats get fat. Good men die." "What does that mean anyway?" Cementhead asked him once after he''d put up a double radio station. And Hoover said, "It is the universal and ultimate order of things. It means that hard work, diligence, patience and good deeds aren''t worth anything at all. It means the centers of things do not hold. All is chaos. It means karma is dead." And Cementhead asked, "What does that mean anyway?" Still, Hoover had a will. You could beat him like egg whites and the next day he''d be back, doubling the bets, convinced the breakthrough was just around the corner. He''d say that "a person''s golf swing can only truly be foolproof when tested under pressure," and we''d all very much agree and pretty soon he''d be taking all the action we''d give him. The day Hoover dropped the $208 was one of those early September afternoons that can''t decide whether to be summer or winter and the usual suspects were hanging around. The Stringley brothers, slower than refund checks, had teed off just in front of us. The Stringley brothers were these identical eighty-five-year-old twins who only played against each other and always for the same action: $1 a hole, instant whip-out, although nothing the Stringley brothers did was instant. You''d be behind them and you''d see one of them totter up to his putt and gag it in and cackle what he always cackled: "T-t-t-t-t-take a s-s-s-s-s-suck a that!" And then the other one would begrudgingly hand it over. "Me and Stick in forty years," said Two Down. We had our own usual games going--giant skins, carryovers, incest, $10 two-downs, double the backs, Alohas (double everything on 18), a game or two of Las Vegas, complimentary presses whenever and wherever the hell you felt like it and unlimited junk, which was anything else that you could dream up. The usual and absolutely nonnegotiable assortment of penalties and assessments were in place, set forth by Two Down many years ago, encased in plastic and blue-duct-taped to the top of the corner table in the salmonella paradise of a lunchroom known to us as the Pit of Despair. Schedule of Fines Hackalooski (player with higher handicap giving player with lower handicap advice)...$5 Ernest and Julio (excessive whining)...$2 Hit and Whip (player hitting a bad shot and blaming another player in the group)...$5 Venturi (analyzing your swing too much)...$2 Posing...$1 Collared shirt...$2 Each logo over the one-logo limit per player...$1 Double plumb bob...$1 Purposeful, willful and distracting talk of pooni...$3 Once in a while, with his 40 handicap and his chakras fixed up nice and his Jackie Stewart on snug, Hoover could get into your Hanes pretty quick. And that''s what happened that day. He had me down $25, Chunkin'' Charlie down $40, and Two Down down a good $100, and had accepted absolutely free and complimentary presses from all of us. Not only that, if he double-bogeyed out, he''d break 100, which would be on a par with a lobster climbing out of the tank at Jimmy''s Seafood Grill, taking the stage and whistling the entire score of Cats . "Gentlemen, we shall be stacking up some of that flat tender in the Pit of Despair very soon," Hoover said, beaming. Chunkin'' Charlie was up first on 15. He hit a very good drive and gave it the big Walter Hagen pose. Charlie: "Boys, if you like golf, you gotta like that shot." Me: "Right. Until you find it in an old Hunt''s can." Two Down: "You''ll probably have to play it out backward." Charlie: "Five says I make par." Me and Two Down: "Bank." Now it was Two Down''s turn. He hit his patented screaming low hook that would''ve sailed under a ''63 Valiant and not touched earth or oil pan. Now it was Hoover''s turn. He was just about ready to take the club back when Two Down said a very hideous thing. "Hey, Hoov." "What?" Hoover said. "You probably know more about the golf swing than anybody here, right?" "So?" He still wouldn''t look up. "Well," said Two Down, "don''t you think it''s funny that you never see your shadow during your swing?" "Kindly go fuck yourself," replied Hoover, not moving an inch, head still, knees bent, eyes peeled on his Titleist 8. "Well," continued Two Down. "I mean, in golf, everybody is supposed to stay perfectly still and nobody''s supposed to breathe so you have absolutely no distractions. But then right in front of you, your own shadow is going through all kinds of contortions, going this way and that, all the time, and yet nobody ever notices it during the swing." "Do you mind?" said Hoover. "Actually," said Two Down, "I guess if you did notice your shadow, it would help your swing. I mean, you could see whether your club face was a little open at the top or whether your elbow was flying or all kinds of stuff." "Double fornicate yourself," answered Hoover. But this last was said with a clink of doubt in his voice, as though maybe Two Down''s words had seeped into his craniu

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