Danny O'Malley, a fairly decent amateur golfer, is tricked into selling his soul to the devil in exchange for a promise of winning the richest prize ever offered in a professional tournament: Five million dollars A history of the game and many of its greatest players is interspersed throughout the story. Why do people from every culture attempt to master this cruel game when there is so little chance of success? For example, can you name a great Italian golfer? Trust me, my friends. There are no great Italian golfers. In the spring, when the first bold blossoms of bougainvillea splash down the hillsides of Sicily in a glorious crimson tide and gondoliers ply their trade along the romantic canals of Venice, a young man is more intrigued by the upward slash of a signorina's skirt than the downward slope of a green, and more beguiled by the lie that rests on her lips than the lie of a dimpled white ball in the fairway. The English, self-deprecating and stoical, are as emotionally suited for golf as they are for espionage. They know the fairways and greens are as duplicitous as any double agent and will ultimately betray them. It is not a question of if, but a matter of when. For years, Nick Faldo was the personification of a golfing machine, an assassin of par whose deadly game struck fear in the hearts of opponents. His sponsors tried to humanize him to enhance the sale of their products. On rare occasions, an involuntary twitch in the shadowy recesses of his stiff upper lip created the fleeting illusion of a smile. But their feeble attempt to cast the dour Brit as Prince Charming fooled no one and was as futile an exercise as painting a happy face on the Sphinx in order to alter itsenigmatic essence. Still, in fairness to "Sir" Nick-recently knighted by Queen Elizabeth-it should be noted that as tournament prize money has escalated to astronomical levels, the Americans and Europeans have also developed a decent impersonation of Faldo's English sc