"If you can play six hours a day every day," said Demmet testily.

"You get your game a day if you want it."

"Not if I can't schedule these operations but have to take them mid-day, afternoons. Morning or late afternoon are too cold for golf these days."

"A lot of doctors work twenty-four hours in a row sometimes, even come in in the wee hours. It's not a profession conducive to rest, Dan."

"If I wanted an easy life, I wouldn't have to be going down to that waiting room now to tell the widow What's-her-name that her husband didn't survive an appendectomy. Really, the way you set things up, I'm going to have to work up a routine for terminal head cold."

"Her name's Nancy Boulder. Mrs. Nancy Boulder. Her husband's name was John. John Boulder. He was with the Internal Revenue Service."

"We seem to be getting a few Internal Revenue specials nowadays. Some sort of trend?" Demmet asked.

"Not your worry, Dan."

"Boulder. John Boulder," Demmet repeated. "If I keep on getting these specials, I'll never break eighty."

"If the sand wedge doesn't work for you, try running the ball up to the green. You can use a three iron like a heavy putter," said Kathy Hahl.

Demmet stared at a large red arrow painted on a sign that said $20 million advancement goal. The arrow was almost reaching the top of the black line that marked progress.

"But the wedge looks so nice popping up on the green and stopping."

"Do you want form or score?"

"I want both."

"So do we all, Dan. Give the widow Boulder your regrets, and I'll meet you at the club."

"I'd like three strokes a side."

"Your handicap is big enough already."

"I'll use my pitching wedge, my old pitching wedge. Three strokes a side," Demmet said.