Remo, on the other hand, had never been good at sucking up, and he had no intention of starting now. Ahead, B.O. Anson's arthritis was nowhere to be seen as he drove a deep ball down the fairway. This time a joyful laugh escaped his widely parted lips. He muttered something to the men with him, and they chuckled appreciatively.

As the four men climbed back into their carts for the trip to the fifth tee, Remo slipped quickly around the periphery of the course. Anyone who saw him assumed he was late for an appointment, since his gait was more a hurried glide than a sprint. However, if they'd continued to watch they would have noticed that the speed at which he was traveling was only deceptively slow.

Somehow, without appearing to rush, Remo managed to outdistance B. O. Anson's party on their way to the next tee.

When the former football star's cart slowed to a stop, Remo was a hundred yards ahead, waiting at the edge of the green near the woods that rimmed the course.

B.O. was still laughing when he approached the tee.

Remo had taken only one ball with him. Unlike the ones he'd bought, this ball was personalized.

He noted the name on the side as he fished it from his pocket. "B. O. Anson."

In the shade of a denuded maple, he dropped the ball he had swiped from the ex-football player to the grass.

This wasn't acting out, he reasoned as he lowered the head of the wedge. It was making lemonade, pure and simple.

B.O. hauled back and swung mightily. The ball whooshed audibly from the tee, arcing high into the pale autumn sky.

Another clean shot down the fairway, this one closing in on 260 yards. The ex-football star was having one of the best games of his life. As expected, his mouth dropped wide in the same open smile he displayed after all his best strokes.

The instant he saw the first flash of teeth, Remo brought his own club back.