The Downhill Lie: A Hacker's Return to a Ruinous Sport by Carl Hiaasen (English)

Description: The Downhill Lie by Carl Hiaasen Bestselling author Hiaasen pens a hilarious and compelling account of his return to the fairways after a 32-year absence. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description Filled with harrowing divots, deadly doglegs, and excruciating sandtraps, The Downhill Lie is a hilarious chronicle of mis-adventure that will have you rolling with laughter.Bestselling author Carl Hiaasen wisely quit golfing in 1973. But some ambitions refuse to die, and as the years passed and the memories of slices and hooks faded, it dawned on Carl that there might be one thing in life he could do better in middle age than he could as a youth. So gradually he ventured back to the rolling, frustrating green hills of the golf course, where he ultimately—and foolishly—agreed to compete in a country-club tournament against players who can actually hit the ball. Author Biography CARL HIAASEN was born and raised in Florida. He is the author of numerous novels, including the best sellers Razor Girl, Bad Monkey, Star Island, Nature Girl, Skinny Dip, Sick Puppy, and Lucky You, and five best-selling childrens books, Hoot, Flush, Scat, Chomp, and Skink. His most recent work of nonfiction is Dance of the Reptiles, a collection of his columns from The Miami Herald. Review "An extraordinary book for the ordinary hacker."—The New York Times "With biting humor and painfully honest self-humiliation, Hiaasen describes his 1-1/2-year journey into one of Dantes inner circles of hell."—The Christian Science Monitor"A cleverly written, witty and sometimes wistful look at golf, marriage, human nature and life."—The Tampa Tribune"Hiaasens hilarious misadventures on the golf course are all too familiar to anyone who has ever flailed at the ball in futile attempts to conquer a sport that mercilessly strips us of our dignity."—The New York Times Book Review"The foibles and embarrassments, as well as the joys, of casual and tournament golf ring true....Golfers should love this book."—Rocky Mountain News"Memoir is new territory for him, but Hiaasen is Hiaasen. Fans of his bizarro novels will find his irony and sense of humor remain unaffected on the links." —The Florida Times-Union"A return by Hiaasen to his best with the sport of golf providing the venue for his unique wit and biting humor.... Youll have many laugh-out-loud moments.... If youve never read Carl Hiaasen... if you have read him before, this is a wonderful return to the magic (albeit voodoo) that is Carl Hiaasen." —Decatur Daily"…[Hiaasens] insights into the insane lengths a golfer will go to in hopes of a lower score are always entertaining. If youve been bitten by the golf bug, youll appreciate every moment of Hiaasens magnificent obsession. If you havent, read The Downhill Lie and laugh at those of us who have."—Howard Shirley, Bookpage"Golfers in general tend to be self-critical, but Mr. Hiaasen is a self-lacerator. He doesnt curse or throw his clubs, but he sighs a lot and asks existential questions like, "Why do we do this?" and "Why are we out here?" He plays the way you imagine Samuel Beckett might have played. He cant go on, but he goes on."—Charles McGrath, New York Times"His analysis of his lessons, hapless rounds and gimmicky golf equipment is hilarious, and his vivid descriptions are vintage Hiaasen . . . With the satirically skilled Hiaasen, who rarely breaks 90 on the links, this narrative is an enjoyable ride." —Publishers Weekly "It has taken Carl Hiaasen to capture the essence of a game that, like the bagpipes and the kilt, was invented by the Irish and given to the Scots as a joke. Carls dementia is kind of exquisite. He lampoons the most banal aspects of stodgy blue-blooded American country-club life. The simple act of buying a set of clubs gets the full Hiaasen treatment, and the guilt-ridden angst of the triangular love-hate relationship between himself, his drop-dead beautiful Greek wife, and the drop-dead-you-rotten-bastard Scotty Cameron putter she bought him, is alone worth the price of one for yourself and another for Fathers Day."—David Feherty Review Quote "This book is a return by Hiaasen to his best with the sport of golf providing the venue for his unique wit and biting humor. . . . Throughout, he spares no punches on himself. You feel his pain and frustration as he takes three steps forward and two back (usually in the rough). Youll have many laugh-out-loud moments, either at his expense or the expense of those infected by his bad mojo. His fate is always believable and you never tire of his desire to improve (even if aided by questionable pharmaceuticals). You can even learn from his experiences. I dont know if this book can help your stroke, but after reading about his golf cart fiasco, Ive been much more diligent to set the emergency brake on my car. If youve never read Carl Hiaasen, this is a great place to start in that it requires no prerequisites, not even a working knowledge of golf. If you have read him before, this is a wonderful return to the magic (albeit voodoo) that is Carl Hiaasen." Scott Mayo,Decatur Daily "…[Hiaasens] insights into the insane lengths a golfer will go to in hopes of a lower score are always entertaining. If youve been bitten by the golf bug, youll appreciate every moment of Hiaasens magnificent obsession. If you havent, readThe Downhill Lieand laugh at those of us who have." Howard Shirley,Bookpage "[Hiaasen] displays a fine-tuned sense of the absurd. . . . it brims with golf mania. Janet Maslin,The New York Times "Any golfer on the downward side of middle age will be able to picture himself in the authors soft-spiked shoes. And the foibles and embarrassments, as well as the joys, of casual and tournament golf ring true." Mark Graham,Rocky Mountain News "Memoir is new territory for him, but Hiaasen is Hiaasen. Fans of his bizarro novels will find his irony and sense of humor remain unaffected on the links." The Florida Times-Union "…a cleverly written, witty and sometimes wistful look at golf, marriage, human nature and life." Bob DAngelo,The Tampa Tribune "Golfers in general tend to be self-critical, but Mr. Hiaasen is a self-lacerator. He doesnt curse or throw his clubs, but he sighs a lot and asks existential questions like, "Why do we do this?" and "Why are we out here?" He plays the way you imagine Samuel Beckett might have played. He cant go on, but he goes on." Charles McGrath,New York Times "His analysis of his lessons, hapless rounds and gimmicky golf equipment is hilarious, and his vivid descriptions are vintage Hiaasen . . . With the satirically skilled Hiaasen, who rarely breaks 90 on the links, this narrative is an enjoyable ride." Publishers Weekly "It has taken Carl Hiaasen to capture the essence of a game that, like the bagpipes and the kilt, was invented by the Irish and given to the Scots as a joke. Carls dementia is kind of exquisite. He lampoons the most banal aspects of stodgy blue-blooded American country-club life. The simple act of buying a set of clubs gets the full Hiaasen treatment, and the guilt-ridden angst of the triangular love-hate relationship between himself, his drop-dead beautiful Greek wife, and the drop-dead-you-rotten-bastard Scotty Cameron putter she bought him, is alone worth the price of one for yourself and another for Fathers Day." David Feherty From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt from Book In the summer of 2005, I returned to golf after a much needed layoff of thirty-two years.Attempting a comeback in my fifties wouldnt have been so absurd if Id been a decent player when I was young, but unfortunately that wasnt the case. At my best, Id shown occasional flashes of competence. At my worst, Id been a menace to all carbon-based life-forms on the golf course.On the day I gave up golfing, I stood six-feet even, weighed a stringy 145 pounds and was in relatively sound physical shape. When I returned to the game, I was half an inch taller, twenty-one pounds heavier and nagged by the following age-related ailments:* elevated cholesterol; * a bone spur deep in the right rotator cuff; * an aching right hip; * a permanently weakened right knee, due to a badly torn medial meniscus that was scraped and repaired in February 2003 by the same orthopedic surgeon whod once worked on a young professional quarterback named Dan Marino. (The doctor had assured me that my injury was no worse than Marinos, then hed added with a hearty chuckle, "But youre also not twenty-two years old.")Other factors besides my knee joint and HDL had changed during my long absence. When Id abandoned golf in 1973, I had been a happily married father of a two-year-old son. When I returned to the sport in 2005, I was a happily remarried father of a five-year-old son, a fourteen-year-old stepson and a thirty-four-year-old son with three kids of his own. In other words, I was a grandpa.Over those three busy and productive decades, a normal, well-centered person would have mellowed in the loving glow of the family hearth. Not me. I was just as restless, consumed, unreflective, fatalistic and emotionally unequipped to play golf in my fifties as I was in my teens.What possesses a man to return in midlife to a game at which hed never excelled in his prime, and which in fact had dealt him mostly failure, angst and exasperation?Heres why I did it: Im one sick bastard.The Last WaltzMy first taste of golf was as a shag caddy for my father. He often practiced hitting wedges in our front yard, and Id put on my baseball glove and play outfield.Dad seemed genuinely happy when I finally asked to take golf lessons. I was perhaps eleven or twelve, too young to realize that my disposition was ill-suited to a recreation that requires infinite patience and eternal optimism.The club pro was Harold Perry, a pleasant fellow and a solid teacher. He said I had a natural swing, which, Ive since learned, is what pros always say at your first lesson. Its more merciful than: "Youd have a brighter future chopping cane."The early sessions did seem to go well, and Harold was en- couraging. As time passed, however, he began chain-smoking heavily during our lessons, which suggested to me the existence of a chronic problem for which Harold had no solution. The problem was largely in my head, and fell under the clinical heading of Wildly Unrealistic Expectations.My first major mistake was prematurely asking to join my father for nine holes, a brisk Sunday outing during which I unraveled like a crackhead at a Billy Graham crusade. This was because Id foolishly expected to advance the golf ball down the fairway in a linear path. The experience was marred by angry tears, muffled profanities and long, brittle periods of silence. Worse, a pattern was established that would continue throughout the years that Dad and I played together.Golfers like maxims, and heres a good one: Beginners should never be paired with good players, especially if the good player is ones own father.The harder I tried, the uglier it got. To say that I didnt bear my pain stoically is an understatement. Dad suffered along with me and so did his golf game, which added to my sullen mood an oppressive layer of guilt.There were rare sunbursts of hope when I managed to hit a decent shot or sink a putt, but usually a pall of Nordic gloom followed us around the links. My father was a saint for tolerating my tantrums and sulking. He never once ditched me; whenever I asked to tag along on his regular weekend game, hed say yes despite knowing what histrionics lay ahead. As I grew taller he generously bought me a set of Ben Hogans, which were so gorgeous that at first I was reluctant to throw them.Interestingly, I have no recollection of my father and me completing a round of golf, with the exception of a father-son charity event (and the only reason I didnt flee on the back nine was that I wasnt sure how to get back to the clubhouse). I cant recall our final score, probably for the same reason that victims of serious traffic accidents often cannot remember getting in the car. Trauma wipes clean the memory banks.In high school some of my friends took up golf, and occasionally I joined them on weekends. Surrounded by retirement developments, the Lauderdale Lakes course was a scraggly, unkempt layout that was chosen by us for its dirt-cheap, all-day green fees. Despite the trampled fairways and corrugated greens, I actually started enjoying myself--the mood was loose and raunchy, and it was uplifting to discover that my friends stroked the ball as erratically as I did. We were the youngest players on that course by half a century, a disparity that every round precipitated one or two prickly confrontations with foursomes who were less agile and alert. That, of course, only added to the sportive atmosphere.Occasionally we also played a chaotic par-3 layout, upon which I once bladed a 9-iron dead into the cup for an ace. It was a feat that I never replicated. My name (misspelled, naturally) was etched into a hokey hole-in-one plaque that was hung among literally hundreds of others in the funky little clubhouse.My father was undoubtedly relieved that Id found other golfing companions, freeing him to resume his regular Sunday rounds in peace. Unfortunately, bursitis was making it increasingly difficult for him to swing a club, and by the time I left for college he was playing infrequently, and in pain.During my first semester at Emory University I got married and soon thereafter became a father, so for a time I was too preoccupied--and too broke--for golf.In the summer of 1972 I entered the journalism college at the University of Florida in Gainesville, where I reconnected with my high school buddies. The university maintains a top-notch par-72 that was in those days open to students for $2.50. It was there I broke 90 for the first and only time before giving up the game.I was walking eighteen in a group that included a good friend, Al Simmens. He was hitting the ball well but I was all over the map, scrambling for bogeys and doubles. In the midst of butchering a long par-4, I improbably holed out a full 7-iron for a birdie. Exclamations of amused wonder arose from Big Al and the others. Then, supernaturally, two holes later I knocked in a 9-iron from about 110 yards.This time Al keeled over as if felled by a sniper. Once before Id seen him collapse like that on a golf course. It had happened when he was kneecapped by a drive struck by Larry Robinson, a member of our own foursome--the most astoundingly bad tee shot that Ive ever witnessed, to this day. Al had been next up, standing dead even with Larry and seemingly safe, when Larrys abominably mishit ball shot off the tee at a 90 degree angle and smashed into Als right leg. The impact sounded like a Willie McCovey home run. Incredibly, Al was upright within minutes, and resumed playing with only a slight limp.But after my second hole-out on that morning in Gainesville, he lay lifeless in the fairway with a glassy expression that called to mind Queequeg, the Pacific Island cannibal in Moby-Dick , whod lapsed into a grave trance upon seeing his fate in a throw of the bones. Eventually Al arose and rejoined our group, but he was rocky.I completed the round with no further heroics yet I walked off the 18th green with an 88, my best score ever. That was in the summer of 1973, and by the end of the year I was done. The Hogans sat in a closet, gathering dust.Richard Nixon was hunkered like a meth-crazed badger in the White House, Hank Aaron was one dinger shy of Babe Ruths all-time home run record, and The Who had just released Quadrophenia.At age twenty, I was more or less at peace.Toad GolfMy divorce from golf was uncomplicated and amic- able. When I came home from college on visits, my father and I would spend Sunday afternoons watching the PGA on television. Dad had always asserted that Sam Snead was the greatest player of all time, but he was gradually coming around to the possibility that Jack Nicklaus was something special.Then, in February 1976, my father died suddenly at the outrageously unfair age of fifty, a tragedy that extinguished any lingering whim I might have had to tackle golf again with serious intent. Apparently I played a round later that year with a friend, although my memory of it is fogged.Possibly Ive blocked out other rounds, too. My brother, Rob, says that he and I golfed together one time not long after Dad passed away. "It wasnt good," he tells me.The next time I recall swinging a club wasnt in any conventional, or socially acceptable, format.It occurred one night that same year, when my best friend and fishing companion, Bob Branham, called to report a disturbing infestation. The culprit was Bufo marinus, a large and brazen type of toad that had invaded South Florida from Central America and proliferated rapidly, all but exterminating the more docile native species. The Bufo grows to two pounds and eats anything that fits in its maw, including small birds and mice. When threatened, it excretes from two glands behind its eyes a milky toxin extremely dangerous to mammals. Adventuresome human substance abusers have claimed that licking Bufo toads produces psychedelic visions, but the practice is often fatal for dogs and cats.Which is why Bob had called. Eve Details ISBN0307280454 Author Carl Hiaasen Short Title DOWNHILL LIE Language English ISBN-10 0307280454 ISBN-13 9780307280459 Media Book Format Paperback Year 2009 Residence Florida Keys, FL, US Subtitle A Hackers Return to a Ruinous Sport Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2009-05-05 NZ Release Date 2009-05-05 US Release Date 2009-05-05 UK Release Date 2009-05-05 Pages 224 Publisher Random House USA Inc Publication Date 2009-05-05 Imprint Random House Inc DEWEY 796.352092 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:137923441;

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