As the father of the golf novel (exhibit A: Dead Solid Perfect, circa 1974), Fort Worth’s Dan Jenkins holds license in perpetuity to exercise the genre’s clichés, which he does with relish in The Franchise Babe. Self-absorbed pro golfers and sizzling golf moms in “jacked-up minis” are just a few of the country club species populating this raucous tale narrated by raffish sportswriter Jack Brannon. Having dismissed the PGA Tour as “Tiger whipping up on a bunch of slugs,” Jack pursues a feature story about young LPGA phenom Ginger Clayton, and—when not quaffing martinis and bonking Ginger’s mother, Thurlene—he stumbles upon a considerable scandal: Tour honchos have hushed up an attempt to poison their golden Lolita. Jenkins’s irreverent shtick is not for everyone (one might cringe when Jack describes his second wife as a “spend-with-both-hands, life-sucking bitch”), but if you liked him before, you’ll love him now. Doubleday, $24.95
