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Man cannot live on Advil alone, but this one tries. This one buys his ibuprofen in bulk, at Costco, because without it, he cant sleep, and without sleep, he cant shoot in the 60s, and without shooting in the 60s, he cant get back on the PGA Tour. So he takes his 10 a day -- four with breakfast, two on the 10th tee and four before bedtime. Multiplied by 15 years, thats 54,750 Advil that have passed through the system of Casey Martin.

Sometimes, he wants to tell the Supreme Court thanks, but no thanks. By a vote of 7-2, they awarded him the golf cart, and pointed him in the direction of the Tour, but they can do nothing now about his recent downfall. They cant help that he has lost his full playing privileges on the Buy.com Tour, or that hes always down on all fours in the shower, or that at night he moans himself to sleep. Or that in Omaha, his defective right tibia nearly snapped in two. Or that in Arizona, someone drove off with his cart. Or that he missed the cut in 11 of 21 minor league tournaments. Or that he finished a lousy 143rd on the Buy.com money list. Or that a disabled woman in a motorized wheelchair -- wearing a T-shirt that said "Hell on Wheels" -- followed him all 18 holes in Rancho Cucamonga, Calif., because, she said, "It may be my last chance to ever see him play."

A year ago, he was on the PGA Tour, a 6'2", fair-haired wannabe, with ruddy cheeks and no facial hair who looked every bit like a strapping young man -- until he stepped out of his ride. Hed limp to the tee box, appearing in dire need of a cane, but then hed turn his hips perfectly and murder the ball. His drives approached three football fields in length, and he went on to make the cut in 14 of 29 PGA tournaments.

But that was 2000, and this is 2001. And in 2001, he never knew where his putts would end up.

So if this is it, if Casey Martin quits golf cold-turkey at age 29, it will have been the pain, not the lack of game, that finished him. The PGA Tour never wanted him and his golf cart in the first place, and if anybody still thinks Martin can walk 72 holes, he might want to accompany him to his last-resort doctors appointment in Denver in December. Because if this treatment fails, he will be one step closer to the end of his career.

"I wouldnt wish Caseys leg on my worst enemy," says Van Williams, his caddie, who has also spent the past seven months chauffeuring a tired Martin from tournament to tournament.

Now the most famous golfer not on the PGA Tour has some delicate decisions to make. Whether to continue playing in pro golfs farm system. Whether, if the time ever comes, to have his leg amputated above the knee or below it. Whether to compete with a prosthesis. Whether to keep risking what all that Advil may be doing to his liver.

Whatever happens, its been an inspirational run. Children who have his birth defect dress up like him for Halloween; he is their Tiger Woods. But his dream is fading. He didnt advance past the second stage of the PGA Tours qualifying school in November, finishing seven strokes out of the finals, and his reaction was, "Im failing miserably." If this really is the end, the shame is that few realize how tortured hes been.

Driving a cart makes golf possible for Casey Martin, but it also makes golf a maze. People wonder why he failed this year, and much had to do with the distractions of the stop-and-go traffic he encountered along the fairways. Normally, a pro tees off and marches single-mindedly to his next shot. But Caseys world went like this:

1) Tee off. 2) Drive under gallery rope without decapitating self. 3) Find cart path. 4) Tell spectators on path to look out. 5) Ignore their small talk. 6) Avoid running over their toes. 7) Drive back under gallery rope without decapitating self. 8) Park on flat surface. 9) Make sure no one swipes cart. 10) Make birdies.

"Trust me," says Martin, who drives the cart while his caddie carries his bag down the fairway, "Ive almost been decapitated 10 times."

The cart, apparently, can be hijacked. In Chandler, Ariz., a tour official drove Martins cart back to the club garage, not realizing whose it was even though Martin was teeing off 10 feet away. When Martin saw his ride was gone, he simply commandeered another tour officials cart and played on. He ended up three-putting for bogey.

"This isnt something I want to belabor, because Im grateful to have the cart," Martin says. "I need it. But theres not one person, not one soul -- I guarantee it -- who would want to play golf the way I have to play. Im slaloming in and out. People suddenly go left, and I have to jam on the brakes to miss them. Im Type A to begin with, so when someones in your way, and you want to rip their head off, it definitely puts you out of that ideal state to play golf. Thats my biggest struggle -- I get up to the ball and Im stressed out."

This is the closest Martin comes to whining, but hes had a faraway look in his eyes all season, and his mother, Melinda, knows exactly what that means: "When Casey has that faraway look, it means he isnt well."

Hes had that look at various stations of his life, starting as a child in Eugene, Ore. He would cry all night as an infant, curled in a fetal position, and his father -- King Martin, a partner in a financial firm -- took him more than once to the ER, convinced his newborn had a stomach condition. The family had noticed a black and blue mark on his right leg, and just assumed it was a birthmark, until an ER nurse noticed he screamed louder when they touched it.

At the age of 10 months, he was discovered to have Klippel-Trenaunays syndrome, which -- in laymans terms -- means the veins in his right leg are twisted abnormally and leak blood to his tibia, eroding it drip by drip. There is no cure, and as a 14-year-old, Casey would break into cold sweats, howling in pain, "Take my leg off!" to his parents.

"His leg has sat in a pool of blood for 29 years," his mother says. "Its rotting. Like a piece of wood sitting in water."

To permit him to play, his leg is encased in whats known as a Jobst stocking, a tight wrap that prevents the blood from pooling in the knee. But the stocking fits like a vise and has atrophied his leg to the point that it is purple and narrow. "Imagine someone grabbing your arm and squeezing as hard as he can," says his caddie, Williams. "Well, thats his leg. All day, every day."

Just getting himself ready to play in the morning is an ordeal. First of all, most of his tee times are just after dawn, and its 50-50 that hes even slept the night before. "If I dont take the four Advil before I go to sleep," Martin says, "Ill be in bad shape." Once hes up, he has to remove the Jobst stocking to take his shower, but without it, he cant stand up for more than 30 seconds. That means a half-minute into every shower, hes on all fours, resting up before trying to stand again.

"By the time he tees off," says his older brother, Cameron, "hes been under as much stress as someone whos already played nine holes."

On the course, he walks from the cart to his ball staring at the ground, so as not to step in a drain or on a rock. Any sudden twist could snap his brittle tibia, and a broken bone means automatic amputation. "And it wont be easy," says Melinda. "Itll take several doctors to control the bleeding. Theres a chance he could bleed to death."

Caseys had some close calls. At the L.A. Open in 2000, he twisted his bad leg stepping in a chuck hole, then aggravated it when he kicked his bag -- with his good leg -- after a bogey. "First time in my life I cried on a golf course," he says. Then, this season in Omaha, he stepped in a drain, felt the tibia give a little, and withdrew from the tournament. "Thats when I say to myself," says Cameron, Why even try to keep playing?"

Martin is a long knocker. "Im 100% healthy," says Matt Peterson, who earned his 2002 PGA Tour card on the Buy.com circuit this year, "and I cant keep it within 30 yards of him off the tee." But Martins short game is in shambles, mainly because hes had to curtail his practice time. He ranked 138th in putting on the Buy.com Tour; his right knee becomes too engorged with blood for him to spend hours on the practice green. When he removes his stocking after playing, the knee swells grotesquely. "You dont even need time-lapse photography," says Cameron.

Traveling is an ordeal. Williams has to drive him to and from tournaments -- Martin himself cant keep the pedal to the metal for more than an hour -- and flying isnt always an option. Martin cant take long flights because sitting for extended periods can cause stasis or blood pooling in the leg and increase the risk of blood clots. (This is why Martin doesnt play overseas.) So most of this season, it was Casey and Williams on the highway, where the caddie found out how the golfer deals with his agony: humor. Dry humor.

On the road, Martin, who is single, likes to kid with waitresses. In Odessa, Texas, he threw peanuts at a cute one. At Italian restaurants, hell say, "Maam, I must know the width of your pasta." (He even presses the issue, sending the waitress back to consult the chef.) In Knoxville, when the players were being introduced to the gallery, the announcer didnt recognize Martin and asked him, "You are ... ?" Martin answered, without skipping a beat, "Felipe." And so now its one of his nicknames.

People close to him know that his humor is a cover, that whenever they ask Martin if hes in pain, hell change the subject and say, "How bout them Oregon Ducks?" They know he just wants to be one of the guys. They know that, as a kid, he used to put a plastic wrap around his stocking and play football in the mud. That he used to be automatic quarterback, and that the defense was allowed to tackle him (lightly) after counting to "20-apple." That he played shooting guard on his eighth-grade basketball team, even though the stocking made it seem like he had a wooden leg.

Caseys just never talked much about his pain, which is why this year his loved ones knew he was in trouble. In October, at a tournament in Monterey, Calif., he told his parents, "Im hurting." Thats when his father knew it could all be over: "I can count on one hand how many times Caseys said, Im hurting. On one hand."

So now Martin is a man without a tour, having imploded at Q-school, failing to win his PGA Tour card, failing even to secure full playing priviledges on the Buy.com circuit. He shot a 4-over 76 the first day, missed countless short putts and never made a push. "The clocks ticking on me," he says. "To be honest, I didnt think Id still be playing golf at 29." He admits hes burned out, and seems relieved to be tossing his clubs in the closet. "I think the burdens off him," King says. "The expectations."

Since a redshirt year at Stanford, where he and Tiger Woods were teammates, Martin hasnt spent a block of time away from competitive golf, but hes about to take four months off. Its a crucial time to get away, because he can now see that doctor.

There is a specialist in Denver who thinks he can stop the blood leakage from Martins veins. In December, Casey will go to him for the first time. Then, if Martin agrees to proceed with treatment, he will be hospitalized for a series of injections into his right leg veins.

The worst-case scenario, one that Casey has visualized for a while, is a fall, a break -- and amputation. He knows if they amputate below the knee, he can still play competitively with a prosthesis. And he knows if he loses the entire leg, his career is over; he needs to feel his knee and femur to judge his backswing. But, in his most sober moments, he knows his answer: "My leg is just so swollen around the knee that Im liable to say Lets lose all the problem."

In the short term, he has asked Butch Harmon -- Tiger Woods mentor -- to evaluate his swing. His tentative plan is to utilize his sponsors exemptions and play in the spring. "I dont have a whole lot left in my tank," he says. "But I still think Im capable. Who knows, maybe Ill come back refreshed. Or maybe Ill decide I hate golf, and youll never hear from me again."

His family doubts hell burn his clubs. They suspect he will bug his brother this winter, just like always. That he will ask his brother if he can play touch football with the boys -- and his brother will tell him no. Or that hell want to shoot baskets on the driveway -- and his brother will tell him no.

"Why cant I play?"

"Your leg."

"Whats wrong with my leg?"

A bad case of denial is, in fact, the best thing Martin has going now. Recently, his family doctor offered him a handicapped parking pass. Caseys prompt answer was, "No. Im not handicapped."

He said this with a straight face. Said it with a pile of Advil in his front pocket. Said it with a faraway look.

This article appears in the December 10 issue of ESPN The Magazine.