The Prodigy

by John Feinstein

  “Actually, Thomas, he says a lot of good things about players—including Tiger,” Slugger said in a polite tone. “It’s just that players and agents tend to only focus on the negative.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Slugger?” Lawrensen said defensively. “Chamblee is pretty awful.”

  Frank saw Slugger give Lawrensen the same phony smile he put on for club members he couldn’t stand but had to deal with anyway.

  “Just what I said, Ron,” Slugger said. “If I had a dollar for every good thing Brandel says about players, I wouldn’t have to work.”

  Frank laughed out loud. Since he watched Golf Channel constantly, he knew Slugger was telling the truth.

  Chamblee and Love were being led to a table in the back. As they were walking past, Chamblee braked to a halt.

  “Frank Baker, right?” he said, looking at Frank.

  “Um, yeah,” Frank answered.

  “Brandel Chamblee,” he said, putting out his hand. “I’m guessing you recognize Davis Love. Didn’t cover the event last year, but watched a lot of it on television. Thought you showed remarkable poise for someone just turned sixteen. Looking forward to seeing you this week.”

  Love also shook Frank’s hand while Frank searched for his tongue. It was Slugger who rescued him.

  “Hey, Brandel, I’m Slugger Johnston. I’m the pro at Perryton Country Club in Connecticut.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Chamblee said. “I heard the guys talking about you last year. Congratulations on your work with this guy.” He smiled. “The Perryton Prodigy, right?”

  Everyone laughed. Slugger then introduced the other three men at the table.

  “We know one another,” Lawrensen said, not smiling at Chamblee. “Davis, it’s always good to see you.”

  If the obvious snub bothered Chamblee, he didn’t show it. The steaks were arriving. Chamblee and Love moved out of the way. “Good luck,” each of them said, shaking Frank’s hand again.

  Someone at another table was waving at them. They departed.

  Slugger looked at Lawrensen. “Boy, you’re right, Ron,” he said. “That Chamblee seems like an awful guy.”

  Lawrensen said nothing.

  Frank thought it was about the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

  * * *

  Frank had difficulty with the Poa annua greens at Bel-Air on Monday, the first day of stroke play. Poa annua—the Latin name for annual bluegrass—grew in the turf on the West Coast whether you liked it or not. Unlike the bent grass greens at most East Coast courses, Poa annua greens tended to get bumpy very fast, because the grass grew irregularly during the sunniest part of the day. Playing later on Monday, Frank missed a number of putts he’d been sure he would make and struggled to a 74—four over par. That put him in a tie for 96th going into Tuesday, meaning he needed a good round at Riviera.

  The first hole at Riviera was a par-five, and Frank bombed his drive there, hit a four-iron onto the green, and rolled in a ten-foot putt for eagle to start his second day. He had an early tee time, and the greens were considerably smoother than the ones he had played on in the afternoon at Bel-Air. Buoyed by the eagle, he went out in three-under-par 32. He decided to try to drive the short 315-yard par-four tenth. The tenth at Riviera was one of golf’s most famous risk-reward holes. It could be driven, but if you missed the green in the wrong place, a bogey—or worse—was very possible.

  Frank figured he had some margin for error at that point and, with the hole playing slightly downwind, only needed a three-wood to reach the green. The three-wood was his favorite club. Slugger, caddying for him, didn’t argue for a second when he asked for the three-wood. He didn’t want to say anything to dent Frank’s confidence.

  Frank hit a high fade that started left of the narrow green, drifted to the right, bounced just short, and rolled to the back fringe. The cup was cut near the back, and Frank had a fairly easy two-putt birdie from 30 feet. Except he promptly rolled the eagle putt in, provoking a roar from the couple hundred people following his group. The eagle put him at five under for the day and one under for the two days.

  He and Slugger had figured the likely cut for match play would be around two over par, and anyone over that was going home. He was now well inside the number. He made two birdies and one bogey the rest of the way to shoot a 65—low round of the day at Riviera. His 74–65 total for the two days put him comfortably into match play as the 16th seed.

  That meant he would play his first-round match against someone named Gil Beltke, who was the 48th seed. All Frank knew about Beltke was that he was a twenty-year-old rising junior at Oklahoma State University. If he played for the Cowboys, he was a good player: OSU was one of the elite Division I college golf programs in the country.

  Still, that match didn’t scare him. His potential second-round match did: it would likely be against Rickie Southwick, the same Rickie Southwick who had dusted him in the semifinals a year earlier and gone on to become the Amateur champion.

  Southwick had decided to return to Oregon for his senior season rather than turn pro, in part because he wanted to try to help the Ducks win a second straight National Collegiate Athletic Association title but also because he had to remain an amateur in order to use the exemptions he received into the Masters, the U.S. Open, and the British Open—or, as it was called in Great Britain, the Open Championship.

  Having finished tied for 19th at the British Open a few weeks earlier, Southwick was already being touted as the next young star on the PGA Tour. He was going to turn pro after the Amateur and was expected to receive sponsor exemptions into just about all the fall tournaments once the new PGA Tour season started in October.

  Frank had liked Southwick when they played each other. The guy already had a coterie of agents and shoe reps following him around because a lot of money was being thrown in his direction if he opted to turn pro. At one point when Southwick holed a long birdie putt and one of the agents screamed, “Way to go, Rickie!” Frank saw him shaking his head.

  “Who was that?” Frank had asked as they walked to the next tee.

  “His name’s Sam something,” Southwick said. “He thinks I’m going to sign with him and turn pro next week, which I’m not.” As they reached the tee, Southwick put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “They’re going to start chasing you in a couple years when you get to college. Remember one thing: they are all the same in the end.”

  Frank had remembered that when the agents and shoe reps began showing up—invited by his dad—at Perryton. He just wished Southwick had been right that it would be a couple of years and that it hadn’t started so soon.

  He’d seen some familiar faces following him the last few days, especially after his front nine at Riviera. When word had gotten around that he’d shot three under on the front nine, they started popping up on the back nine, almost like magic. The last few holes, every walk from green to tee was a little bit like going through a receiving line. There they all were with a word of encouragement.

  Three words popped into his head in response: Please go away.

  He knew they wouldn’t, if only because his father wouldn’t let them. More and more he wished he was ten again, when the thing he loved most in the world was playing a round with his dad and then getting treated to a burger and an Arnold Palmer at the 19th hole afterward.

  * * *

  Frank had to talk to a handful of reporters after he signed his scorecard on Tuesday. A year earlier he’d become a story as he made his way through match play because he’d been one of only two players under the age of eighteen to make it to the round of 64 and, since his birthday was in July, he was the youngest player in the field.

  The week before flying to L.A. he’d talked to Keith Forman on the phone about dealing with the media. Forman’s advice was a good deal different from what he’d heard in the past from his father, the agents, and, for that matter, Slugger.

  “Just be yourself,” Forman counseled. “Don’t give them Bull Durham BS.”

 
; Forman had asked him early on if he’d seen the old minor-league baseball movie and, of course, he had—being the son of a rabid baseball fan.

  The difference between Forman and his father was that his dad saw Crash Davis’s speech on how to handle an interview with the media as gospel. Forman saw it as blasphemy. In the movie, Crash Davis, the beaten-up old catcher played by Kevin Costner, explains to Nuke Laloosh, the phenom pitcher played by Tim Robbins, only to speak in clichés. The basic message is to never say anything. Crash counsels Nuke to say that all he wants to do is help the ball club, give 110 percent every day, and thank God for the opportunity he’s been given.

  “You don’t have to be outrageous, predict you’re going to win, stuff like that,” Forman had said. “Just be honest. If you think of something funny, say it. Reporters love funny.”

  The Amateur, Forman had explained, wasn’t like a professional golf event. There wouldn’t be that much media there.

  “Mostly it’ll be golf insiders,” Forman said. “Guys like me, to be honest. Golf magazines, bloggers, some local media from Southern California. Maybe the New York Times toward the end of the week.”

  There were about a dozen people waiting for Frank when he came out of the scoring area after the second round. A United States Golf Association media official told Frank that they would like him to talk to Fox, which would be televising the match-play rounds of the tournament, and then to Golf Channel for a minute, and then, finally, to about eight or nine print reporters who had requested to talk to him.

  The Fox interviewer, Steve Flesch, who had once been an outstanding player on tour, only had a couple of quick questions for him. Then Frank was led to a raised platform with the Golf Channel logo directly behind it. He was introduced to Steve Burkowski, who, he knew from watching, was Golf Channel’s leading expert on amateur golf.

  Burkowski had a friendly smile on his face as he shook Frank’s hand. “Nice playing today,” he said to Frank. “This will only take a minute or two.”

  “No problem, Mr. Burkowski,” Frank said.

  “You can call me Steve,” he said, and told Frank to just talk to him and not worry about the camera. Then he turned to his cameraman and asked if they were ready to go.

  When the cameraman pointed at him and said, “Go, Burko,” Burkowski turned back to Frank and said, “Frank, six-under-par 65 today, low round of the championship so far—you made it look easy out there.”

  Remembering that Forman had told him to think funny and to call people by name whenever he could, Frank said, “Sure didn’t feel easy out there, Steve,” which drew a laugh from his interviewer. “I think making the eagle at number one relaxed me, and I was a lot less nervous than yesterday once that putt went in.”

  “Did you feel pressure coming in here, having reached the semifinals last year at sixteen, becoming the so-called Perryton Prodigy?”

  “Absolutely. Last year when I got to Oakland Hills, just being there was a dream. Once I got through to match play, I was playing with house money. This year I know expectations are higher—mine and everyone else’s.”

  “Last one,” Burkowski said. “If the draw holds up, you’ll face Rickie Southwick, the defending champion and the guy who knocked you out of the tournament in the second round. Have you given that any thought yet?”

  Frank had no trouble being honest answering that one. “If I start thinking about Rickie now, I’m pretty sure my only contact with him this week will be watching him play Gil Beltke, because if I look past Gil even a little bit, he’ll undoubtedly kick my butt.”

  That got another laugh.

  Frank had done well. They shook hands, and he moved on to the print reporters.

  The questions there were similar, and Frank was sort of enjoying himself when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, his father giving the USGA guy a slash sign indicating he should end the interview.

  “We’ve got time for one more,” the USGA guy said.

  Frank was in no rush to leave. For some reason, his father apparently felt differently.

  6

  During most of the flight from Logan Airport in Boston to LAX, Keith Forman was thinking he might go to the golf course on arrival to pick up his credentials and get the lay of the land, even though he’d been to Riviera multiple times.

  If Frank Baker had been playing in the late wave and he could have gone out and watched him play the last few holes, Keith would certainly have made the half-hour drive from the airport to Riviera. But he knew Frank would be finished by the time he landed shortly after one o’clock, and it would be at least an hour—probably more—before he’d get to his rental car, get out of the airport, and get to the golf course.

  So he decided to go straight to his hotel, the Marriott Marina del Rey, which was about fifteen minutes from the airport and twenty minutes from Riviera. Because he had an athletic VIP card from Marriott, he’d been able to get a reasonable rate—for Los Angeles—and the location was about as good as you were likely to get in the L.A. area.

  As soon as he landed he wanted to check his phone to see how Frank had done that day. Slugger would be texting the minute they were done. As he was going through the nightmare that was security in Boston, it had occurred to him that he might be doing all this for nothing. Frank’s opening-day 74 had put him in danger of failing to advance.

  Keith took a deep breath and hoped for the best as he opened the message from his friend. He smiled when he saw that Frank had shot 65, knowing that would easily get him into match play. He was less happy when he saw the potential second-round matchup with Rickie Southwick. Funny, he thought. I really don’t know the kid well—at least not yet—and already I’m pulling for him.

  As he rode the shuttle bus to the rent-a-car lot—which felt as if it were somewhere in San Diego—he thought about a quote he had read once from the great New York Times columnist Dave Anderson, one of a handful of sportswriters to ever win a Pulitzer Prize: “First rule of sportswriting is, you’re always allowed to root for yourself.”

  What Anderson meant was that it was okay to be biased in wanting to avoid extra holes so that you could make a deadline or catch a plane, or to root against extra innings or overtime. You were also allowed to pull for someone you had to interview at day’s end so he’d be in a good mood—or, more important, not blow off the interview.

  Keith remembered another sportswriter story, one involving Curtis Strange, the two-time U.S. Open champion, who was famous for his temper. A writer had been scheduled to interview Strange over dinner at Jack Nicklaus’s Memorial Tournament after the first round. The writer walked all eighteen holes with Strange that afternoon so he’d be able to discuss his round with him that night.

  Strange played well until the last two holes, when he finished with back-to-back double-bogeys. The writer waited for Strange to sign his scorecard, as players are required to do at the end of a round, and then go to the range to hit some balls—no doubt to blow off steam.

  As Strange walked off the range, the writer waited for him. Strange looked him right in the eye and kept walking.

  Turning around, the writer said, “So should I assume we aren’t having dinner tonight?”

  Strange stopped, turned around, and said, “What was your first goddamn clue?”

  Figuring he had nothing to lose, the writer answered, “The first goddamn double-bogey.”

  Strange couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby at seven,” he said, walking away.

  Keith knew he had no story at all if Frank didn’t make it to match play, and not much of a story if he didn’t at least make the semifinals. Having spent his own money to get to L.A., he didn’t want to go home empty-handed. But he also wanted to see the kid succeed for the simple reason that he liked him.

  Of course he also knew that, for Frank, success on the golf course might lead to a lot of headaches off the golf course. That was why he was now handing his paperwork to the unsmiling guard at the rent-a-car gate: story or no st
ory, Frank needed some outside help.

  That’s why Slugger had called him. It was also why Keith had given up a week at home going to see the Red Sox and Orioles play at Fenway to be in L.A. in the searing August heat. Root for yourself, Keith, he told himself.

  And for the kid.

  * * *

  Keith and Slugger had dinner that night at a Chinese restaurant in downtown L.A. It was expensive and not very good.

  “Who told you about this place?” Keith asked, biting into a not-so-good egg roll. You could tell how good a Chinese restaurant was by the quality of the egg rolls. This was a C + at best.

  “Sid Wilson,” Slugger said.

  Keith laughed. Sid Wilson had worked for the PGA Tour when he and Slugger were in college and while Keith was on the mini-tours. He showed up at occasional mini-tour events to scout potential future Tour players. He had once taken Keith, Slugger, and several others to a Chinese place in Florida that had been the worst Chinese Keith had ever had.

  “Why in the world would you listen to Sid Wilson on the subject of Chinese food?” Keith asked.

  Slugger shrugged. “I figured the odds were in his favor.”

  “Wrong.”

  As dinner moved on, Keith asked after Slugger’s wife and two young kids, and then Slugger filled Keith in on Frank’s first two days.

  “I was really proud of him today, bouncing back the way he did after a tough round yesterday,” Slugger said. “He handled himself like a thirty-five-year-old with the media until the old man stepped in and cut the interview short.”

  “What was that about?” Keith asked. “I figured he’d be lapping up the publicity.”

  “He thinks the only publicity that matters is TV and anything you get paid for.”

  “Earl again,” Keith said, remembering Tiger’s complete disdain for the print media.

  “You got it,” Slugger said.

  “Plus, he’s got that sleazebag Ron Lawrensen running around arranging interviews with him.”

  “Oh, jeez,” Keith said. “He already thinks he’s the star. Is Dad paying Lawrensen for this?”