The Prodigy

by John Feinstein

  Frank actually laughed. “While we’re still young” had been part of a USGA campaign to speed up pace-of-play, meaning when it’s your turn to hit, don’t take forever. Golfers from duffers to the pros hated having to wait on poky players ahead of them looking for a lost ball or contemplating their next shot.

  Frank nodded, reached into his bag for his three-wood, and glanced at Slugger as if to say, What do you think?

  Slugger shrugged. “If you like it, I like it.”

  Frank teed the ball up, stood behind it for a moment, and then took one practice swing. He wanted to start the ball left and fade it back toward the pin. He teed the ball higher than normal because he wanted to hit the ball as high as he could—landing it at a steep angle on the green and hope it stopped without rolling over the edge. It was a show-off shot—a risky one at that.

  As soon as he made contact, Frank knew he’d done just what he wanted to do. The ball went so high into the sky that Frank lost sight of it for a moment in the sun. It started to the left and then, as it came down, began drifting right. It bounced on the front-left corner of the green, took a high hop, and began trickling toward the back. Over, Frank knew, was dead. He’d be lucky to make 4 from there, much less 3.

  The ball rolled, slowed, and finally halted about two inches off the green on the fringe. He was probably 80 feet from the flag, but he had a putt.

  “Some shot,” Beltke said.

  He’d had an iron in his hand, but when he saw where Frank’s shot ended up, he went back to his bag for a three-wood. He tried the more standard shot, landing the ball short of the green and hoping it would run up. It did, but it went right through the green to the exact spot Frank had been hoping to avoid.

  “Should have stuck with the iron,” Frank heard Beltke say to his caddie. “I let the kid’s shot intimidate me.”

  Frank smiled when he heard that comment. His gut told him that Forman had been right: Gil Beltke was a very good player. But he wasn’t a killer.

  8

  Even though Frank hadn’t played especially well on the front nine, it was apparent to Keith Forman that the kid was the real deal. Slugger had been right.

  He was clearly what the players called a shotmaker. He had the ability to maneuver the ball in any direction, and his tee shot at 10—launching the ball nine miles into the air and getting it to land on the green at a steep angle to minimize the bounce-and-roll effect and not go over the back—would have been envied and admired by almost anyone playing on the Tour.

  The question, going forward, would be his putting. Slugger had said he was a good putter, but more important, was he an excellent clutch putter?

  “Under the gun, he’ll make almost anything he has to make,” Slugger had said.

  So far, Keith hadn’t seen any evidence of that. Then again, so far he hadn’t really seen him under the gun.

  By the time Frank and Beltke reached the 12th tee, the match was even. Beltke had been unable to get up-and-down from where he’d hit his tee shot on 10, and Frank had made a five-footer for birdie after hitting a good lag putt from 80 feet. Then he birdied the par-five 11th to get even for the first time since they’d walked off the first tee.

  He did not, however, stay even for long. Beltke may not have been a killer, but he had a lot of match play experience and he could certainly putt. He made long birdie putts on 12 and 13 and was two-up again. Walking to the 14th tee, Keith was tempted to say something to Frank but decided not to—for two reasons.

  First was the issue of what his role should—or should not—be in the kid’s future. The whole thing might be moot if the father ordered the kid to stay away from Keith—and fired Slugger while he was at it. Keith knew both things were entirely possible. Stage fathers always wanted complete control, and anyone who threatened that control—whether from the inside or the outside—was usually thrown off the island.

  If none of that happened, though, Keith had to ask himself: Was he here as a reporter working on a story? Or was he here at the request of his old college teammate to help out in a personal situation?

  The problem was, the answer was both. He could feel his stomach churning with nerves because he wanted Frank to win and be successful. He had long ago given up on any notion that reporters were objective—no one was objective; everyone had biases. The key was recognizing your biases and always being fair to people whether you liked them or not.

  But giving an athlete pep talks in the middle of a competition was clearly over the line. He’d known it the minute he’d done it on the fourth tee, yet he’d gone ahead and done it again on the tenth.

  The other question was: When was enough, enough? It wasn’t as if Frank had played 12 and 13 poorly; he’d just been the victim of an opponent with a hot putter. That was the toughest thing about golf: you couldn’t play defense.

  So Keith decided to keep his mouth shut, in part because he knew it was wrong to open it again and in part because he was pretty certain the only voice Frank needed to hear at this point in the match was Slugger’s.

  The players halved both the 14th and 15th, Beltke’s lead holding at two-up. Keith was surprised by how difficult the setup of the golf course was for the day. Normally, in the first round of a match-play event, the hole locations weren’t that hard. The officials tended to move the hole locations to make the greens more difficult with each passing day—except, he remembered with a smile, at the 2016 Ryder Cup—the tournament held every two years between teams from the United States and Europe—when the Americans, playing at home, had set the course up so easily on the last day that the Europeans actually complained about it.

  “We’re better putters than they are, so why wouldn’t we put the pins in places where we’re going to get a crack at making a lot of birdies?” Phil Mickelson had said. “It’s called home-field advantage.”

  There was no home-field advantage here. Forman jotted a note to himself in his notebook to ask about that later—if he was still around. If Frank, now two-down with three holes to play, lost, Keith would be on a red-eye to Boston that night.

  * * *

  The 16th was a short, 166-yard par-three. It occurred to Keith that this could be the last hole of the match if Beltke won it. That loomed as a serious possibility when Beltke hit a gorgeous pitching wedge with a lot of spin on the ball that landed behind the hole and spun back to about three feet for an almost-certain birdie.

  Frank hit a reasonable shot to about 18 feet, but with Beltke close enough that under other circumstances Frank might have conceded the putt, Frank had what amounted to a must-make putt just to keep the match alive.

  Well, Keith thought, at least I don’t have to worry about being too biased to write a story on the kid. If he doesn’t make this putt, there will be no story.

  His hesitation on the tenth notwithstanding, Frank was a fast player—something Keith had happily noticed early in the match. That was Slugger’s influence. If there was one thing in life he and Slugger agreed on, it was that slow play in golf was a pox. On the Tour, it got worse every year.

  Frank didn’t change his routine even for a do-or-die putt. He checked the line, said something briefly to Slugger, got over the putt, and took one practice stroke. A few seconds later, the putt was on its way.

  It was one of those that you could tell was going in the hole almost as soon as it came off the putter. Even on the bouncy Poa annua grass, the ball went straight as a string on a line just left of the hole before dying just a little right a few feet from the hole and rolling in.

  Center cut! as the TV guys loved to say when they saw a putt that perfect.

  Keith felt himself take a deep breath. At least the match would go to the 17th hole, although Beltke would be two-up with two to play once he made his short birdie putt.

  Keith was about to start walking in the direction of the tee, but he stopped because Beltke was taking forever to knock his putt in. He looked at it from both sides of the hole, marked his ball, placed it down, then marked it again.

&nb
sp; “He’s scared of it,” Keith said under his breath.

  Beltke finally got over the putt, for a very long time, and then pushed it to the right—it didn’t even touch the hole. Suddenly, the match had gone from just about over to Beltke being only one-up. Watching Beltke walk off the green with a stunned look on his face, Keith was certain Frank was going to win.

  The 17th was the longest hole on the golf course—576 yards from the back tee. The wind was into the players’ faces, meaning going for the green in two would be virtually impossible. Frank’s drive was down the middle. Beltke, clearly shaken, pulled his into the left rough—meaning he had to lay up a good 200 yards from the green, after his tricky lie in the long grass forced him to play a conservative second shot.

  Frank and Slugger then had an animated conversation that Keith, standing by the ropes, couldn’t hear. But when Frank pulled a wood, probably his three, he knew what the discussion had been about: Slugger wanted Frank to lay up, giving himself an easy chip shot to the green, knowing Beltke, from so far out, was unlikely to get his third shot close to the hole. Frank, being seventeen, wanted to go for the green.

  It turned out Frank was right. His second shot was perfect, bouncing up the hill short of the green and rolling about 5 feet onto the putting surface, leaving him with 35 feet for an eagle 3.

  Beltke appeared to be done. His third shot sailed right, into the front bunker. From there he skulled his fourth shot, flying it 40 feet past the pin. He was still away, and when his putt came up well short, meaning he could make no better than 6, he conceded the hole to Frank.

  They were even. One hole to play.

  Beltke managed to find his composure on the 18th tee, his tee shot splitting the fairway. Even so, he was 20 yards short of where the now pumped-up, out-of-his-mind Frank had hit his tee shot. Both players found the green with their second shots. Beltke hit a five-iron. (Keith knew because he saw Beltke’s caddie signal five fingers to a TV gofer who was walking with the match—the gofer then whispered the info over his radio to the TV truck, which was why announcers always were able to tell viewers with absolute confidence what club was about to be used.)

  It occurred to Keith that Fox Sports was now on-air and—given the closeness of the match and the fact that the winner would face Rickie Southwick, who, according to the scoreboards, had already won his match easily—the matchup was probably being tracked pretty closely.

  Frank hit a seven-iron. When Keith walked up the steep hill to the green, he could see that Beltke had about 25 feet for birdie; Frank about 20 feet.

  Beltke again took forever stalking his putt, understandable because the green had a lot of slope to it and, if nothing else, he wanted to have a tap-in for par if he missed, not another tricky three- or four-footer. When he finally putted, he hit an excellent putt that looked, for a split second, like it might go in. But it swerved just left of the hole at the last second, leaving him with about a foot—a gimme putt Frank conceded right away.

  Now, barring a three-putt, he would at the very least take the match to extra holes. For the moment, he had a 20-footer to win. Keith looked at his watch. It was remarkable that less than thirty minutes ago this kid had faced a putt he thought he had to make just to stay alive.

  Knowing what was at stake, Frank took a little extra time reading the putt. Riviera’s 18th green had ridges and slopes that made it complicated. Even from where he was standing behind the green, Keith could see that if Frank went after the putt too boldly, he could roll it well past the cup.

  “Just get it close,” he said softly, realizing he was now officially talking to himself.

  Frank got over the ball and barely touched it.

  At first Keith thought he’d left it well short. Then, as the putt gathered some speed, he realized it was even more downhill than he’d thought. The ball was still traveling fast when it hit the hole, did a quick spin above the cup, and dropped in.

  By now, the crowd had grown considerably and Keith heard a serious roar. It was only then that it occurred to him that Frank had won. He had gone birdie, eagle (on a conceded 35-foot putt), birdie to come from two-down with three to play to win. Slugger was hugging him, and Keith saw Thomas Baker approaching for a hug.

  Frank seemed to see his father coming, but turned away and went to console his stunned opponent and his caddie. Only then did he accept a hug from his dad. Frank said something to his father, who nodded and walked back over to where Ron Lawrensen was standing.

  Keith saw Pete Kowalski, the USGA’s number-one PR guy, waiting for the hugs and handshakes to end. When he got to Frank, he pointed to a corner of the green where Holly Sonders, who did post-round interviews for Fox, was standing by with a camera crew.

  Slugger walked off the back of the green, the bag slung over his shoulder and a huge grin on his face.

  “I told you he was special,” Slugger said as he reached Keith. “Do you believe me now?” He was flushed from the heat and the adrenaline.

  “You know what, Slugger? I believe you,” the reporter said.

  And he did. The question now was whether the kid could make Rickie Southwick a believer the next day.

  9

  Frank was a little surprised by the post-match frenzy that surrounded his victory. He’d gotten a taste of media attention the year before, but he’d sneaked along pretty much unnoticed until he reached the semifinals, when people began to notice that a sixteen-year-old was in the final four along with three college players. Even then, it hadn’t been quite like this.

  Only later, when he had a chance to talk to Keith Forman for a few minutes on the telephone while his father, Ron Lawrensen, and Slugger were waiting for him in the hotel lobby to go to dinner, did he understand it.

  “Part of it is that people remember who you are because of last year,” Forman explained. “Another part is that you’re playing Southwick next. And a third part is that the media, especially in L.A., likes a Hollywood ending. Two down with three to play and you go birdie-eagle-birdie, making a tough twenty-footer to win on eighteen? That’s a Hollywood ending.”

  “Wasn’t a real eagle, though,” Frank said. He chose a green apple from the fruit basket that had been waiting for him in his room. His mom had sent it with a nice note wishing him luck.

  “Not the point,” Forman said, laughing.

  Frank had gone from Holly Sonders, who was wearing the highest heels he had ever seen, to a gaggle of reporters gathered outside the scoring area, to several interviews with breathless local-TV types.

  One had asked him if this was the greatest moment of his life. He was tempted to joke that meeting Holly Sonders was pretty great, but he passed on the thought. Then, finally, he had to be interviewed by someone from the USGA for the highlight film that was being made about the week.

  Frank was so tired and drained from the match and the heat that he and Slugger had skipped their usual post-round session on the range.

  “You need the rest more,” Slugger said. “Your golf swing is just fine right now.”

  His tee time against Rickie Southwick was earlier than he’d expected. He knew that TV would want Southwick’s match on the back nine during its window, which was 4:00 to 7:00 p.m.—Eastern time. Frank had sort of blanked on the time difference. On the West Coast, Fox would be coming on the air at 1:00 p.m., meaning they would want the Southwick-Baker match on the tenth hole no later than 1:30. And so their tee time was exactly the same time Frank had drawn on Wednesday: 10:48 a.m.

  “That’s perfect,” Slugger had said. “Means we don’t have to change our routine at all.”

  “Except it’s probably a pretty good idea if Mr. Forman isn’t waiting for us in the locker room again,” Frank said.

  Slugger laughed at that. “I’d tell you that I’ll warn him, only I don’t think I need to.”

  Frank probably would have spent a lot of time lying in bed that night trying to figure out how to deal with his father and Keith Forman—a relationship that was bound to be an issue if he kept winnin
g. But his exhaustion and exhilaration, combined with the specter of Rickie Southwick in the day ahead, kept his mind on golf before he drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  When Frank walked onto the range the next morning, the first person he encountered was Rickie Southwick, who was on his way off the range. Every golfer has a pre-round routine. Southwick apparently started his earlier than most.

  “Hey, that was some win yesterday,” Southwick said, stopping to shake hands as they crossed paths. “Birdie-eagle-birdie finish? Wow.”

  Frank was again tempted to explain the eagle hadn’t really been an eagle, but decided Southwick didn’t actually want to hear about it and was just being polite. Golfers almost never want to hear details about someone else’s golf. Slugger had explained to him once that, on tour, if you told people you’d shot 79, half wouldn’t care and the other half would wish it had been 80.

  Southwick was about to become a pro, so Frank was pretty certain he wasn’t looking for details on his win the day before. He was really only interested in kicking his butt starting in about an hour.

  “Thanks, I finally got going when I had to,” he said in response. “You sure made your own win look easy yesterday.”

  Southwick had won his match on the 14th hole. At this level of golf, a five-and-four win—winning by five holes with four holes to go—was roughly the equivalent of a 49–7 blowout in football.

  “Kid was nervous starting out, and I got a quick lead,” Southwick said. “See you on the first tee.”

  Frank thought about that for a second. He’d been nervous the day before and allowed Gil Beltke to jump to a quick lead. To some degree the difference was that he’d turned himself around with the tee shot at Number 4. But there was also something to the notion that Beltke didn’t have that killer instinct, the extra gear a great player had when he had someone on the ropes.