The Prodigy

by John Feinstein

  Southwick had that gear. Frank had seen it firsthand the year before. He knew he’d get a close-up view of it again today.

  The good news was that he didn’t feel at all nervous. The day before, he’d been jumpy on the range, especially after the locker-room scene between his father and Keith Forman. Now he felt completely calm.

  And why not? Forman and Slugger had both pointed out to him that he was playing with house money. Rickie Southwick, as both the defending champion at the Amateur and the NCAA individual champion, was the dominant figure among the thirty-two players who were still alive.

  Frank was no longer the darling he had been a year ago because he was now a known quantity, and seventeen was looked at as a lot older than sixteen. There were seventeen-year-olds who had made it through the PGA Tour’s Qualifying School. It wasn’t as if Frank was no longer a budding star—the omnipresence of Ron Lawrensen was proof of that—but he had a sense that he’d be on Fox today far more because of his opponent than because of anything he’d done, regardless of the way he had won his match a day earlier.

  * * *

  The crowd on the first tee was considerably larger than it had been when he and Gil Beltke arrived the day before. Frank spotted his father and his shadow, Ron Lawrensen. His dad gave him a confident grin, which Frank returned. Yesterday, Keith Forman had been the only media member that Frank had seen standing inside the ropes at the start of the Beltke-Baker match. Now there were at least a dozen media members with the red ribbons on their credentials that allowed them to walk inside the ropes. There was also a Fox camera crew and Steve Flesch, who worked “on the ground,” following matches for the network. Even though it would be another two hours before Fox went on-air, Flesch was there.

  Flesch walked over and shook hands with Southwick, who greeted him like an old friend. Then he came over to say hello to Frank.

  “Steve Flesch,” he said, shaking hands. “We met Tuesday for a few seconds. Good luck today. If by some chance anyone on my crew gets in your way, or for that matter, if I do, don’t hesitate to let us know.”

  Frank liked him instantly. He knew that he’d been a very good player on tour and was now playing on the over-fifty tour. He was always easily identifiable when he played because he was a lefty. There weren’t that many of them out there.

  Southwick, as the higher seed, had the honor.

  After the starter had introduced him as “the reigning U.S. Amateur and NCAA champion, from Bend, Oregon,” he tipped his cap to the crowd and stuck his tee in the ground.

  “Let’s have a good one, Frank,” he said as he stepped back from his ball to go into his pre-shot routine.

  “You got it, Rickie,” Frank said, smiling because he’d caught himself just before he’d called him “Mr. Southwick.”

  Southwick hit a perfect tee shot, the ball bounding way down the wide fairway.

  Frank didn’t even watch it bounce. He was already putting his tee into the ground. “It’s just golf,” he said to himself, glancing at Forman, who had given him a small nod, nothing more, when he’d walked onto the tee.

  “From Perryton, Connecticut, Frank Baker,” the starter said.

  Not quite as grand an introduction as Southwick had received. Then again, Frank didn’t merit that sort of introduction.

  He took the club back and swung. As with Southwick’s shot, Frank didn’t bother to watch it land. He knew it was perfect. He smiled for an instant and thought, Okay, Rickie, you want a good one, let’s have at it.

  And they did.

  They both reached the first green in two and made two-putt birdies. Then, for the next fourteen holes, neither one of them was ever more than one-up. Frank bogeyed the fourth to go one-down, making a mental note that his pushed four-iron off the tee was the golf gods telling him that you don’t almost ace a 236-yard par-four every day.

  Southwick made a rare mistake when he three-putted the sixth for a bogey, and then Frank birdied the ninth to go one-up. As they walked to the tenth tee, he caught himself thinking, I’m one-up on Rickie Southwick through nine. How about that? Then he told himself: Flush that thought. You’re here to win.

  As had been the case the day before, they had to wait on the tenth tee. Southwick already had his three-wood out, letting Frank know he was going to go for the green.

  Seeing Forman standing to the right of the tee, Frank walked over to him. Beyond that quick nod on the first tee, Forman hadn’t said a word to him all day.

  “So what d’you think?” Frank said.

  “I think if you had any doubt at all that you can beat this guy, it should be gone by now,” Forman said. “I also think you shouldn’t pay any attention to that three-wood he’s got out. He might be baiting you.”

  Frank hadn’t thought about that. It was a good point. Why would Southwick take out a club without seeing where Frank’s tee shot ended up? He was about to respond to Forman when he noticed his dad shouldering his way through people to get to the rope.

  “Frank!” he whispered, his voice urgent but low because so many people were around. “What are you doing? Stay focused!”

  “Easy, Baker. Maybe he needs to stay relaxed,” Forman said, half turning to face Frank’s dad.

  “Maybe you need to stay out of my business!” Frank’s dad said angrily.

  “Your business?” Forman said. “Last I looked, Frank’s the one playing, not you.”

  “Hey, hey, Dad, do me a favor and cool it,” Frank said, seeing his father take a step in Forman’s direction.

  Forman had taken off his sunglasses as if to say, Come and get me.

  Before his father could answer, he heard the voice of the match referee.

  “Mr. Baker, the tee is yours.”

  Relieved, Frank turned and saw Slugger right behind him. He’d come over when the shouting match started. Now he put a hand on Frank’s shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” Frank said. “Give me the three-wood.”

  Then he hit his tee shot about 25 yards left of the green. He saw Southwick smile, put his three-wood back in the bag, and take out an iron. He laid up safely.

  Frank had a virtually impossible shot from where he was because the green was so narrow. He tried to stop the ball but couldn’t get under his wedge shot enough, so it rolled well off the far side of the green. When Southwick chipped to four feet from the pin and Frank could barely hold the green with his third shot, he picked up Southwick’s ball and tossed it to him, conceding the hole.

  The match was even.

  As they walked to the 11th tee, Slugger stopped him.

  “You need to calm down,” he said. “Don’t talk to Keith the rest of the way, and don’t think about your dad. Just play.”

  “I’m calm,” Frank insisted.

  “No, you’re not,” Slugger said, putting a hand on his chest to keep him from continuing to walk. “Your tee shot was pure anger, and you shouldn’t have given him the putt until you missed yours. You had twenty feet—what if you make and he misses and you steal a halve there? You need to clear your head.”

  Frank knew he was right. The tee shot had been awful, and not taking a crack at his par putt was a total mind block.

  “Okay,” he said finally.

  “Sure?” Slugger said.

  Frank nodded.

  After that he settled back in, and the next five holes were halved. By the time they got to the 16th tee, it felt as if almost everyone on the property was following their match. Southwick, who had been pretty chatty and friendly the first nine holes, had gone silent. About the only thing the players had said to each other since the 11th tee was “Nice shot.”

  Sixteen was the short par-three where Frank’s birdie putt had turned the Beltke-Baker match around. Southwick still had the honor on the tee since no one had won a hole since the tenth. The pin was front left, tucked near a bunker. Southwick’s tee shot looked perfect coming off the club, but it drifted just a little bit left. It took a funny hop and found the bunker.

  “What the…?” S
outhwick said, clearly stunned. It was the first time all day he had reacted to a shot.

  “Middle of the dance floor,” Slugger muttered to Frank, handing him the pitching wedge.

  Frank knew it would be tough for Southwick to get up-and-down from that bunker. Par suddenly looked like a good score.

  Frank did as instructed, landing the ball on the front-center and watching it stop about 15 feet from the hole.

  “Perfect,” Slugger said, handing him the putter.

  It turned out he was right. Southwick’s bunker shot flew 20 feet past the cup. His par putt stopped just short, and Frank conceded the bogey putt. He was waiting for Southwick to tell him to pick his ball up—he wasn’t likely to three-putt from 15 feet—but Southwick said nothing.

  He shrugged, looked the putt over, and cozied it to inside a foot. Then Southwick told him to pick it up. He was one-up with two holes to play.

  The USGA had moved the tee up by about 30 yards on 17 to tempt players to go for the green in two, the hole playing only 545 yards.

  Feeling confident, Frank crushed his tee shot 320 yards up the left side of the fairway. If he’d had one advantage over Southwick, it had been his length. Southwick clearly knew that Frank was going to have a chance to reach the green in two, because he tried to muscle up on his tee shot. When it flew left, Southwick let out an aggravated “Aaaaaaah!”

  Frank practically skipped off the tee.

  Again, Slugger stopped him.

  “You have to think he’s going to make birdie,” he said. “Take your time getting to the ball—there’s no rush. You need to forget what he’s doing. You want to close out the match here, think about making three.”

  Frank knew his coach was right. He had read a book once about Tom Watson’s famous duel with Jack Nicklaus at the British Open in 1977. Leading by one on the 18th hole, Watson had hit his third shot to 2 feet, while Nicklaus was 50 feet away.

  “I knew,” Watson said, “knew Jack was going to make that putt and I was going to have to make mine to win.”

  Sure enough, Nicklaus holed his putt, and Watson, hands shaking, made his two-footer.

  “If I’d lost focus for a second, I’d have probably missed,” Watson said.

  Frank didn’t think he was Tom Watson by any means, but he knew he had better figure that Southwick was Jack Nicklaus at that moment.

  Southwick had to lay up out of the rough, leaving himself about 80 yards to the flag.

  Frank’s drive had rolled out so far that he only had 225 yards to the flag.

  “Hybrid?” he said to Slugger. “Four-iron?”

  “No, you’re pumped up,” Slugger said. “Five-iron is plenty.”

  Frank was surprised. He had never hit a five-iron uphill that far in his life. But no one knew his game better than Slugger.

  Frank set up over the ball. He took a deep breath, made sure not to overswing, and watched the ball fly right at the green.

  “Be right,” he said.

  Based on the roar up at the green, it was right. He couldn’t tell how close he was, but he knew he’d hit a good shot.

  As he walked up the fairway, Southwick shot him a thumbs-up. He returned it. Southwick was a class act.

  Frank walked up the right side of the fairway while Southwick prepared to hit his third shot and saw why Southwick had acknowledged his effort. He only had about ten feet for eagle.

  Southwick clearly wasn’t ready to give up. He hit a gorgeous wedge, the ball settling about five feet from the flag. Nicklaus would have been proud.

  As they walked onto the green, both players getting a huge round of applause from the gallery, Frank felt a chill go through him. A year ago, he’d played great just to stay close to Southwick. Now he had a putt to beat him.

  Approaching the green, Frank took off his glove and put it in his back pocket. To get the right feel on the putter, real golfers almost never putted anything but bare-handed.

  “I don’t know about you,” Slugger said as he handed Frank his putter, “but I’m really hungry. We’ve been out here forever. Do me a favor and make this.”

  Frank grinned. “You buying?” he asked.

  “In a heartbeat,” Slugger said.

  Frank marked his ball—carefully swapping it for a buffalo nickel that his father had given him on his twelfth birthday. He handed the ball briefly to Slugger to clean and circled the putt to get a read. It was, he guessed, closer to 12 feet. But it was straight uphill, meaning he didn’t have to worry about the speed.

  He replaced the ball and picked up his coin, stood behind the ball for a moment to confirm his thought that the ball would die to the right as it approached the cup, took a deep breath, and got over it.

  He glanced at the cup once, put his head down, and drew the putter back. For a moment, he thought he’d misread the putt and it was going to stay left of the cup. But his read had been correct. Two feet out, the ball began to fade right and, just before it went too far right, it hit the side of the cup … and dropped in.

  Frank wasn’t sure how to react. He kept his putter in the air for a moment and then saw Southwick walking in his direction, cap off, hand out.

  “You’re one hell of a player,” Southwick said, pulling Frank close so he could whisper in his ear. “I’ll see you on tour in a few years. Don’t be in a rush.”

  All Frank could come up with in response was, “Thanks.”

  Slugger was waiting behind Southwick. He wrapped Frank in a hug and said, “Let’s eat.”

  10

  Keith Forman spent most of the back nine beating himself up for what had happened on the tenth tee. He’d kept his distance from the kid on the front nine because it had occurred to him driving to the golf course that morning that he’d probably been lucky that after the Beltke-Baker match Frank hadn’t said something to the media like Well, my friend Keith Forman gave me a couple of pep talks that helped me out.

  He knew it wasn’t his fault that Frank had walked over to chat with him during the delay on the tenth tee, but he had handled the situation with the father about as poorly as possible. At that moment, no matter what he was feeling, he had to back off. He couldn’t make himself part of the story. He’d seen several other reporters talking to Thomas Baker as the match went on, and he was convinced they were asking him about the incident.

  Fortunately, no one asked Keith himself about it, which was a relief, although he’d worried they were going to come at him if Frank lost, saying something like The kid’s father says you cost him the match.

  He knew now for certain that Thomas Baker was capable of that sort of thing. Frank had bailed him out by playing brilliantly after his tenth-hole meltdown, and he suspected Slugger deserved a good deal of the credit for that.

  He stood a few yards away while Steve Flesch, whom he knew well from Flesch’s days on the regular Tour, interviewed Frank about his remarkable win. Flesch was a smart guy and would steer clear of the ultimate cliché question in sports TV: How does it feel to win?

  Keith winced whenever he heard that question. It seemed to him that was the first question asked to every single American who won an Olympic gold medal. How the hell did they think it felt? Great, beyond great! For crying out loud.

  But Flesch’s first question made Keith flinch.

  “You had some trouble on the tenth tee there. What was happening and how’d you get straightened out?”

  He saw Frank glance in his direction. “I just lost my concentration for a second,” he said. “Instead of thinking about winning the match, I was thinking, Wow, I’m one-up on Rickie Southwick. You can’t think like that. My swing coach, Slugger Johnston, who’s also my caddie today, brought me back to earth walking to the eleventh tee.”

  Keith let out a big sigh of relief. The kid could have thrown him under the bus, but he hadn’t. Even if he’d said the incident was his father’s fault, he would have made Keith part of the story. That would have been bad—very bad.

  He kept his distance as Frank was led through his media
paces—which were quite lengthy, given the magnitude of the upset. He was walking in the direction of the locker room after Frank had finished with the print media—which had become something of a mob since this was going to be the story of the day—when he heard someone call his name.

  He looked around and saw Rickie Southwick walking up behind him. Southwick was tall, probably about six-four, and had the sort of neatly groomed mini-beard that was very in with the twenty-something set. Keith had noticed that Southwick had graciously done all the post-match interviews he’d been asked to do, starting with Flesch—once Frank was finished—then print media, while they waited on Frank and, finally, a couple of local TVs. Keith was impressed.

  Now the dethroned champion walked up, hand extended, and said, “Mr. Forman, I’m Rickie Southwick.”

  Keith smiled. He was always impressed when a young player didn’t just assume that everyone knew who he was. “Please, call me Keith,” he said. “Nice to meet you. Tough loss today, but I thought you handled yourself wonderfully with the media, for what it’s worth.”

  Now Southwick smiled. “Losing is part of competing,” he said. “That’s what my mom always taught me. I’ve never bought that ‘second place sucks’ thing. I didn’t play badly—the kid just outplayed me at the end.” He shook his head. “Although I gotta admit, I still don’t know how that ball ended up in the bunker at sixteen.”

  Keith understood. Luck—both good and bad—was very much a part of golf, and Southwick had gotten the key piece of bad luck that probably decided the match. “Well, I guess that’s why Greg Norman liked to say, ‘There’s a reason why golf’s a four-letter word.’”

  Southwick laughed. “He’s got that right,” he said. “Do you mind if I bend your ear for a minute?”

  Before Keith could answer, he saw Sam Olson materialize. Olson worked for IMG, and it was well known that he was going to be Southwick’s agent when he turned pro, which, Keith guessed, was pretty much right now.

  Without so much as looking at Keith or apologizing for interrupting, Olson put a hand on Southwick’s shoulder and said, “Rickie, you’ve done your media thing. You don’t need to answer any more questions. We’ve got a dinner to get to tonight, remember? Traffic will be awful getting downtown.”