The Prodigy

by John Feinstein

  “Well, you better be careful ESPN doesn’t horn in and make some deal where the kid doesn’t talk to anyone except them.”

  Keith had now gone from feeling trapped to being baffled.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked.

  DiMeglio smiled. He seemed to like knowing something Keith didn’t know.

  “Didn’t you see Arnie Pearlman out there today watching? Hell, he walked almost the entire way with the old man and that dirtbag Lawrensen. He was wearing an ESPN logo that was impossible to miss.”

  “I guess I was paying more attention to what was going on inside the ropes than outside,” Keith said. “And, for the record, it’s to your credit that you use the exact same word to describe Lawrensen that I do.”

  “He’s about as bad as it gets. One of those guys who gets upset if you call him an agent.”

  “What in the world does he think he is?”

  “A player representative.”

  “Oh God, one of those. But seriously, what are you talking about with ESPN?”

  “I’m told Lawrensen and the old man are already negotiating a deal of some kind with ESPN. No idea what it’s about, but they want in with the kid in some way, shape, or form.”

  Keith wondered why Slugger hadn’t mentioned this to him. A potential TV deal struck him as being just the kind of incentive that could drive Frank’s egomaniac dad to do something truly stupid—like make his son turn pro way too soon.

  “Thanks, Steve,” he said.

  DiMeglio gave him a look. “You sure you aren’t up to something?”

  “Minute I am, you’ll be the first one to know.”

  “Yeah, right,” DiMeglio said. “I need to go smoke. It’s been hours.”

  “Stuff’ll kill you,” Keith said.

  “This job’ll kill me first,” said DiMeglio, who could find a cloud in every silver lining.

  He walked off and Keith realized he was starving. He went down the hill to the media tent. But it was after four o’clock and there was no food to be found.

  He settled for a cup of coffee, sat down with his laptop, and began to write. He had a lot he wanted to say about the day—to himself—before he had time to forget.

  * * *

  In an hour he had written almost two thousand words on the events of the day. He walked to his car and decided that the ride back to his hotel—which would take a while during rush hour—was a good time to try to catch Frank. He was hoping the kid had gone back to his room to rest before dinner.

  Before he started the car, he texted Frank. Good time to talk?

  Just as he was wheeling out of the lot, his phone buzzed.

  “Hey, Prodigy,” Keith said, picking up the call. He’d gotten someone at the car rental place to sync his phone with the car’s Bluetooth so he could be hands-free. “How you feeling?”

  “Great … and not so great,” Frank answered.

  “Let me guess,” Keith said. “You feel great about winning the match—and you should—but not great about Lawrensen shoving those three losers down your throat in the locker room.”

  “How’d you know about that?”

  “I’m a reporter, Frank. I know everything.”

  “You know, I really think it’s this guy Lawrensen pushing Dad as much as anything,” Frank said. “He’s got Dad convinced that he’s some kind of deal-making genius and the only thing keeping us from being instantly rich is me not turning pro.”

  “What was up with the ESPN guy?”

  “Oh, man. Some crazy notion that they’re going to follow me around for a year when I turn pro. Lawrensen and Dad want me to announce it after the Masters—if I get in—or, ‘worst case,’ as they put it, after Shinnecock.”

  Shinnecock Hills Golf Club, on Long Island, New York, was the site of next year’s U.S. Open.

  “What if you don’t make Augusta?”

  “They still want me to turn pro. Lawrensen apparently told Dad that getting to Augusta would be nice but that my win over Southwick will make me a hot property regardless. That’s why he had those three guys in the locker room.”

  “Sounds pretty bad.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got worse news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dad wants to fire Slugger.”

  “What?”

  “He wants to wait until the Amateur is over and then fire him. Lawrensen is telling him he can get a big-name guy to take over, and Double Eagle will pay for it until the money starts to roll in.”

  “Does Slugger know?”

  “No. Dad didn’t bring it up until we were out of the car and Slugger had gone to his room. He made me promise not to say anything to him.”

  “Well, he didn’t make me promise.”

  There was a long pause at the other end of the phone. Keith was pretty sure Frank was going to ask him to keep the secret at least until the end of the week.

  “You’re right,” Frank finally said. “He didn’t.”

  Keith told Frank he’d talk to him later; then he hung up, pulled over, and dialed Slugger. The hot shower and the room-service dinner he had been looking forward to were now out of the question.

  Slugger picked up on the first ring. “About time,” Slugger said.

  “Forget about time,” Forman said. “We need to talk.”

  “Okay, talk.”

  “Not on the phone. I’ll be at your hotel in forty. I’ll meet you in the bar.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He cut the call and turned the car east, heading in the direction of the highway.

  * * *

  Keith got to the JW Marriott at around six. He knew that most of the players and their families were staying at the plush upscale Marriott because the USGA had been able to arrange a special rate for the week.

  He didn’t bother searching for self-park, just valeted the car and resigned himself to paying the forty-nine-dollar tab. Slugger was sitting at the far corner of the bar waiting for him.

  “So what the hell is so important that you spent an hour in traffic to get here?” Slugger asked as Keith sat down.

  “Hang on a sec,” Keith said. “I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.”

  “What?” Slugger said. “No free food in the media tent?”

  “I’m sure there was, but I didn’t get back in there until after four because I was working and it was long gone.”

  He got the bartender’s attention, ordered a glass of wine, and asked for a menu.

  “So?” Slugger said, clearly running out of patience.

  “So the kid just gave me a heads-up about something. He said that after you guys got back here this afternoon and you went up to your room, his dad and Lawrensen were talking about firing you and bringing in some big-name teacher to take your place.”

  Slugger’s eyes narrowed. He studied Keith’s face for a moment. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he finally said.

  “Serious as a ball out-of-bounds.”

  Slugger took a long sip of the beer that was in front of him just as the bartender came back with Keith’s glass of wine and a menu.

  “When?” Slugger asked.

  “Soon as the tournament’s over for Frank. Could be tomorrow, could be Sunday.”

  Slugger took another sip of the beer, clearly trying to grasp what he’d just been told. “What do you think I should do?”

  Keith had been thinking about that in the car. “First, you gotta tell Frank not to worry about it right now and that you and I have everything under control.”

  “We do?”

  Keith shook his head. “Not at all. But we can’t let the kid be distracted by this.”

  “Got it.” Slugger was about to take his last swallow when he froze, the beer midway to his lips. He put the glass down.

  “What?” Keith asked.

  Slugger just nodded in the direction of the door. “We’ve got company,” he said.

  * * *

  Thomas Baker and Ron Lawrensen headed straight to where Keith and S
lugger were sitting. By the time Keith turned in his chair to see who Slugger had been staring at, the father and agent were almost on top of them.

  “Forman, you can’t keep away from us, can you?” was Baker’s opening line.

  “Slugger, whose side are you on?” Lawrensen said in a snarky tone.

  “Are we choosing sides now?” Keith said. He had quickly decided that the less Slugger got involved in this, the better. “I haven’t done that since the sixth grade.”

  Baker was looking like he wanted to throw Lawrensen out of his way so he could get right up in Keith’s face.

  “You know exactly what we’re talking about, Forman,” Baker said. “My son might buy into your act, and you clearly have Slugger fooled, but Ron and I aren’t seventeen and we aren’t selling sweaters for a living either. So the sooner you get out of L.A., the better it’ll be for you and”—he nodded in Slugger’s direction—“for your old teammate.”

  Keith didn’t back down. “You know something, Baker? How pathetic is it that a reporter and a golf pro are more interested in protecting your son than you are? You’ve thrown in with the worst of the worst with your chum here, and all the two of you care about is turning your kid into a human ATM.”

  He glared at Baker, who seemed to be thinking of an answer. But suddenly, instead of responding, he swung a wild right hook directed at Keith’s jaw. Keith saw it coming at the last second, dodged the blow, and was only grazed. But as he stood up from the barstool, Lawrensen actually grabbed him from behind, holding his arms. Baker’s next punch was to the stomach, and it buckled Keith’s knees.

  He was sliding to the floor when he saw Slugger grabbing Baker from behind, yelling, “Hey, stop, stop! What in the hell is wrong with you?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Keith glimpsed the bartender grabbing the phone. She was, no doubt, calling security. He had one thought: I’m still not going to get anything to eat.

  13

  Having filled up on McDonald’s, Frank had excused himself from the dinner meeting and was drifting off to sleep watching the Dodgers and Mets when his cell phone rang. He saw Slugger’s number and picked up.

  “Houston, we’ve got a problem,” Slugger said.

  “Keith told you?” Frank said.

  “Yeah, he told me, but we’ve got a more immediate problem than that.”

  He told Frank about the altercation in the bar and how security had tossed out all four participants. “My pal got punched in the stomach and never got to eat anything,” he said, not able to resist a chuckle. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

  “What’s the worst of it?”

  “Your dad fired me on the spot after I grabbed him to keep him from hitting Keith again.”

  Frank’s first thought wasn’t about Slugger but about himself. “So who’s going to caddie for me tomorrow?”

  After a pause, Slugger said, “Right now, your dad.”

  “I’ll lose ten-and-eight.”

  The worst score a golfer could lose by in match play was ten-and-eight. It meant you lost ten straight holes to your opponent and didn’t need to play the eight remaining because you couldn’t make up the difference.

  “No, you won’t. You have to just stay focused on your match and not worry about any of this stuff.”

  “How can I not worry about any of this stuff?” Frank asked.

  Slugger didn’t have an answer to that.

  Frank made a decision. “Where’s my dad now?”

  “The only thing I can tell you for sure is that he’s not in the bar,” Slugger said.

  “I’ll call you in a little while,” Frank said.

  He hung up and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a sense of panic.

  He tried to decide whether he should just go and knock on his father’s door or call him first. He decided to go door-knocking. He pulled on a pair of sweats and walked from room 811 to room 819 and knocked.

  No answer. He tried again. Nothing. He pulled out his phone, then had one more idea. His dad and Lawrensen had been intending to eat dinner. They would still have needed to eat even after they got tossed from the bar. So he took the elevator down to the lower level, where there was an upscale restaurant. Having failed at the bar, he figured there was a good chance his dad and Lawrensen had decided to go there.

  He was right.

  The two men were seated at a booth in the back of the room. The problem was the maître d’.

  “Young man, I’m very sorry,” he said in a polite but firm tone, “but we require appropriate attire.”

  Frank thought for a second about explaining to him that he had no intention of ordering a meal, that he just needed to talk to the two men in the back for a moment. He also thought about shouting to get his dad’s attention. He decided against both. He wanted to sit down and have as calm a conversation as was possible.

  “I’ll be back in five,” he said, not waiting for a response.

  He went up to his room and changed into the one pair of long pants he’d brought on the trip and a collared shirt. Neither his dad nor Lawrensen was wearing a jacket, so he knew he didn’t need one. He rode the elevator back down and presented himself again to the maître d’.

  “I’m meeting those two men in the back booth,” he said, pointing.

  “Right this way,” the host said, and walked Frank to the table.

  Neither his father nor Lawrensen noticed him until he was standing in front of them. They were clearly engrossed in their conversation.

  “Frank?” his father said. “I thought you said you weren’t hungry.”

  “I’m not,” Frank said.

  Without waiting for an invitation, he more or less pushed Lawrensen into the booth so he could sit down next to him. He wanted to be able to look his father in the eye across the table.

  “I know,” his father said, now nodding. “Slugger called you.”

  “Did you think he wouldn’t?” Frank asked. “He’s only been my coach for three years. You fire him in the middle of the U.S. Amateur and you don’t expect him to call me?”

  He paused. He had a lot more to say, but he wanted to keep this as nonconfrontational as possible.

  “I assume he told you what happened?” his father said.

  Frank nodded.

  “Then do you understand why I had to fire him?”

  “Dad, think about it: Wouldn’t you intervene in a two-on-one fight? Whatever you think of Mr. Forman, he and Slugger have been friends since college. Slugger didn’t slug you, he just broke up the fight.”

  “He sided with the enemy,” Lawrensen said, the first time he’d opened his mouth since Frank’s arrival.

  “Why is Mr. Forman the enemy?” Frank said, turning his head to look at the agent. “He came to Perryton as a favor to Slugger back in June because Slugger thought I could use a bit of unbiased advice on where I’m going next.”

  “That’s not what you told me,” his dad said. “You said it was your idea, not Slugger’s, to talk to Forman. Advice is what you have me for.”

  Frank almost laughed out loud. “Dad, you think you’re unbiased? You shouldn’t be unbiased—you’re my dad! Plus, do you honestly think you know anything about what it’s really like on the PGA Tour?”

  “Forman never came anywhere near playing in the PGA Tour,” Lawrensen said.

  “No, but he lives on the Tour,” Frank said “He knows everyone and everything.”

  “He just sees you as a potential big story, nothing more,” Frank’s dad said.

  “And what does he see me as, Dad?” Frank said, nodding at Lawrensen. “You think he’s hanging around because I’m a charity case?”

  “He’s doing his job,” Thomas Baker said.

  “Exactly,” Frank said, almost climbing out of his seat. “Mr. Forman first met me as a favor to a friend. He hasn’t written a word about me—”

  “Yet,” Lawrensen put in.

  “Okay, yet. But, believe me, Dad, I trust him a lot more than I trust your adviser here.”
r />   “You’re completely wrong,” his father said. “And watch your tone, son.”

  “Tell you what,” Frank said. “Let’s change the subject—at least for now. This actually isn’t why I came down here.”

  * * *

  Frank’s father sat back in his chair just as a waiter showed up carrying two platters, each with a large steak. After filling the men’s wineglasses, the waiter asked Frank if he wanted anything. Frank declined and the waiter left.

  “Okay, Frank, what’d you come down here for if not to argue about Slugger?”

  “Oh, I came down here to argue about Slugger,” Frank said. “You just turned it into an argument about Mr. Forman.”

  “Fine, then. Go ahead.”

  “If either one of you really cares about me winning tomorrow, Slugger’s got to be on the bag,” Frank said. “We can discuss his future when this tournament’s over. Not now.”

  “I know your game just as well as Slugger does,” his dad said. “You’ll be fine.”

  “A, no, you don’t—not even close. And B—no, I won’t. Not even close.” He looked imploringly at his father. “Dad, can we have a few minutes alone, please?”

  For a moment his father said nothing. Then he looked at Lawrensen. “Give us some space,” he said.

  Lawrensen clearly wasn’t pleased. “I’ll go to the bathroom,” he said. “Back in five.”

  “Make it ten,” Thomas Baker said.

  The steaks would be getting cold by then, but Frank didn’t care. He stood up to let Lawrensen out of the booth. For a second, Frank was tempted to eat Lawrensen’s steak.

  “Look, Frank, I know you’re upset,” his dad said when they were alone, in the soothing voice he always used when he was trying to calm Frank down.

  “Dad, I’m not just upset about Slugger. I’m upset about us—you and me. You used to be my best friend. Now this Lawrensen guy is your best friend and your first concern seems to be keeping him happy.”

  “That’s not true,” his father said, his voice rising. “You know you’re my first concern—always.”

  “Then how could you fire Slugger—now or next week? You know how much he’s helped me. We wouldn’t be sitting here right now if not for him.”