* * *
It took about five minutes to get to the flash area, which looked slightly chaotic. There were cameras everywhere, and Mike Davis was waiting in a roped-off area just behind the podium where Frank would be going.
“I’ll just take a sec,” Davis said. “Pete, do me a favor and go up there and tell them Frank needs a moment so they don’t all go nuts.”
Kowalski nodded and headed to the podium.
“First, Frank, congratulations on the win,” Davis said. “I didn’t get a chance to say that.”
“You were a little busy,” Frank said.
Davis laughed uncomfortably and shook his head.
“I’m guessing you heard the conversation,” he said. “Unfortunately, when you and Pete went up the steps, your dad tried to follow.”
“I heard Lawrensen yelling,” Frank said.
Davis nodded. “Well, I’m glad you kept going. But once you were onstage, your dad and Lawrensen got a little out of control. They tried to push past the guard, and it … got physical. Mostly it was Lawrensen. I felt like your dad was just going along with Lawrensen. Not quite an innocent bystander, but not the main agitator.”
Frank was, sadly, not at all surprised.
“No one got hurt, but we had to bring in a couple of security guards to settle them down. Both were profane and kept threatening to sue the USGA.”
“Oh man, I’m so sorry,” Frank said. He felt sick to his stomach.
“Don’t be sorry, Frank. You did nothing wrong. But our head of security wanted them removed from the grounds. We finally compromised that they’d be taken to the player dining area and stay there until you’re finished. Then we’ll have all of you escorted to the parking lot.”
Frank sighed.
And now Pete Kowalski was back. “They’re getting restless,” he said.
“There’s one more thing, Frank,” Davis said. “I have to warn you. I’m not sure how, but my top lieutenant, who is actually running the tournament, tells me the media’s gotten ahold of this. I’m pretty certain you’ll be asked about it when you get up there.”
“What do I say?” Frank asked.
“I have no idea,” Davis said. “Only advice I’d give you is that if you don’t tell the truth, it’ll probably come out at some point anyway.”
Frank nodded. Gingerly, he walked up the steps. People were shouting questions as if he were the president getting into a limo.
“Frank,” said someone, his voice somehow cutting through all the other noise. “What happened with your father and Fox?”
There was a pause while everyone waited to see if Frank would answer.
Frank sighed again and remembered what Mike Davis had just said.
“I honestly don’t know,” he said, skirting the truth. “When I pulled up, my dad was talking to Mr. Davis. I guess it was heated, but you’d have to ask them about that. Mr. Kowalski took me straight to the set, and when I came back down, my dad and Mr. Davis were both gone.”
He decided bringing Lawrensen up was a bad idea. Everything he had said was true. He’d just left a lot out.
“Where’s your dad now?” someone asked.
“Player dining, waiting for me to wrap this up,” Frank said.
“Can you speculate on what the argument was about?” someone asked.
“I probably could, but I’d prefer not to,” Frank said. He realized he sounded like a politician.
“Frank, there’s a report that your dad had an altercation in a bar last night with a journalist. Can you tell us anything about that?”
“Wasn’t there,” Frank answered, another non-lie.
“Two more,” Kowalski said, stepping into his PR role. “Anyone got one about golf?”
There was silence. Dead silence.
16
Keith had gone into the locker room to use the bathroom and was on his way out when he saw Slugger standing outside the door, phone pressed to his ear.
“I’ll go try to talk to him,” he heard Slugger say. “But he’s not in much of a mood to listen to me.”
He hung up, looked at Keith, and said, “I swear to God, you can’t make this stuff up.”
“What now?” Keith asked.
“That was Mark Loomis, the Fox producer. We’re friends because I’ve played with him down at Winged Foot a half dozen or so times. Good player.”
“Yeah and…?”
“Fox wanted Frank to sit on their main set with Buck and Azinger and Faxon,” Slugger said. “The father and that idiot Lawrensen wanted to be paid—either by Fox or the USGA or both.”
“You’re joking,” Keith said, knowing full well that Slugger wasn’t. “So what happened?”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but, bottom line, Frank went up on the set and the father and Lawrensen tried to get up there to stop him. They were taken away by security.”
“Arrested?”
Slugger shook his head. “No, but they took them back to player dining and they’re holding them there until Frank finishes with the print media. Then they’re going to escort them out. No charges—this time.”
“Anyone else know?”
“I’m guessing yes,” Slugger said as his phone buzzed. He held it up for Keith to see. The name Steve DiMeglio was on the screen. “That’s the fourth call in the last fifteen minutes. I haven’t picked any of them up … Loomis suggested I go in there and try to calm the father down, explain to him how this works.”
“What about Lawrensen?” Keith asked. “He’s the one who should be able to explain to Baker the world doesn’t work this way.”
“Apparently, it was Lawrensen’s idea to ask for the money,” Slugger said. “At least that’s what Mark says. He says Lawrensen contacted him directly. Said it was time to change tradition.”
“He’s at least half the problem, isn’t he?” Keith said.
“At least,” Slugger said. “A good agent, even a semi-good agent, is supposed to be the one who explains to the client what’s possible and what’s not possible.”
“And keep him out of fights,” Keith added.
“Yeah, that too. What do you think I should do?”
Keith had a thought—a bad one, probably. But he made a decision on the spot. It was time to go all-in on this or all-out.
“You go back to the flash area,” he said to Slugger. “Monitor what happens and make sure you’re there with Frank. Don’t let him scrum for too long if you can avoid it. When he’s done, tell Pete Kowalski you want him to go straight to the car.”
“But what about the old man and Lawrensen?”
“They’ve got their own car, remember? As soon as Frank’s off the grounds, security’ll escort them out.”
“But?”
Keith held up a hand. “I’m not going to say ‘trust me,’ because what I’ve got in mind doesn’t merit trust. But … play along with me. We’ve got just about nothing to lose at this juncture.”
Slugger nodded. “On that point, I do trust you—completely,” he said.
They shook hands—for some reason—and Slugger walked in the direction of the flash area. Keith turned and started walking to the clubhouse entrance—and the player dining room.
* * *
This time, there was no problem getting past the security guard standing at the door to the player dining area. The guard barely looked up when Keith walked by, perhaps because it was late, or perhaps because the room was almost empty.
A couple of players sat with friends or family, but the food was all gone and so was the incentive to spend much time in there.
Thomas Baker and Ron Lawrensen were seated in the back of the room at the table farthest from the door. Two yellow-jacketed rent-a-cops sat a couple of tables away, giving them space but making it clear that the two men were not free to get up and leave until they received word to the contrary.
Keith walked to the side of the room so that he could approach the table without going past the guards. Lawrensen was facing him, and his face took on a
look of disgust as Keith walked up. By the time Baker turned to see what Lawrensen was looking at, Keith had grabbed a chair and taken a seat between the two of them.
“You have to be kidding,” Baker said.
Keith held up a hand. “Mr. Baker, let me talk for about two minutes. When I’m finished, if you want me to leave, I won’t say another word.”
At that instant, Keith felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw one of the yellow-jackets.
“Sir, you have a pass to be in here?” he asked.
Keith showed him the pass, pointing to the PD lettering.
“That’s only if invited,” the guard said, and Keith was getting ready to tell the guard he didn’t know the damn rules when, much to his surprise, Baker said, “It’s okay. He’s with us.”
The guard looked surprised, too, but nodded and retreated.
Keith started to thank Baker, but the father simply shook his head and said, “I have to admit I’m curious what you could possibly have to say to us that you’d think we’d want to hear. So say it, then get lost.”
Shortest truce in history, Keith thought. Ten seconds? No, closer to five.
“You got it,” he said. “Look, I know you’ve viewed me as an interloper and probably a troublemaker since we first met back in June at Perryton…”
“Probably?” Lawrensen said.
“Hang on, Ron,” Baker said.
“I get that because you don’t know me and so, like a lot of people who haven’t dealt with the media much, you automatically view me with suspicion. And I have no doubt you’ve been egged on by your shadow here. Just like today with Fox.”
He paused for a second, wondering if this was a good or a bad time to inject a little humor. He decided he had nothing to lose.
“Viewing the media as the enemy is what some folks believe will ‘Make America Great Again.’”
Baker was trying not to smile. “I can’t argue with that,” he said.
Baby steps, Keith thought.
“Slugger and I are old friends—I think you know that’s why he called me in the first place. All he wants is what’s best for Frank. He’s got no financial stake in any of this other than what you’re paying him. He has no desire to become one of those master teachers on TV or charge a thousand bucks an hour for a lesson. He likes what he does. More important, he really likes Frank and cares about him. I know you know that. And, even though I don’t know him one-tenth as well as Slugger does, I really like Frank, too. Mr. Baker, he’s a special kid—and I’m not talking about his golf. He reminds me of Jordan Spieth. When I close my eyes, I think I’m talking to a thirty-year-old.”
This time, Baker did smile. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ve honestly tried to teach him right from wrong.”
He looked away for a moment, and Keith could swear he saw his eyes misting just a bit.
“Sometimes, maybe I forget that.”
Keith decided to chance more humor. “When you meet someone who’s perfect,” he said, “let me know. Because that will be a story.”
Another smile. He was on a roll.
As if to bring him back to earth, Baker said, “So what’s your point, Keith? Your two minutes are about up.”
It was the first time Baker had used his first name. He decided to plow on.
“Here’s what I’m saying: With all due respect to Ron, who I know is very good at his job, why are you in such a rush? If Frank’s going to be as good as you expect him to be, there will be plenty of time for him to get rich. The only real risk, as I see it, is if he’s pushed too hard, too fast, and goes down the same rabbit hole as Ty Tryon.”
Keith knew he didn’t have to explain who William Augustus “Ty” Tryon IV was to either man: Ty was the kid who had made it through the PGA Tour’s Qualifying School at seventeen, had bypassed college and gone pro, and had become a has-been by the time he was twenty-five.
“Frank’s different from Ty Tryon.”
“Really? How do you know that? I played mini-tour events that Ty was in during my very brief pro career. He was a terrific kid: smart, good guy. He was just pushed too hard, too fast, and couldn’t handle it. Most kids, no matter how mature, aren’t ready for life on the Tour as teenagers. Even Earl Woods let Tiger go to Stanford for two years.”
“Earl Woods is not my role model,” Baker said, getting riled again. “But whatever he did, it worked out pretty well for his kid, didn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Did it?” Keith said. “Do you want Frank to grow up to be Tiger Woods off the golf course?”
Baker didn’t answer that one for a moment. Lawrensen started to say something, but Baker stopped him with a look.
“Last chance,” he said, turning back to Keith. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that you should give him some space. Let’s say you’d gotten ten grand today for him to talk to Fox. If he’s as good as you think, that’ll be latte money a few years from now. Let him become a star and make you all rich when he’s ready. Mature as he is, he’s not ready for this now. He needs to go to prom, not make sponsor appearances. The best news is, he doesn’t have to be ready. Let him play golf, not work at golf. Let him be a kid for a few more years, because he is a kid. You aren’t broke, and you don’t have to get rich in the next fifteen minutes. Trust Slugger—he’s good at what he does, and he cares about your son.”
“So you’re saying he shouldn’t trust me?” Lawrensen broke in, clearly nervous that Baker might be listening to what Keith was saying.
“I never said that, Ron,” Keith said.
“You did between the lines,” Baker said.
“Let me say this, then, as my closing line: Ron’s good at what he does. But his job isn’t to worry about what’s best for Frank. His job is to make as much money as possible for Double Eagle. Your job is to do what’s best for Frank.”
He stood up and put out his hand. Thomas Baker shook it. Neither of them said another word.
* * *
Keith called Slugger as soon as he walked back outdoors. No answer. He saw Steve DiMeglio walking in his direction.
“Where’s the kid?” Keith asked.
“Just left under armed guard,” DiMeglio said. “Where were you when he was talking?”
“I had someone there taking notes for me,” Keith answered.
“I don’t doubt it,” DiMeglio said. “I gotta go smoke.”
Keith wondered if he should go back to the media center or get to his car and try Slugger again. His phone buzzed and he saw Slugger’s name come up.
“Sorry, we were getting into the car when you called with security guys pushing the media back,” he said. “Quite a scene.”
“That’s fine. We need to talk.”
“So, talk.”
“In person, with Frank.”
“He wants to stop at an In-and-Out Burger. He’s never been to one, but he’s heard Mickelson loves them, so he wants to try it. There’s one two exits down once you’re on the 405. Why don’t you meet us there? Apparently Dad and Lawrensen are still in player dining and haven’t been released yet.”
“Yeah, I know,” Keith said. “I’ll explain when I get there.”
Not surprisingly, traffic was awful. It took Keith twenty minutes to navigate two miles on the interstate to the exit. Then it was three backed-up lights to the In-and-Out.
It was late afternoon and he was starving—again. The schedule made it pretty impossible to eat lunch if you were following a match, and there had been chaos of some kind every day he’d been out here.
Frank and Slugger were carrying food toward a table when he walked in. He waved at them and got in line—which, fortunately, wasn’t that long since it was only five o’clock. Keith ordered a double hamburger and French fries and then threw in a vanilla milkshake. He’d walked a solid four miles each of the last three days. He was entitled.
He walked over, congratulated Frank on his win, and sat down.
“I just got a text from my dad,” Frank said. “He
said you and he had a talk and that some of what you said made sense. Tell me about it.”
Keith nodded, put a few fries in his mouth, and began to explain.
17
Neither Frank nor Slugger interrupted once while Keith told his story. When he finished, Frank took a long sip of his milkshake and simply said, “Wow.”
Slugger nodded. “That was a risky move,” he said. “You could have gotten punched or arrested or both.”
Keith laughed. “Already been punched,” he said. “Worst-case scenario, I might have gotten tossed out of there. I don’t think I was going to get arrested by rent-a-cops, especially for going into a room I was clearly credentialed for.”
Frank’s mind was racing. He wondered how his father thinking that “some” of what Keith had said made sense would actually manifest itself. At the very least, he didn’t think he had to worry about Slugger getting fired—at least not this week. That alone was a relief.
“I would advise you not to look online tonight or read the newspaper in the morning,” Keith said. “This is now officially a tabloid story the media can blow up into more than it is.”
“Except a lot of this drama isn’t made up,” Slugger said.
Keith nodded. “True. Which is all the more reason to go back to the room and, if you’re hungry before you go to bed, order something lighter than this”—he nodded at Frank’s tray—“and just worry about Jerry Gallagher.”
Frank had already been thinking about Gallagher. He knew he was, like Nathan Smith, a true amateur and that he’d finished second in the Amateur twelve years ago, meaning he’d played in the Masters. Playing in a quarterfinal match in the Amateur wasn’t likely to intimidate him.
“Already thinking about him,” Frank said. “I know he’s a good player and, you’re right, a good night’s sleep is exactly what I need.” He paused. “Now tell me what you think my dad will do next. Do you think there’s any chance he’ll fire Lawrensen?”
Keith shook his head. “No, no way,” he said. “Remember, your dad is on the Double Eagle payroll now. Plus, I promise you by tomorrow morning—if not sooner—Lawrensen will have him convinced that everything I said was in his plan from the start.” Keith paused for a moment to let Frank take that in. “The good news is, you should have a reprieve for the rest of this week. After that, all bets are off. A lot of what happens in the next few months will depend on what happens in the next three days.”
The Prodigy Page 11
