The Prodigy

by John Feinstein

  * * *

  After the meeting broke up and Frank headed to the shower, Keith decided to try to find David Fay. He had his cell number in his phone, so he walked outside and punched it in.

  Fay was in the TV tower, on call in case he was needed to explain a ruling while the last two matches were wrapping up. One was on 17, the other on 16, the first one all-square, the second dormie—one player two-up with two to play.

  “Can I meet you when we’re off the air?” Fay said.

  Keith said he’d be at the bottom of the steps as soon as the last two matches were completed.

  Good to his word, Fay was waiting for him when he arrived. “Once both players were on the eighteenth green,” he said, referencing the only match that had gone to the 18th, “they didn’t need me anymore. What’s up?”

  Keith didn’t know Fay that well. He had retired as executive director of the USGA at the end of 2010, but his reputation was nothing short of sterling. He had brought a liberal conscience to the organization: taking the U.S. Open to a true public golf course—Bethpage Black—for the first time in 2002. He had also done the seemingly impossible when he had convinced the executive board to allow caddies to wear shorts, which was only slightly more miraculous than the taking down of the Berlin Wall.

  He looked younger than his age and wore wire-rimmed glasses and a friendly smile.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the Smith-Anderson match that you reffed today,” Keith said.

  Fay’s smile disappeared. “What about it?” he said.

  “The fourth hole.”

  For a moment, Fay said nothing. Then he half smiled and said, “You want an answer for the record?”

  “I want an answer that’s the truth.”

  Fay sighed. “We have to at least go on background, then, not on the record. You can’t use my name or quote me directly, or I might never set foot inside Augusta National again.” His smile came back for a moment. “Actually, I’d be okay with that. Once you’ve seen twenty-nine Masters, you’ve seen ’em all. But I still have friends who’d like to play there someday.”

  “Okay, background, then,” Keith said, pulling a pen and notebook from his pocket.

  “Would I be correct in guessing you’ve spoken to Nathan Smith?” Fay asked.

  “You’d be correct.”

  Fay shrugged. “The kid, Edward Anderson, made a big show of asking me for a ruling on some loose impediments around his ball. Obviously, he had the right to move anything as long as it didn’t affect his lie. I told him that. I noticed Smith walking over to watch.”

  Fay went on to verify all the details Keith and the others had heard from Nathan.

  “There was nothing I could do. No video evidence, no witness—Smith wasn’t close enough to be sure, and it was up to the kid to call it on himself. I told him that, and that’s when he started into the speech about growing up at Augusta.”

  Keith knew he had a juicy story on his hands. Even if Fay didn’t go on the record, Smith certainly would and he could back it up with Fay as a “USGA source”—since he was working for the USGA that day as an official.

  “If I write this and put it up online now, based on what Nathan said, with your backup as an unnamed source, is there anything the USGA can do to remedy the situation?”

  Fay shook his head. “Absolutely not. Only thing that can change the outcome would be Anderson having an attack of conscience and saying he failed to penalize himself and withdraw. The result of the match can’t be changed, though.”

  “So what would happen if Anderson withdrew?”

  “His semifinal opponent would get a walkover win into the final.”

  “And into the Masters,” Keith said.

  “That too,” Fay said. “But that kid isn’t fessing up. You write it, he’ll catch some flak, but you’ll catch more.”

  Keith knew Fay was right. He’d hold his fire on Edward Anderson the blanking third.

  For now.

  19

  Frank had trouble looking his opponent in the eye when they shook hands on the first tee at noon the next day. They were the second semifinal match. The first one, between Allen Barton and John Caccese, the NCAA runner-up, had gone off fifteen minutes earlier.

  “Let’s have a good time out there today,” Edward Anderson said with a big smile.

  Frank bit his tongue, resisting the urge to add, And let’s try not to cheat.

  Slugger was standing near the ropes, shaking hands with the match referee, a big smile on his face as if they were old friends. The referee’s name was Tom Meeks. Slugger had never met him.

  Just before the starter introduced the two players, Slugger wandered back to Frank. “All under control,” he said quietly.

  “Really?”

  “Before I finished my first sentence, Mr. Meeks said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve already been warned.’”

  The first six holes were uneventful. Feeling nerves, Frank pushed his tee shot on Number 1, had to lay up, and made par. Anderson hit a perfect drive, found the middle of the green with his second shot, and two-putted for birdie. Not an encouraging start.

  But Frank got back to even when Anderson three-putted the fourth hole—Karma, Frank thought—for bogey. They matched pars for the next two holes.

  The seventh was a par-four, playing 408 yards. Frank knew if he hit a good drive, he’d have a wedge in his hands for his second shot. If you missed the fairway, especially right, there was all sorts of trouble. Frank had already figured out that he was longer than Anderson off the tee, so he felt comfortable taking a three-wood, knowing that accuracy was more important than distance. He hit it perfectly, drawing the ball just as he had hoped. The ball started off over the right rough, drew back to the fairway, and rolled to a stop on the left side of the fairway—giving Frank a perfect angle into a back-right pin.

  “Good one,” Anderson said, walking onto the tee.

  That had been the tone so far—very little talk—other than walking off the second tee when Frank had asked Anderson where he planned to go to college in the fall. That had been a mystery since his departure in the spring from Alabama.

  “I’m not going back to school,” Anderson had answered. “No reason to, really. If I beat you and get in the Masters, I’ll play the Am circuit and practice until April, then turn pro after that. If you beat me, I’ll turn pro right away. I’ve already got a bunch of sponsors’ exemptions lined up for the fall events.”

  That had been the only time there had been any conversation beyond “Nice shot.” If Anderson was curious in any way about Frank, he never expressed it.

  Having seen how far Frank’s three-wood had gone, Anderson tried to crank his driver up a notch and ended up opening his club face as he came through the ball. The shot flew wide right, so far right that it flew toward the thick kikuyu grass well off the fairway. Anderson said nothing, just started walking off the tee, handing his driver to his caddie as he went.

  Frank knew that Anderson was in a lot of trouble. Kikuyu was a grass only found on the West Coast. It was thick and gnarly stuff, and if you found the wrong spot, your ball might very well be lost. If you found the right spot, you might still have to declare an unplayable lie and lose a stroke to give yourself a better one.

  Frank followed a few yards behind Anderson as he picked his way through the crowd in the direction of his ball. Tom Meeks had walked in that direction, too. A couple of marshals were already searching for the ball. Apparently, they hadn’t seen exactly where it landed.

  Almost as if he knew where he was going, Anderson walked into the kikuyu and began plowing his way through, presumably in the direction of the ball. The ref followed until the kikuyu got thick and Frank stopped next to him.

  “I have this covered, son,” Meeks said, looking surprised that Frank had come over rather than walk to his own ball.

  “I know,” Frank said.

  He didn’t move. Meeks said nothing. Anderson and his caddie were now walking with their heads down, peering into the
kikuyu as if hoping for a miracle.

  A Fox cameraman stood a few yards away, not wanting to get too deep in the kikuyu but following Anderson as he searched.

  “Do me a favor, pal,” Anderson said, waving his hand. “Give me some space here.”

  The cameraman said nothing, just took a small step backward.

  “Mr. Anderson, you’ve got five minutes,” Meeks told him. “I’ve started the clock.”

  “I know the rules,” Anderson said, shooting a look at Meeks.

  “I assume you do, son, but it’s my job to be sure you’re aware.”

  Frank was reminded of a famous incident during the PGA Championship years earlier when Dustin Johnson, with a one-shot lead on the final hole, had hit his drive so far right he was outside the gallery ropes. His ball landed in a sandy area that people had walked through all week, which had garbage in it and was never raked. Nevertheless, for some reason, the PGA had put in a “local rule”—one that was specific to that golf course as opposed to being in the rules of golf—designating all sandy areas as bunkers. That meant Johnson wasn’t allowed to ground his club, since touching the sand pre-shot with his club was not allowed in any bunker.

  In the heat of the moment, Johnson completely forgot the rule and grounded his club. He was penalized two shots and finished two shots out of a playoff because his bogey on the hole became a triple-bogey. The walking rules official never reminded him of the local rule, which would have saved him.

  Meeks obviously wanted to be sure that Anderson understood that time was an issue.

  Frank was daydreaming a little, thinking maybe he should walk back to his own ball as Meeks had suggested, when he heard Anderson’s caddie say, “Got it!”

  He was leaning down into the kikuyu to identify the ball. Anderson and Meeks both walked over to where the caddie was standing. Anderson leaned down to look at the ball. Every player puts a unique mark on his ball with a Sharpie before putting it into play so it will be easy to identify. As was custom, the two players had shown each other how they marked their balls before the match had started.

  Frank’s mark was a red circle around the number on the ball. He chose that marking for luck, since you put a circle around a birdie on your scorecard, and because it was easy to do. At that moment, he was playing a Titleist 2.

  Anderson’s mark was much more distinctive. Above the brand name was the Augusta National logo—a U.S. map with a flagstick and hole marking Augusta—with a little green star drawn next to it.

  “This is it,” Anderson said as Meeks looked down at the ball. “You can see my mark.”

  “Ball’s in play,” Meeks said, nodding. “Play away when you’re ready.”

  Frank had followed Meeks, if for no other reason than his surprise at how quickly the caddie had spotted the ball in the thick kikuyu. He knew that sometimes you got lucky like that, but Nathan Smith’s message was still in the back of his mind: “Keep an eye on him.”

  “Satisfied?” Anderson asked as Frank peered over Meeks’s shoulder.

  “Of course,” Frank said.

  The lie, he thought, was remarkably good given the thickness of the grass around it. Frank walked back to his ball, still feeling as if he was missing something, although he had no clue what it might be.

  Anderson took plenty of time before hitting his second shot, walking up about 100 yards and over to the edge of the fairway to get a yardage. He came back and took several practice swings, cutting through the kikuyu near the ball. Frank glanced at Meeks, still standing close to where Anderson was to see if there was any chance he’d think Anderson was improving his lie. Meeks said nothing.

  Then, Anderson hit a screaming low line drive that bounced up the fairway and rolled all the way to the front fringe of the green. The crowd howled its approval. It was, no doubt, a wonderful shot, and looked even more impressive if you were on the far side of the fairway and couldn’t see that the lie had been as good as it was.

  Slugger was talking to Frank, who realized he’d zoned out again, still trying to figure out what had just happened. Was he being paranoid?

  “Hey, earth to Baker,” Slugger said. “Where’s your mind at?”

  “Sorry,” Frank said. “Got a little distracted.”

  “Well, tell me about it later,” Slugger said. “Meanwhile, let’s play golf. You’ve got a hundred and eighteen front and one twenty-three flag.”

  That meant Frank was 118 yards from the front of the green and 123 yards from the flag, which was five paces—five yards—from the front of the green.

  “What do you think?” Frank asked.

  “The wind’s helping,” Slugger said. “I think it’s a full sand wedge or an easy pitching wedge. Depends how hard you want to swing right now.”

  Frank could feel adrenaline pumping through him. He wasn’t sure why, but he could feel it. “I like the sand wedge,” he said.

  Slugger was already pulling the club even before he finished the sentence.

  Frank made a smooth pass at the ball, and it took off like a rocket. He was surprised by how explosive the shot was and by its relatively low trajectory.

  “Whoa!” Slugger said, clearly surprised, too.

  The ball landed on the middle of the green, took one big hop, and went over the green and down the hill behind it.

  Frank looked at Slugger. “How’d that happen?”

  “You’re too pumped up,” Slugger said. “It’s the seventh hole—calm down.”

  Frank was still away. He was in gnarly grass and had to try to pop his third shot high in the air and get it to land just on the fringe and roll toward the pin. He couldn’t do it. The ball landed on the green and rolled 15 feet past the hole.

  Seeing a surprising opening, Anderson decided to putt. He missed making birdie by inches. Frank conceded the putt. Then he missed his own par putt, the ball swerving left at the last second.

  Suddenly, the momentum on the hole—and in the match—had completely turned around. Anderson said nothing, just turned and strutted to the eighth tee.

  Frank knew he had to get his mind off what had happened in the kikuyu grass or he was going to be in trouble. There was no margin for error here.

  “Let’s go,” Slugger said. “Let’s get it back. This isn’t a big deal, okay?”

  “Got it,” Frank said, trying to convince himself that Slugger was right.

  He walked off the green and saw Keith Forman standing there, along with the rest of the media walking inside the ropes. Forman gave him a slight head nod, indicating he should walk in his direction.

  Frank picked up the signal and Forman fell into step with him.

  “What happened over there in the kikuyu that freaked you out?” he asked.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Frank said. “It was just weird.”

  “I get it,” Keith said. “The chances of finding a ball in that stuff are normally close to zero.”

  “And in about the only semi-decent spot was right where he found it,” Frank said.

  They were almost at the tee. Keith put a hand on Frank’s shoulder.

  “You worry about playing golf,” he said. “Let me work on what happened over there.”

  Frank nodded. He felt better. If something had happened, he believed Forman was the person who could figure it out.

  20

  Keith Forman knew exactly where he needed to go and whom he needed to talk to after witnessing what had happened on the seventh hole. Since there was no place to walk on the right side of the fairway, he had been walking along the ropes a good 50 yards across the fairway and away from the kikuyu where Anderson’s ball had landed.

  He was fairly convinced something fishy had gone on—no doubt influenced by Nathan Smith, but also by Frank’s body language.

  The reporter made his way back to the media center, walking up Numbers 8 and 9 to get there, and found PR honcho Pete Kowalski. “Where’s the TV compound?” he asked.

  If Kowalski found the question strange coming from a print reporter,
he didn’t show it. “It’s down the first fairway from here,” he said. “Five-minute walk, tops.”

  At that moment five minutes sounded like five miles. Keith had half walked, half run up the eighth and ninth holes.

  Kowalski seemed to sense that. “If you want, I can get one of our volunteers to cart you over there,” he said. “You look worn out. You okay?”

  “Just worn out by the heat. A ride would be great,” Keith said. He knew there wouldn’t be much going on in the media tent until the two matches finished, so Kowalski had plenty of volunteers available at the moment.

  A few minutes later, he was dropped off amid the various trailers and trucks that made up the TV compound. He saw a young woman wearing a U.S. AMATEUR logo on her shirt walking past him.

  “Can you point me to the truck?” he asked.

  “Fox or Golf Channel?” she asked.

  He’d forgotten that even though Fox had the TV rights to the tournament, Golf Channel was still broadcasting from here both pre- and post-play each day.

  “Fox,” he said.

  She pointed him past two trucks and a trailer. The good news was that the TV compound was one of the few places on the grounds at a golf tournament where there was no security. Since it was almost always in the middle of nowhere, no one who didn’t need to be there was likely to think about trying to find it.

  He pulled open the heavy door slowly and walked into the back of a room filled with TV monitors, computers, and lots of people.

  A kid who looked to be about sixteen spotted him and walked over. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I need to talk to Mark Loomis,” Keith said.

  “He’s a little busy right now. We’re on the air live.”

  Keith smiled. He was guessing the kid’s job was to make sure everyone in the truck had plenty to drink, but, naturally, he said “we” as if he himself were producing or directing the show.

  “Can you just do me a favor? Tap him on the shoulder and point at me. We’re old friends, and it’s important.”

  The kid looked skeptical but nodded. He walked down to the front row, where Loomis sat surrounded by all the people working for him as Fox’s executive producer of golf. He was wearing a headset and talking into it even as he turned in Keith’s direction when the kid tapped him and pointed.