The Prodigy

by John Feinstein

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” Frank said, having picked up from Spieth and Thomas that this was how you addressed the guy.

  “Are you all ready to say a few words to the kids?” Tucker asked.

  They nodded. Frank had been briefed on this via an email prior to making the trip south. He had decided against writing anything out. That was Forman’s advice. “You write it, you’ll sound stilted and nervous,” he’d said. “They’re just kids and won’t be listening anyway. Just tell ’em how you feel and get off the stage. They’ll all be waiting for Jordan and Sergio anyway.”

  García had apparently spoken earlier, when he had helped present the DC&P trophies, and already exited. That had unofficially become one of the defending champion’s jobs during tournament week.

  Now, Tucker took a step forward and held his hands up for quiet—which he got almost immediately.

  “Kids, I know you’ve heard enough from me already when I introduced Sergio,” he said. “But, as you know, we’ve got three more participants here who would all like to say a few words. First, let me introduce one of the six amateurs playing in this year’s Masters. He’s a high school senior from Connecticut, and he was runner-up in last year’s U.S. Amateur. So please welcome Frank Baker!”

  The audience gave Frank a nice round of applause as he stepped forward. Tucker handed him the microphone he’d been holding.

  “Thanks, Mr. Chairman,” Frank said, pausing to take a deep breath. At least he’d gotten that part right. “I just want to say what an honor it is to be here and to talk to all of you. I know how proud your families are and how awesome it is to get to be at Augusta.”

  He noticed a Golf Channel camera not too far from him and felt himself beginning to sweat. He heard Forman’s voice in his head: “Tell ’em how you feel and get off the stage.” The last part sounded pretty good right now.

  “So I hope you had fun today, and it was great to meet you all.”

  He handed the microphone back to Tucker and stepped back to polite applause.

  Thomas and Spieth were—not surprisingly—far more polished than he was. Spieth finished by saying, “My younger brother, who I can’t stand because he’s five inches taller than I am”—pause for laughter—“played college basketball at Brown. Every year, Brown played at Penn, in Philadelphia, which plays its games in the Palestra, one of college basketball’s most famous buildings. There’s a small plaque in the lobby of the Palestra. It says, To win the game is great … To play the game is greater … But to love the game is the greatest of all.”

  Another well-timed pause. The kids were silent.

  “I feel that way about golf,” Spieth continued. “Winning is great, playing is great, but loving to play and respecting the game you love is the greatest of all. Always try to remember that, every day you get a chance to play this great game.”

  The kids were mesmerized for a moment. Then they broke into wild cheers. Tucker stepped forward and hugged Spieth—green jacket to green jacket. Frank heard him say, “That was perfect, Jordan, just perfect.”

  Frank didn’t disagree.

  25

  Keith Forman finally found Slugger in the shade under the enormous limbs of the big oak tree while Frank, Jordan Spieth, and Justin Thomas were meeting and greeting the DC&P kids.

  “Even you have to admit that this is a cool thing for the kids,” Slugger said.

  “I don’t doubt that it’s cool for them,” Keith said. “But I don’t see a lot of inner-city kids in that group, do you? Not many kids of color. Lotta white one-percenters.”

  Slugger shook his head. “There you go again, Commie,” he said. “You don’t know that to be true.”

  “My best friend growing up has a nephew who made it here last year,” Keith said. “His dad is—surprise—a money manager who belongs to five different golf clubs. He told me most of the kids who make it are like that.”

  “Yeah, fine,” Slugger said. “I still say it’s cool.”

  “I’m not saying it’s not cool,” Keith said. “But let’s not pretend it’s more than it is.”

  Slugger laughed. “Look around you,” he said. “What about this place is real?”

  Keith couldn’t argue with that one.

  The best description he’d ever read of Augusta National had been in a story describing the contrast between what was outside the gates on Washington Road: honky-tonks, tourist traps, lots of fast food, and a place called The Master’s Gift Shop—the apostrophe being quite intentional and “The Master” in question not being a golfer but the Master—as in Jesus Christ.

  The story described walking through the gates of Augusta National as akin to landing, like Dorothy’s house, in Oz. Clearly, you were no longer in Kansas—or on Washington Road—anymore. Everything was green, perfectly manicured, and beautiful.

  Keith heard Jonathan Tucker’s voice on the microphone, and he and Slugger moved closer to the rope that would separate the public from the privileged the next day to listen to Frank.

  “The shorter the sweeter,” Keith said to Slugger.

  “You got that right,” Slugger said.

  Frank did fine, Thomas did better, and Spieth—not surprisingly—knocked it out of the park.

  “Boy, that kid’s good,” Slugger said.

  “Your guy’s only seventeen,” Keith said. “Give him time. By the way, where are the Bobbsey twins?”

  The Bobbsey twins were cute little kids from a hundred-year-old mystery series who were known for always sticking together. Keith had applied the nickname to Thomas Baker and Ron Lawrensen since they never seemed to be apart.

  “Upstairs on the veranda, watching from there,” Slugger said, turning in the direction of the clubhouse, where a number of people were seated at outdoor tables looking down on what was going on.

  Keith spotted them, seated at a table with an excellent view.

  The three players were approaching now, Spieth and Thomas signing some more autographs as they walked. Frank wasn’t in as much demand, although he had a security guard trailing him. Spotting Slugger and Keith, he walked over.

  Keith shook hands and said, “Well done.”

  “I got through it,” Frank said with a sigh.

  “So, what’d you think of the front nine?” Keith said, smiling.

  The guard interrupted. “Mr. Baker, your media obligations are over. You don’t need to answer any more questions today.”

  Keith was about to say something, but Frank beat him to it. “This gentleman is a friend,” he said. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  The guard didn’t seem too pleased with that answer, but said nothing.

  “The front nine—I mean, the first nine—was great,” Frank said, looking around as if he was afraid someone might have heard him use the non-Augusta term. “Jordan and Justin gave me all sorts of tips. I want to get out here as early as possible tomorrow and play the back—I mean, the second.”

  They all laughed.

  “I assume those guys warned you about pace-of-play starting tomorrow,” Keith said.

  “Oh, yeah, they did. That’s why I want to be here at seven. Tuesday I have to play a little later because I’m playing with Rory and Jason.”

  That would be Rory McIlroy and the Australian star Jason Day, Keith knew. Slugger had been able to contact their reps to see if Frank could play with them one day, and they’d each said yes and agreed on Tuesday at 9 a.m. Apparently neither was an early riser except when he had to be.

  “I met Rory walking in,” Frank said.

  The teenager’s eyes were shining with excitement. Keith was happy to see he was enjoying himself. He deserved it.

  “Slugger mentioned it,” Keith said. “I told you he was a great guy.”

  “Couldn’t have been nicer,” Frank said. “I really think this is going to be a great week.”

  “As long as all you have to do is play golf and enjoy yourself,” Keith said.

  “He’ll do that,” Slugger said. He glanced up at the veranda for a moment.
“I promise.”

  Keith hoped that was a promise his old friend could keep.

  * * *

  Everything changed on Monday, as Keith had known it would.

  Sunday, he had breezed down Washington Road to the press parking lot beside the Taj Mahal.

  Monday morning, it took him twenty-five minutes to go the last two miles of his trip. Almost everyone with practice-round tickets did not have tickets to the actual tournament. Those were locked in every year, and the Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday tickets were sold through a lottery. For most golf fans, the chance to walk inside the gates of Augusta was a trip to golf mecca. They arrived early to drink in every minute and buy as many souvenirs as possible, since Augusta remained one of the few places on the planet that didn’t sell its logoed merchandise online. You had to get in to Augusta to bring something out of Augusta.

  Keith knew that Frank would already be on the golf course. His plan was to grab breakfast, make a quick tour of the locker room to see if he could find any players willing to talk on or off the record about the Baker-Anderson match at the U.S. Am, and then meet Frank on the tenth tee. Slugger had told him they would probably get there at about nine o’clock.

  Most players didn’t spend a lot of time in the locker room. It was a place to occasionally grab a shower or, more likely, a quick meal.

  Keith walked in, said hello to the locker-room guys, and circled the almost-empty rows of lockers, figuring he wouldn’t see anyone noteworthy. Much to his surprise, he found Rory McIlroy sitting in front of his locker signing some yellow Masters pin-flags, the kind you could buy in the souvenir tent.

  Seeing Keith, McIlroy grinned sheepishly. “Not sure why anyone would want my signature on these,” he said. “It’s not like I’ve ever won here.”

  They shook hands, and Keith sat down on a chair that someone had left at the next locker. They made small talk for a couple of minutes, and then Keith asked how McIlroy was feeling about his game this week.

  “I think it’s close,” Rory said, and smiled. “Never heard a golfer say that before, I’ll bet.”

  They both laughed. “It’s close” was the mantra of almost every golfer on the eve of a major championship.

  “Gotta ask you about something,” Keith said finally. “And it might be something you know nothing about.”

  “Jeez, by your tone, I hope that’s the case,” McIlroy said.

  Keith grinned and tried to sound less ominous with his question. “You know about what happened in the semis at the U.S. Amateur last August?”

  He asked vaguely on purpose because he didn’t want to lead his witness in any way.

  “You mean the cheating thing?” McIlroy said.

  At the very least he’d heard about it.

  “Yeah, that,” Keith answered.

  McIlroy nodded. “I was in Northern Ireland when it happened, so I didn’t see it live,” he said. “But I saw the video later and read about it. I honestly can’t believe someone tried to pull a stunt like that. It was awful.”

  McIlroy never said “off the record” or asked if a reporter would be quoting him. That wasn’t his way. You asked him a question, he answered it, and if someone didn’t like his answer, that was fine with him.

  “I’m writing about Baker, not sure what, but something,” Keith said.

  “Met him yesterday,” McIlroy said. “Playing with him tomorrow. Seems like a nice kid.”

  “He’s one of the good ones. He can’t wait to play with you and Jason.”

  “And Phil,” McIlroy said. “I got Phil as the fourth. I figured a little heckling would help prep him for Thursday.”

  Phil Mickelson was world-renowned for giving people a hard time during Tuesday money matches. Problem was, Keith knew that Frank didn’t have any money.

  McIlroy read Keith’s mind. “Don’t worry—I’ll front him,” he said. “He’ll be my partner. Playing for my money will put so much pressure on him that Thursday will feel like a walk in the park.”

  Keith laughed. “Do you feel bad for Frank getting in here because of a DQ?”

  “I feel bad for him that people are going to bring it up like it’s his fault. From what I read, the reason Anderson cheated was because he was beginning to feel like he couldn’t beat Frank. The pressure on him to get in here must have been unbearable, especially with his father being a member.”

  “You know the father resigned from the club,” Keith said.

  McIlroy looked around and lowered his voice when he answered. “I heard they told him not to show up this week, but he said they couldn’t stop him. He’s still got tickets, apparently.”

  “Won’t they spot him if he shows?”

  McIlroy shrugged. “And do what? Make a scene having him taken out? I doubt it.”

  “I just hope he doesn’t harass Frank in some way, especially if you don’t think they’ll stop him.”

  McIlroy’s face darkened a little. “I hope not, too. But very rich people don’t take being embarrassed very well.”

  “I guess you’d know,” Keith said, unable to resist.

  McIlroy punched his shoulder lightly. “Watch it,” he said. “I’m sure I can find a club rule you’ve violated pretty quickly if I want to.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I gotta go practice,” McIlroy said, signing his last flag with a flourish and standing up. “I’m close, you know. Real close.”

  * * *

  Keith followed McIlroy out of the locker room. At the door, the golfer turned left to go in the direction of the range; the reporter turned right to walk past the throngs standing around the tree and then through more throngs en route to the tenth tee. He had to wait for a moment because there was a group on the first tee and, even on a practice day, when someone was on the tee, the marshals acted as if it were Sunday afternoon and stopped all foot traffic.

  He finally walked behind the tenth tee just in time to see Frank and Slugger along with Kevin Streelman and his caddie, Frank Williams, walking through the ropes to the box.

  Keith knew Streelman pretty well. He’d been on tour for about ten years and had won twice, including four years earlier in Hartford, when he had birdied the last seven holes to win by a shot. Streelman was a perfect guy for Frank to play with on Monday: friendly and easy to talk to, not likely to draw a massive gallery the way Jordan Spieth and Justin Thomas would if he had played with them today instead of Sunday.

  Both players walked over to say hello when they saw Keith standing behind the tee. He wasn’t inside the ropes, because that was strictly verboten at Augusta, even on practice days.

  “Frank tells me you’ve been stalking him since last summer,” Streelman said with a smile. “I can see why. Boy, can he play.”

  Frank was grinning from ear to ear.

  Slugger, a step behind, was not. “Bobbsey twins at nine o’clock,” he said softly.

  Keith looked to his left and saw Thomas Baker and Ron Lawrensen approaching. His relationship with them had thawed briefly after his involvement in exposing the Andersons in Los Angeles, but with big money perhaps on the horizon, father and agent were back to seeing him as the enemy again.

  “Eighty-nine players in this field, and you choose these two to follow for a few holes?” Lawrensen said in his usual half-joking-but-not-really-joking-at-all way.

  “Of all the tees in all the towns in all the world, you two walk into mine,” Keith said.

  To his credit, Thomas Baker got the Casablanca reference. “Here’s not looking at you, Forman,” he said. He actually smiled when he said it.

  He and Lawrensen headed down the right side of the fairway while Frank and Streelman waited for the fairway to clear. A group had teed off ahead of them on number ten, normally a violation of etiquette.

  “I hope they’ll let us through,” Streelman said as they waited. “They’re four, we’re two. We flew the first nine holes. Your boy here shot thirty-four playing his first ball.”

  “I love this course,” Frank said. “I mean, I haven�
�t seen the back nine yet. Can’t wait.”

  “That’s second nine,” Keith reminded him. “When you play with the big boys tomorrow, the media’s going to want to talk to you when you’re done. Do not say ‘back nine,’ especially on camera.”

  “He can say it,” Streelman joked, “but only if he doesn’t mind not being allowed to play on Thursday.”

  The fairway had cleared. Keith could see the Bobbsey twins trudging down the hill in the direction of the landing area.

  He sighed. It was going to be a long week.

  26

  Frank actually enjoyed the back nine more than he had the front.

  There was a lot more variety to the holes. The flag was dead center on the tiny, treacherous 12th and, as they walked on the tee, Streelman said, “You see where the flag is? That’s where you aim, no matter where the hole is on any given day. Hit it in the middle, make three, and get out of here.”

  Frank knew enough about the history of the golf course to know all about the famous meltdowns that had occurred at the 12th, most recently Jordan Spieth’s 8 on Sunday in 2016 when he walked onto the tee with a three-shot lead and walked off the green trailing by three—since Danny Willett, the eventual winner, was birdieing 15 at the same moment.

  He also knew all about 13 and 15, the famous par-four-and-a-halfs. Both were reachable par-fives fraught with danger—and plenty of water. One could make 3 on either hole, or 7. The 15th was especially daunting, with water both in front of the narrow green and behind it.

  The 18th tee was about as scary a tee shot as Frank had ever seen—there were trees pushing up against the fairway on both sides, making it look as if you were trying to fit the ball down a bowling alley. The hole was long and uphill. If you hit a draw and couldn’t fly the fairway bunker, you had trouble. If you hit a fade and pushed the shot even a little, you had tree trouble.

  Streelman, who would be playing his sixth Masters, reminded Frank on several occasions to not believe what he was seeing and sensing on the greens today—just as Spieth and Thomas had done. He showed him where he thought the first day’s hole locations would be, but told him he’d be feeling his way—like everyone else—on Thursday.