The Prodigy

by John Feinstein

  Walking out the door, he spotted a familiar face in the hallway just outside the interview room door: Erica Chambers. He wondered how she had gotten into the building. It was supposed to be off-limits to the equipment reps.

  “Ms. Chambers, what brings you here?” he said.

  For a moment it was evident she didn’t recognize him. Then she did. A smirk crossed her beautiful face.

  “I just wanted to congratulate Thomas and Ron on the way Frank played,” she said.

  Keith thought of asking how she’d gotten in the building, then decided against it. He hadn’t realized when he was talking to her and Billy Nevins on Tuesday how tall she was, because she’d been sitting down. She was wearing low heels but was looking him in the eye. Keith was six one. She was mesmerizing.

  Before he could say anything else, he heard Thomas Baker’s voice behind him.

  “Erica!” Baker said enthusiastically. “I told the guard to be on the lookout for a tall, beautiful, dark-haired friend of mine. Guess he figured it out.”

  Okay, Keith thought, if nothing else, that answers my question. The old man had greased the skids to get her into the building.

  Baker walked up, hugged Chambers and kissed her on the cheek. Then he pointed at Keith. “Is this guy bothering you?” he asked in his joking but unfunny way.

  “I think I can handle him,” Erica said, giving Keith a quick smile.

  “I’m just doing my job, Thomas. Covering the amateur leading the Masters,” Keith added.

  Baker actually smiled.

  Keith nodded at Baker’s twin. “Ron, busy week for you?”

  “I’m just a cheerleader, Forman,” Lawrensen answered.

  “Well, congrats, Thomas, and great to see you all,” Keith said, giving them his phoniest smile. He needed to get away: Baker made him uneasy, Lawrensen made him nauseous, and Chambers made him dizzy.

  He turned and walked off before they could respond. He was now convinced that Brickley was going into overdrive to be the focal point of Baker and Lawrensen’s attempts to push Frank into turning pro. And it didn’t hurt that Erica had those looks as well as so much money behind her.

  He wasn’t going to say or do anything to upset Frank at this moment. He did want to check in with him later to see how he felt about the spotlight he was now under and to ask him about the “Who’s riding on the cart?” incident.

  But that could wait. As he walked up the stairs to the media workroom, where reporters could find their desks and lots of free food, he realized that he was tired from walking eighteen holes, especially outside the ropes—and that he was starving.

  He needed food and a break. He suspected the same was true for Frank.

  32

  At that moment, Frank was starving. He had been taken from the interview room to the small compound where Sky Sports (which televised the Masters in Great Britain), ESPN, and Golf Channel had their sets.

  ESPN went first, then the other two. They all asked the same questions he’d been asked in the interview room. After the Sky interview, Frank walked out of the building to what looked like a small yard that led from the building to the cart path. A cart was waiting for him. So was a green-jacket he didn’t recognize.

  The guy introduced himself with a big smile, holding out his hand.

  He was tall, with dark hair graying at the temples. He had an accent Frank couldn’t place. It wasn’t quite British and wasn’t quite Australian.

  “Wonderful playing today,” the green-jacket continued after they’d shaken hands. “We’re all very proud of you.”

  Frank wasn’t certain who “we” were, but he nodded and said, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Small favor, if I may ask?” the official said.

  Frank gathered that an Augusta favor was a lot like an Augusta request.

  “Sure, anything,” Frank said.

  “Your comment in the interview room about the cell phone. Actually, it was quite amusing.”

  Frank suspected there was a but-line coming. He was right.

  “But we’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t repeat this or similar remarks. Our cell phone policy is what it is in order to protect you players. We don’t want anyone to slip up and have a phone start ringing on the course during play. So we may come off as quite strict, but it’s for a good reason. I think you’d agree.”

  Frank knew it didn’t matter whether he agreed or not. “Yes, sir. I understand,” he said, figuring there was no need to say anything more.

  “Knew you would,” the man said, giving him another big smile. “Hope to see you back in the interview room tomorrow. Cheers.”

  They shook hands again; then the official jumped on a cart and was gone.

  Frank sighed and walked to the cart where his dad and Lawrensen were already waiting.

  “What was that about?” Lawrensen asked, nodding as the green-jacket’s cart headed down the path back in the direction of the press building.

  “Nothing,” Frank said. “He just wanted to thank me for being patient with all the interview requests.”

  That was a flat-out lie. At that moment, Frank didn’t care.

  * * *

  Frank had eaten breakfast in the locker room at 7:30 before going out to warm up. They had finished the round at 1:15. As he headed back to the locker room, his stomach was growling.

  Slugger was waiting for him on the front porch since caddies weren’t allowed inside.

  “You want to practice?” he asked.

  All Frank could think about at that moment was eating. “Do you see any reason why I should?” he said.

  Slugger shook his head. “No. Sooner you get out of here, the better. When do you think you’ll be finished eating?”

  Frank realized he hadn’t gotten his watch or his wallet back from Slugger after the round.

  “What time is it now?”

  “Two-thirty.”

  “Give me thirty minutes.”

  Frank walked into the small player dining area in the locker room and found Brandt Snedeker sitting there. No one else was in sight.

  “Sneds,” as everyone called him, was one of his favorite players, even though they’d never met.

  “Hey, great playing,” Snedeker said when Frank walked in. He stood up to shake hands.

  “Honor to meet you,” Frank said. “Big fan for years.”

  Snedeker was one of those guys who had done everything in golf except win a major. He had played on three Ryder Cup teams, had won about ten times on tour, and had once won the ten-million-dollar bonus for winning the FedEx Cup. He’d been close a couple of times in majors, including at the Masters once, finishing—Frank thought—third.

  “Can I join you?” Frank asked.

  “Of course,” Snedeker said.

  “How’d you play today?” Frank asked. The last group had teed off at 1:55, so Frank knew Snedeker had to be finished if he was sitting here.

  “Reasonable,” Snedeker said. “One under. Nothing like you.”

  “Got a little lucky,” Frank said, thinking about the shot that hadn’t hopped in the water at 15 and the hole-out at 18.

  “No one shoots six under at Augusta on luck,” Snedeker said.

  Throughout the week, Frank had noticed that players never talked about scores in actual numbers. They simply referenced par. Snedeker would never say he’d shot 71, he’d say “one under.” The course record wasn’t 63, it was “nine under.”

  The waiter came over, added his congratulations, and said, “You must be starved, Mr. Baker. What can I get you?”

  Frank ordered and the waiter hustled off.

  “Can I ask you a personal question now that we’ve known each other for two minutes?” Snedeker said with a smile.

  Frank shrugged. He’d already answered about a hundred questions that day from reporters, why not one from someone he looked up to?

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “Are the rumors true that you’re thinking of skipping college to turn pro?”

  Frank thoug
ht for a moment. He could easily duck the question, but he knew that wouldn’t stop the rumors. More important, it wouldn’t stop his father and Lawrensen.

  “I’m not thinking about it,” he said finally. “My dad and this agent are the ones who are ready for me to cash in now while I’m supposedly a hot commodity. Especially the agent.” He still believed that when push came to shove, his dad would be on his side.

  “Oh, you’re a hot commodity all right,” Snedeker said. “But you’re nuts—they’re nuts—if you don’t go to college, even if you only go for a couple of years. Even Tiger went to Stanford for two years. When he left, he’d won the U.S. Am three times.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Mr. Snedeker,” Frank said, not sure if it was okay to call him Sneds. “I know I’m not ready to spend thirty weeks a year in hotels—even if they’re all Four Seasons or the Ritz.”

  “Which they won’t be,” Snedeker said. “Even if you make it straight to the Tour, in a lot of the towns where we play, the Courtyard Marriott is the top of the line.” He leaned forward in his chair, just as Frank’s soup arrived. “You want me to talk to your dad? I know I’m a complete stranger, but I’ve been out here a long time and I know it’s not a fun place to be a teenager, no matter how good a player you might be.”

  Frank thought that was a remarkably generous offer. But he knew his father was in no mood to listen to anyone right now—except for Ron Lawrensen.

  “If I thought for a second it’d do any good, I would say absolutely,” Frank answered. “But Dad’s dug in on this. The only one who might convince him is me. And I’m not so sure about that either.”

  “Well then, you better be ready to dig in yourself,” Snedeker said. “This could be a make-or-break decision.” He paused for a second. “And I’m not just talking about your career.”

  Frank dipped his spoon in the soup. It was too hot to touch yet. Sort of like my life, he thought.

  * * *

  Frank walked outside at 3:01. To his surprise, Slugger was nowhere in sight. Keith Forman was, sitting on the porch bench talking to Fluff Cowan, longtime caddie for Jim Furyk. Frank had read once that Fluff had been on tour for so long that other caddies often asked him what Walter Hagen and Bobby Jones had been like.

  Keith waved Frank over and introduced him to Fluff, whose nickname came from the fluffy mustache that was his trademark.

  “Great playing today, young man,” Fluff said. “I told Keith that even Tiger missed the cut the first time he played the Masters as an amateur.”

  “Well, I haven’t made the cut yet,” Frank said with a laugh, remembering that Fluff had been Woods’s caddie in 1997 when he’d won the Masters by 12 shots at the age of twenty-one.

  “Well, I like your chances,” Fluff said. He stood, shook Frank’s hand, and looked at his watch. “Gotta meet my guy on the range. Good luck tomorrow.”

  “Slugger will be back in a minute,” Keith said to Frank as Fluff walked off. “He asked me to stay with you until he got back.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Something about getting credentials for the weekend. Now that it looks like you’re going to be here, he’s got some folks up in Connecticut who want to come down.”

  Frank shrugged and checked the time. He really wanted to get back to the hotel.

  Keith read his mind. “I’d take you back myself, but my car is on the other side of the grounds near the press center.”

  “It’s okay,” Frank said. At least he was fed. He wanted to tell Keith what Snedeker had said, but there were too many people around. “Actually, if Slugger didn’t have the keys, I’d just leave him.” He was smiling when he said it, but he meant it.

  It took ten minutes for Slugger to finally show up.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Getting an extra credential out of these people is like getting Commie here to admit he’s wrong about something.”

  “On all three occasions in my life when I’ve been wrong, I’ve admitted it,” Keith said. “It’s just that none of those occasions involved you.”

  Frank wasn’t in a mood for banter. “Can we get going?” he asked Slugger.

  “Easy there, kid,” Slugger said. “You’ve got the rest of the day off.”

  That was good news, Frank thought. It had been a very long day. Fun. Remarkable. But exhausting, too. Time to kick back.

  * * *

  Frank’s tee time the next day wasn’t until 11:48, but he was up by seven o’clock anyway, too restless to sleep any longer.

  His phone was full of texts and emails, most of which he didn’t bother to look at, since they were all the same: Great playing … You’re on fire!… Good luck Friday. There was one from his mom: It’s on TV here, she’d written. Stayed up to watch. I’m SO proud of you. As usual she signed it xoxoxoxo.

  It was the last one, though, that brought him up short. It wasn’t what the text said, but who it was from: Got your number from Jenna, it said. Hope you don’t mind. You’re leading the Masters! OMG! You looked AMAZING on TV! Text me when you get home! Hope.

  Frank read the text five times, heart thumping. Hope Christopher was, without question, the hottest girl in the senior class at Storrs Academy—captain of the swim team and editor of the school paper. She had never, as far as he could remember, even glanced in his direction. She was all about basketball players—or so it seemed.

  At last fall’s homecoming dance, a teammate from the school’s golf team had dared Frank to ask her to dance. He’d actually been willing to give it a try, but there were no fewer than six really tall guys hovering around her when he walked over. He’d chickened out.

  He sat in his hotel room and thought hard for several minutes about a reply. Maybe he shouldn’t reply. Just say later, “I was busy.” He compromised: Thanks! he wrote. It was just one round. Heading to golf course now. He tried to think of something funny to add but couldn’t come up with it. He stared at his message a long time and then finally hit send. Then he thought of adding something about how much he enjoyed hanging out with Rory McIlroy, Jason Day, and Phil Mickelson on Tuesday. No, he finally told himself, be cool.

  This was much more nerve-racking, he realized, than playing in—or even leading—the Masters.

  The good news was, he still had a few minutes to himself to read the papers—both the Augusta Chronicle and USA Today were waiting outside the front door. The Chronicle’s front-page headline was straight-up biblical: “And a Child Leads Them.”

  He thought that was kind of cool—and just a little bit odd. Then again, they were in the Deep South. He skimmed as many stories as he could, then read Steve DiMeglio in USA Today. DiMeglio’s story was full of quotes from other players—notably Zach Johnson and Justin Rose—about his golf skills and remarkable maturity. Looking up from the paper at the Cartoon Network show playing on his room’s television, he had to laugh.

  * * *

  Slugger knocked on his door at 8:15, and they had breakfast in the hotel dining room. They left for the course at 10:00 and Frank walked on the range at 10:30. Golf Channel’s Todd Lewis asked if he could stop and talk briefly. Frank’s first instinct was to say no, but he flashed back to the day before when the thought that he was becoming a prima donna had crossed his mind. So he said yes. He knew from watching Golf Channel that Lewis always asked good questions.

  He was right.

  “What’s your biggest challenge today after such a magical day yesterday?” Lewis asked.

  “Trying to stay in the same place mentally that I was then,” Frank said. “I know that’ll be hard because the circumstances are a lot different.”

  “Any goals for today?” Lewis said.

  “Try, try to stay in the present,” Frank said. “If I can do that, I’ll be fine.”

  Lewis thanked him, and Frank walked onto the range. Jordan Spieth was walking off.

  “You shoot six under again today, Prodigy, and we’re all toast,” Spieth said, clapping him on the back. “Have fun out there.”

  Yeah, s
ure, Frank thought. Have fun out there. What was it Jordan had said after he’d won that Masters three years earlier? “My receding hairline is a product of playing golf for a living.”

  Frank’s hairline was fine. For now.

  33

  Keith Forman again walked the entire eighteen holes with Frank, Justin Rose, and Zach Johnson on Friday. The crowds were so thick he had to scramble to see much.

  Not surprisingly, during the first nine holes, Frank seemed to realize that seventeen-year-olds weren’t supposed to lead the Masters. He didn’t make a single birdie, and he bogeyed 3, 4, and 9—hitting his second shot hole-high only to watch it spin back off the green and down the hill. It was the kind of mistake he had done such a good job of avoiding on Thursday.

  While the players waited on the tenth tee for the group in front of them to hit their second shots, Keith walked glumly down the hill to the right of the fairway.

  Frank was now three under par for the tournament, still only three shots behind Justin Thomas, who was four under par for the day playing the 13th hole. Thomas was the kind of player who could go very low—he’d shot 63 in the third round of the U.S. Open a year ago—and with 13 and 15 still to play, a 65 or 66 was clearly in reach. Rory McIlroy and Jordan Spieth were in a group of four players a shot back.

  It had rained overnight, softening the greens and making them easier to attack. That’s what made Frank’s front-nine 39 truly disappointing. He had tamed a much more difficult golf course a day earlier.

  Keith was calculating where the cut might fall as he stopped to watch the three players hit their tee shots. He was relieved when Frank, last up after his ninth-hole bogey, found the fairway with his best tee shot of the day. At that point, Keith wasn’t really thinking about Thomas or the other leaders. He wanted to be sure Frank would play the weekend. If the leader was eight under par, that would mean the 10-shot rule would fall at two over. At the Masters, anyone within 10 shots of the 36-hole leader made the cut. Or, if fewer than 44 players and ties were within 10, they all made the cut whether within 10 or not. Keith guessed the cut would be two over, perhaps one over if Thomas went to nine under, since the leaderboard was pretty bunched.