The Prodigy

by John Feinstein

  That meant Frank would have to completely collapse on the back nine not to play the next day. Still, there was lots of water ahead, and Keith knew Frank well enough to know he was frustrated at that moment, which could lead to more mental mistakes—like the one on Number 9. It was up to Slugger to keep him calm.

  That didn’t fill Keith with confidence. He’d had dinner with Slugger the previous night, and his old teammate appeared to be a lot more jumpy about things than Frank had been. When Keith pointed that out to him, Slugger got defensive.

  “Frank’s going to be a multimillionaire, if not now, then later,” he said. “He’s playing with house money here—which is great. But I’m not going to be a millionaire. In fact, I don’t even know if I’ll still be his teacher after this week. The old man is still mad at me for getting you involved, and I know that Lawrensen wants him to get rid of me and hire one of the big-name teachers. He wanted me gone after the Amateur, but Frank told the father he needed me and the father went along—for now. So cut me some slack.”

  Keith tried a joke about how Slugger could charge new players a thousand dollars an hour, like the big-name guys, if Frank won the Masters.

  That seemed to calm Slugger, but not by much. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should be enjoying this. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime type of thing. But you don’t have a wife and two kids to worry about.”

  Keith couldn’t argue with that. And, as Frank and Slugger walked down the tenth fairway, he hoped his family back home wasn’t on Slugger’s mind at that moment. Focusing on pulling the right club was far more important right now.

  Frank managed to par 10, 11, and 12—which was a relief to Keith, because they were probably the three toughest holes on the back nine. If he could stay dry at 13, 15, and 16, he’d be fine—at least in terms of the cut, which, being honest, was all Keith was worried about.

  Frank hit a perfect drive on 13, cutting the corner of the dogleg, the ball bouncing way down the fairway. Keith’s guess was that he had less than 200 yards to the flag. That meant he had to go for the green in two, which made Keith a little nervous. Any sort of mishit, and he’d find the creek in front of the green. The genius in Augusta’s back nine par-fives was that they were both easily reachable for most of the field if their drive found the fairway. But there was so much danger around the greens that any sort of miscalculation could turn a potential birdie into a bogey—or worse—in a heartbeat.

  Keith was standing back from the ropes because the ground between the 13th and 14th fairways was elevated enough that his view was better there than trying to somehow get position close to the ropes. It looked to Keith like Frank had a seven-iron in his hands, meaning his guess that he was inside 200 yards was correct.

  He held his breath for a second as the ball flew high into the air, becoming a dot against the sun before he lost sight of it. Only the roar up near the green told him that Frank had hit a good shot. He breathed out, thinking, Two more water holes to go.

  He couldn’t get near enough to the green to see how close Frank’s ball was to the flag, but when Justin Rose and Zach Johnson both putted before him, he guessed the putt was makeable. He was right—it couldn’t have been more than five feet, judging by how long it took to get to the hole. Frank rolled it in for eagle, and suddenly he was only one over par for the day and back to five under for the tournament. Rose and Johnson both gave him fist bumps walking to the 14th tee.

  Frank made a routine par at 14 and also parred 15—which was fine with Keith. The narrow green looked about five yards wide to him, and when the kid missed the fairway and laid up, Keith was very happy with the two-putt par he made from there.

  Sixteen was the last hole with water. Frank found the green safely but misjudged his first putt from 30 feet, rolling it 10 feet past the hole. He missed coming back for a bogey, but Keith was fine with that, too. All he was thinking about was avoiding big numbers.

  Frank made another bogey at 17, going over the back of the green with his second shot, but hit a perfect drive at 18, found the middle of the green, and two-putted for a final par. He’d shot 74—a far cry from his 66 on Thursday—but plenty good enough after the 39 on the front side. He’d kept his cool to shoot 35—one under par—on the back nine, helped immeasurably by the eagle at 13.

  Keith checked the giant scoreboard to the right of the 18th green. Hideki Matsuyama, the gifted Japanese player, had shot 64 to go from one under par to nine under par. He had the lead. Tommy Fleetwood, a talented British player, was at eight under. Four players were at seven under, including McIlroy. Three more—including Rose—who had shot 67—were at six under. Then a group of five at five under, most notably Spieth and two-time champion Bubba Watson. Currently, there were six players at four under, including Frank. That meant Frank was tied for 15th place. It wasn’t first, but it was pretty darn good for a seventeen-year-old kid.

  Keith walked to the spot near the scoring area where the media was corralled. Frank obviously wasn’t going to be brought to the interview room today, but there were still plenty of media people who wanted to talk to him.

  He saw Ron Lawrensen and Thomas Baker standing next to Frank’s bag outside the scoring room. Slugger was inside with Frank while his player checked and signed his scorecard. Again, Keith felt a little bit of anger that an agent could stand there waiting for the player while the media was literally penned in a few yards away. If anyone should be penned in, he thought, it’s the agents.

  Frank walked outside and spoke to Slugger briefly before he picked up the bag and headed in the direction of the caddie barn. They had teed off much later today, and it was almost five o’clock. Keith suspected Frank wouldn’t be hitting any more golf balls today. He felt drained. He could only imagine how Frank felt.

  Frank spoke to Lawrensen and his father briefly, then, guided by a green-jacket, began walking up the short hill to where the media waited. Keith walked over and stood just outside the roped-off area waiting for Frank to finish. He’d try to catch him for a minute or two in the locker room—one of the few places where his father and Lawrensen could not go.

  He was jotting a few notes to himself on his pocket-sized spiral when a voice behind him said, “Hey, Forman, got a minute?”

  He turned and saw Lawrensen standing there.

  “Where’s your twin?” Keith asked.

  “Twin?”

  “Frank’s dad. The other Bobbsey twin. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of you without the other.”

  Lawrensen didn’t crack a smile.

  “So what can I possibly do you for?” Keith asked, misspeaking intentionally.

  “No, my friend, it’s what I can do for you,” Lawrensen answered.

  “Really?”

  Lawrensen moved a little closer to Keith and lowered his voice. “I know you’ve been poking around trying to find out what kind of deals might be on the table for Frank,” he said. “Lay off.”

  “Excuse me?” Keith said.

  “Do you know how many of our clients are on Digest’s teaching staff?” Lawrensen smiled. “Check the last four covers of the magazine. All our guys. One call from my boss to Jerry Tarde, and you’ll be lucky to have a subscription to your magazine, much less a job.”

  “You’re threatening to blackmail my editor?” Keith said. “That’s the best you’ve got? You think Jerry Tarde’s going to be blackmailed by the likes of you or your boss?”

  “Oh no, that’s just for starters. Do you think Digest is going to want Frank under contract once he turns pro? How do you think Tarde will react when we say we’re going to go to another magazine unless he dumps you? He wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t take Frank over you.”

  Lawrensen was probably right about that, Keith had to admit. The whole blackmail package might make it impossible for Tarde to justify keeping him. Still, he wasn’t about to back down to this lowlife.

  “What makes you think Frank will go along with that?” he said. “Just because you’ve got the father in your pocket doesn�
��t mean you’ve got the kid.”

  “Yes, it does,” Lawrensen said. “Especially if I already have the father’s name on signed contracts. The kid is still a minor, remember?”

  Now Keith was angry. “Do me a favor, Ronnie boy, climb back under that rock you live under. I’ve got work to do,” he said. “You just gave me all the quotes from you I needed. I’m going to expose you for being the sleaze that you are. Someone will want to read that story.”

  Lawrensen’s smirk turned into a scowl. He grabbed Keith’s arm.

  “Touch me again,” Keith said, pulling away, “and I don’t care where we are—I’ll put you down.”

  Lawrensen didn’t want a fight, but he wanted the last word. “You expose me, you expose Frank,” he said. “If you tell people he’s already under contract to an agent, he can’t possibly play college golf, can he?” With that, he turned and walked away.

  Keith wanted to shout something at him but couldn’t think of anything. He knew the Double Eagle agent was right.

  34

  Frank’s session with the media was a lot shorter on Friday than it had been on Thursday, when he was leading the tournament. That was fine with him.

  When he walked into the clubhouse, he saw his dad sitting in the lounge outside the locker room. There was no sign of his usual shadow, which was a relief.

  His dad walked over and gave him a hug.

  “Lot of guts on the back nine,” he said. “I was just checking scores. Unless John Caccese birdies the last two holes, you’re going to be the only amateur to make the cut. So, at the very least, you’ll be Low Amateur.”

  Frank was actually glad to hear that news. Low Amateur at the Masters was a very prestigious thing. Plus, it would give him a little payback on Caccese for the loss at Riviera the previous summer.

  “If the current standings hold,” his dad continued, “I think you’ll play with Matt Kuchar tomorrow.”

  Frank also liked that news. Kuchar was known as one of the good guys on tour. He also knew a thing or two about playing the Masters on the weekend as an amateur. He’d finished T-21—tied for 21st place—twenty years ago. No amateur had done better than that since then.

  “Glad to hear all of that,” Frank said. “So where’s Mr. Lawrensen?”

  “He’s taking care of some nuisance work,” his dad said. “Are you going to hit any balls or are you finished?”

  “Finished. Done. Exhausted. I told Slugger to take off if he wanted.”

  “Okay, how about we have a father-son dinner tonight? One of the members said he could get us in at a nice Italian place downtown.”

  That sounded good to Frank. He knew his tee time would be sometime early afternoon the next day, so he didn’t need to go to bed too early. Plus, a night without Ron Lawrensen was a night with sunshine.

  Frank felt completely happy for the first time in a while. He’d survived on a day when he didn’t have his best stuff. He’d made the cut and would be back out there tomorrow. And there would be no talk tonight—he would see to that—about what was going to happen when the weekend was over.

  He felt … seventeen. It was a good feeling.

  * * *

  Frank felt even better the next day. For the first time since he’d gotten to Augusta, he’d slept soundly. He ate a big breakfast because his tee time wasn’t until 12:34. Slugger had texted to say he’d meet him at the club, that he was getting a ride, so Frank, his dad, and Ron Lawrensen drove over together.

  The car was quiet, neither man wanting to mess with Frank’s head before he played the third round of the Masters.

  Soon after Frank started warming up, Matt Kuchar walked over to introduce himself.

  “Let’s just have a good time out there today,” he said, giving Frank his trademark smile. “You know, I shot sixty-eight in the third round here when I was an Am twenty years ago. We’ve got perfect conditions. I’ll bet you can beat that.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll sign for sixty-eight right now,” Frank joked.

  “Hey, you already shot sixty-six once this week,” Kuchar said. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  Frank knew he’d been lucky drawing Kuchar at this stage of the tournament. Most guys would be extremely tight teeing it up on Saturday at the Masters, especially in contention. Being T-15, five shots back, with 36 holes to play was certainly in contention. Saturday was called “moving day” on tour because it was the day when players who trailed the leaders had a chance to make a move with a low score.

  That’s the way you should be thinking, he said to himself.

  John Caccese had missed the cut, so Frank was already Low Amateur. No reason, he thought, not to go for broke out there today.

  Which was exactly what he did. He got up-and-down for par from just off the first green—no small task—and then birdied the second, leaving his second shot just short of the green. From there, he used his putter and two-putted from 40 feet.

  “Good start,” said Kuchar as they walked off the green. He had started exactly the same way: par-birdie.

  Frank almost forgot where he was. He was as loose as he might have been playing in the early morning at Perryton Country Club against Slugger for donuts. He decided to hit driver at the third, a risky play, but he hit it perfectly, rolling it up just short of the green. He pitched to about seven feet and made the putt. Then he went into the “par zone” for the next four holes before making another two-putt birdie at the eighth. He parred 9 and was out in 33.

  Hideki Matsuyama had birdied the second to get to ten under, but Frank was now tied for third at seven under. Kuchar was in the group at six under.

  “I may have been conservative with that sixty-eight call,” Kuchar said as they walked to the tenth tee.

  Frank laughed. He noticed Keith Forman was standing directly behind the tee as the two players walked onto it. Frank looked at him, and Keith just gave him a quick thumbs-up. He’d have walked over to chat but figured TV was probably following them pretty closely—there was a cameraman on the tee—and there was no need to draw any attention to his friendship with the reporter.

  He figured his father and Lawrensen were already walking down the hill in the direction of the green.

  “Driver?” he said to Slugger, even though he’d already decided that’s what he was hitting.

  “The way you’re hitting the ball, you bet,” Slugger said.

  Kuchar had the tee because he’d birdied the ninth. He smashed a perfect draw that Frank knew would run forever down the hill.

  “Wow,” he said as Kuchar picked up his tee.

  Then Frank hit it past him—same draw, just a little lower, meaning it hit and hopped. He was ten yards past Kuchar when they got to their balls.

  “Wow,” Kuchar said, giving him a smile.

  They both made par there and at 11, but at 12 Kuchar missed a wind gust and hit his tee shot into the back bunker. Seeing what had happened to Kuchar, Frank switched from a nine-iron to a pitching wedge, found the middle of the green, and made par. Kuchar made bogey.

  That was the first of what the players called the “agua holes.” The 13th and 15th defined the term risk-reward. Any score from 3 to 7 was easily possible on both.

  Frank was happy to make 4 on both with another 4 on the par-four 14th in between. He now had five birdies and no bogeys for the day. Matsuyama had made two bogeys and another birdie, and he and Frank were tied at nine under. Rory McIlroy was also nine under. A slew of players were one shot back.

  There it was, though: late on Saturday afternoon, a seventeen-year-old amateur was tied for the lead in the Masters.

  “Jim Nantz is composing poetry about you right now,” Slugger said as they stood on the 16th tee waiting for the group in front of them to clear the green.

  Nantz was famous for coming up with little catchphrases when the last putt of the tournament went in the hole. Of course the sportscaster’s most famous phrase was “A tradition unlike any other,” which he had coined in 1986. Augusta National had trademarked the
phrase in 2015, although Nantz received nothing for it since the club owned anything said on-air during a Masters telecast. Nantz didn’t need the money, but he probably wouldn’t mind his very own green jacket.

  “Something like ‘Splish-splash, he took a bath’?” Frank said, nodding in the direction of the water running down the left side of the hole.

  “He’s better than that,” Slugger said. “Sadly, you’re not.”

  Actually, at that point, Frank was so confident he barely noticed the water. He had no intention of challenging it, especially with the hole located back and right. He hit an eight-iron onto the green, took his 20-foot two-putt, and walked happily to the 17th tee. Another par there, and he stood on the 18th needing only a par to top Matt Kuchar’s 68. There was little byplay between the two players now. Kuchar was still hanging around at six under par, but Frank’s round was the one drawing all the attention.

  As he stood over his tee shot, Frank told himself, Don’t be nervous—it’s just another tee shot.

  Of course, that was as helpful as saying, Don’t think about elephants for ten minutes.

  For the first time all day, his nerves got the better of him. His tee shot flew right, hit a tree, and dropped. It was the first truly bad tee shot he’d hit all day.

  Walking off the tee, Slugger started to say something. Frank put a hand up: “I’m okay,” he said. “I’m okay.”

  Slugger understood.

  He had no shot from the trees other than to punch out and try to get the ball as far up the fairway as he could. He managed to get it to within 90 yards of the green, although he narrowly missed hitting a tree.

  Worst I can make now is five, he said to himself, walking up the hill in the direction of his ball. That calmed him. There would be no shame in finishing with a bogey for a 68.

  He stepped back from his third shot for a moment. The flagstick was back-right, the usual Saturday spot. On Sunday, he knew it would almost certainly be front-left. He wanted to keep the ball below the hole so he wouldn’t have a downhill putt. But if he didn’t fly it almost to the pin, it would spin back and he’d have a 50-foot par putt.