“Congratulations,” Forman said. “You must be pretty good if you beat Frank.”
O’Hara’s face fell. He looked at Slugger and Frank almost pleadingly, as if begging them to keep his dirty secret.
“I didn’t play here last summer,” Frank finally said.
Now it was Frank and Slugger looking at O’Hara to see if he’d fess up. Instead, he told Forman he enjoyed reading his work and fled.
“Let me guess,” Forman said. “You aren’t eligible to play in the club championship until you’re eighteen.”
“You’re half right,” Slugger said. “Frank beat him—what, four-and-three, Frank?—two summers ago when he was fifteen. Then O’Hara and his buddies pushed through a rule saying you couldn’t play until you were eighteen.”
“What a shock,” Forman said.
Frank had known Keith Forman for less than an hour. He already felt comfortable with him.
* * *
Keith had been a little cranky making the drive down to Perryton. Waking up at five did that for him. His coffee thermos was empty before he was out of Boston, and he was craving more caffeine and a Danish the last ninety minutes of the drive but resisted.
As soon as Frank and Slugger started talking—without interruption—the weariness washed completely away. He could feel his adrenaline getting started.
There was no way to know how good a player Frank Baker was going to be. Making it to the U.S. Amateur semifinals not long after turning sixteen was impressive. Plus, Keith trusted Slugger’s judgment on all things golf. Slugger was the son of a golf pro and had been around the game all his life. He knew what was real and what wasn’t.
Slugger believed that, if all went well, Frank would be ready to take a shot at the PGA Tour in three years—one more year of high school and then two in college. He could literally go to college anywhere he wanted—his grades were good, his board scores excellent—and he would make any team he joined an instant national title contender.
Slugger wanted him to go to Stanford because its golf tradition was virtually unparalleled. Frank liked the idea of Stanford but was intrigued by two other schools: Harvard, because it was Harvard, and Oregon. The coach there was Casey Martin, who had fought the PGA Tour for the right to use a cart due to a rare disease that made walking almost impossible for him. The case had gone to the Supreme Court, and Martin had won a 7–2 decision. Frank had read a book about Martin and had come away thinking he’d be a great person to play for at the college level.
“He can’t possibly go wrong,” Slugger said. “Great schools, great coaches. There’s just the one problem.”
“Dad,” Keith said.
They both nodded. While Frank had been reading up on Casey Martin, his dad had read both of Earl Woods’s autobiographies. If you read those books, you would come away thinking that Earl’s son was just along for the ride, that it was Earl’s genius that had made Tiger into arguably the greatest golfer of all time.
“What aspect of Earl does your dad admire the most?” Keith said.
Frank smiled. “All of it,” he answered. “The money, the planning, the control he had over everything. How tough he was on Tiger. The whole package.”
“Mostly the money,” Slugger put in.
“It isn’t quite that simple,” Frank said. “My dad is a good guy, really he is. He’s been a great father. Raised me alone since I was six. He’s just got so many people in his ear telling him how rich he can be that it’s kind of overwhelming. Now he’s gotten defensive about it, at least in part because I’ve told him I’m going to college—period. He wants me to at least think about turning pro next year.”
Keith knew exactly what Frank was talking about. He had dealt with plenty of fathers like Thomas Baker, both as a player and as a reporter. The only difference between Earl Woods and thousands of other pushy stage fathers was that Earl had been lucky enough to have the son whose talent was so extraordinary he could succeed in spite of Earl.
What’s more, Earl’s teachings might have helped Tiger a little bit as a competitor, but they had also helped to mess him up pretty good.
Keith was starting to explain that to Frank and Slugger when they saw a man with salt-and-pepper hair walking across the room in their direction. Keith guessed that he was in his fifties and, judging by the look on his face, he wasn’t coming over to tell Keith how much he admired his work or to apologize for interrupting.
“Let me guess,” he said quietly to Frank. “Your dad.”
“Brilliant deduction,” Frank hissed back.
The two men stood up to greet Thomas Baker.
“Must have somehow missed my invitation to breakfast, Slugger,” Thomas Baker said. “Who the hell is this?”
4
It was 8:40 when Frank saw his father walking in the direction of their table. He had already figured out that their discussion wouldn’t be over before 9:00—when his dad was scheduled to arrive with the rep from Brickley. He was fine with the notion of his father meeting Keith Forman—even liked the idea—so the early arrival didn’t bother him.
But his father’s opening salvo to Slugger—“Who the hell is this?”—made him wince. He already had the sense that Forman wasn’t a backdown kind of guy, and he knew his father wasn’t a backdown guy either—especially nowadays if he sensed that someone didn’t fully agree with his grand plan for Frank.
If Slugger was ruffled, he didn’t show it.
“Mr. Baker, good morning,” Slugger said. “Want you to meet an old friend, Keith Forman. We were teammates in college about a hundred years ago.”
Grudgingly, Thomas Baker shook Forman’s proffered hand.
“And what brings you to Perryton?” he asked.
“Please, sit down and join us,” Slugger said before Forman could answer.
Frank saw his father’s face soften—if only for a moment. He sat in the one empty chair at the table and waved at Polly for coffee. She already had it in her hand and poured refills for Keith and Slugger while giving Mr. Baker a fresh mug with the club logo on it.
“Anything to eat?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Frank’s dad said, and then caught his son’s eye. “We have a separate meeting with someone at nine. I’ll eat then.”
Polly left and Thomas Baker took a sip of his coffee, leaned forward, and said, “So, Mr. Forman, you were saying?”
Forman shrugged as if he’d been asked what time it was.
“I’m in Hartford this week,” he said, also taking a swig from his coffee. “Just got back from the Open late last night, so I’m a little bleary-eyed, but I’m supposed to meet up with Rory around lunchtime today. Slugger’s been telling me about Frank, so I thought it’d be nice to meet him since you guys are pretty much directly on my route from Boston to River Highlands.”
Frank loved the way Forman dropped Rory McIlroy’s name. He suspected it was his way of saying I’m big-time, pal, so don’t think you can intimidate me.
The name-drop momentarily slowed Thomas’s charge.
“You know McIlroy?” he said.
“Pretty well,” Forman said casually. “He and I kind of came on tour together eight years ago. He arrived as a star. I arrived as a writer—couldn’t get there as a golfer. He’s a terrific guy. You’d like him.”
“You ever meet Tiger?” was, not surprisingly, the elder Baker’s next question.
“Sure, a number of times,” Forman said. “Can’t say I know him because no one really knows him. I’m not sure he knows himself.”
“So if he walked in here right now, he’d know your name?”
“Absolutely,” Forman said. Then he added, “Though he’d probably turn and walk in the other direction.”
Frank saw his father’s face darken—a look he recognized.
“What do you mean by that?” Mr. Baker asked.
“I mean he doesn’t like me much,” the reporter said.
“How come?” Frank asked.
“Because I’ve written that his father pretty
much ruined his life—which happens to be true.”
Frank took a deep breath. It hadn’t taken long for the battle lines to be drawn.
* * *
Keith saw Frank go a little bit pale when he made his comment about Earl Woods. He also noticed the trace of a smile on Slugger’s face. Clearly, to some extent, this had been a setup. Slugger knew there was no way that Thomas Baker was going to want to hear anything he had to say—unless there was some kind of challenge involved.
All the agents and equipment reps in the world weren’t going to begin to tell this kid’s father the truth. Keith would, because—unlike the agents and reps—he had nothing to lose.
Keith looked at his watch. Whoever the Bakers were meeting at nine hadn’t arrived yet.
“What in the world does that comment mean?” Thomas Baker said.
“It’s what I believe, Mr. Baker,” Keith said. “Tiger Woods is about as rich as you can be. He’s won fourteen major titles and, in my opinion, is the greatest player in the history of the game.”
“Better than Nicklaus?” Frank asked, unable to resist the question.
“Nicklaus has the greatest record of all time,” Forman said. “Eighteen majors to Tiger’s fourteen. But at his dominant best from ’97 to ’08, Tiger did things no one’s ever done. He won the Masters by twelve strokes, a U.S. Open by fifteen. He had nine years in which he won at least five times. Those numbers are impossible.”
“So how can you possibly say Earl ruined his life?” Frank’s dad said. “You just said he’s the greatest player ever.”
“And he’s not a happy human being, in my opinion,” Keith said. “Earl raised him to believe that only two things mattered—winning and being rich. He raised him to not care about anyone but himself and to never do anything that didn’t benefit him in some material way. And, most important, he raised him to trust no one—except for Earl.
“And then he betrayed his son by cheating on his mother—repeatedly. So Tiger did the same thing, and the rest is supermarket tabloid history. Everyone knows the trouble he’s put himself and his poor kids through. Forget the divorce—that’s the least of it.”
“So you don’t like him because he’s driven.”
“That’s not what I mean at all. I don’t dislike him, I feel sorry for him. And I blame Earl.”
Baker opened his mouth to respond, but something caught his eye and he turned around. A tall man with thick blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses was crossing the room with a huge, phony smile on his face.
Keith knew him: Tony Morton, who worked the Tour for Brickley, one of Nike’s big competitors. He was the kind of guy who laughed too hard at jokes told by people he considered important and had no time for anyone or anything that didn’t involve promoting his company in some way.
Generally speaking, Keith’s conversations with Morton usually started and ended with a curt nod or a brief hello. They never even reached How’s it going? most of the time.
Now they had no choice.
Since the others stood to greet Morton, Keith stood, too—grudgingly. Morton put his arms out to hug Frank’s dad as if they’d been separated in a war zone.
“Thomas, it’s been forever, hasn’t it?” he said as they disentangled.
“The Amateur last year,” Baker said. “Frank, you remember Mr. Morton, don’t you?”
“Um, sure,” Frank said, clearly not remembering Morton at all. “Good to see you … again, Mr. Morton.”
“Come on, Frank, it’s Tony. You know that,” Morton said.
“Sure … Tony.”
Frank looked miserable. Keith didn’t blame him.
“Tony, this is our pro here, Slugger Johnston,” Frank’s dad said.
Morton acted as if he were being introduced to Jack Nicklaus. “Slugger, know all about you,” Morton said, slapping Slugger on the back. “Heard you’ve done great work with our boy Frank here. Nice to finally get to meet you.”
Slugger managed, “Same here.”
There was a brief, awkward silence. Clearly, Baker had no desire to introduce Keith to Morton.
Finally, Slugger said, “Tony, I don’t know if you know Keith Forman—”
“Of course I do,” Morton said, hand extended. “You get lost on the way to Hartford, Keith?”
“Was going to ask you the same question,” Keith answered.
Their hostility simmered just below the surface.
“Well, I know you want to get down the road, Mr. Forman,” Baker said. “Lot of work to do at River Highlands.”
“I better get to work, too,” Slugger said. “I know you two want to talk. Frank, you gonna go and hit some balls?”
Keith knew his friend was trying to provide Frank with an escape hatch. The father was having none of it.
“Now, Slugger, you know Tony didn’t come out here just to talk to me. Frank will stay. I know Tony’s got some fun stuff to tell him about.”
Fun stuff, Keith thought. What could be more fun for a seventeen-year-old than talking about why the new Brickley driver was the best thing to hit the golf market since Titleist first made a golf ball?
There was another round of decidedly unenthusiastic handshakes, and Keith and Slugger left.
After an hour inside the air-conditioned clubhouse, they were blasted by the humidity once they were outside again.
“So what do you think?” Slugger said.
“I think that kid is about to be pushed off a cliff,” Keith said. “I feel bad for him. He seems like a good kid.”
“He’s a great kid, not a good one. The dad isn’t a bad guy, Frank’s right about that. But he’s under the spell of frauds like Tony Morton who keep filling his head with dollar signs.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Keith said. “All Frank wants to do is play golf and these guys are already planning the first marketing campaign. He needs a buffer—maybe more like a brick wall—between him, his dad, and all these guys.”
“Someone who doesn’t have to worry about losing his job if he says something the dad doesn’t want to hear,” Slugger added.
Keith looked at Slugger. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ll go to L.A. for the Amateur in August?”
“I said I’ll see what I can do.”
Slugger clapped Keith on the back. “Thanks, pal,” he said.
“There’s one more thing,” Keith said.
“What?” Slugger asked.
“Morton’s a big Trump guy. He’s one of you.”
Slugger didn’t miss a beat. “All the more reason for you to protect the kid from guys like him … and me.”
Keith shook his friend’s hand and headed for the car. He needed a shower. And it wasn’t because of the humidity.
5
Riviera Country Club was one of golf’s most prestigious spots. Located about twenty minutes west of downtown Los Angeles, in Pacific Palisades, a few miles east of the Pacific Ocean, it had opened in 1926 and had an illustrious history. It had hosted three major championships—including the 1948 U.S. Open won by Ben Hogan—and had been the host of the PGA Tour’s annual L.A. stop fifty-four times.
Frank Baker had never laid eyes on the place until he, his dad, and Slugger arrived there on the Saturday prior to the start of the U.S. Amateur. There were 312 players in the field, and they would play 36 holes of stroke play beginning on Monday. Because the field was so big, two golf courses were used during stroke play. Frank was scheduled to play his first round at Bel-Air Country Club, which was about 15 miles east of Riviera.
He and Slugger had decided to practice at Riviera on Saturday and Bel-Air on Sunday. Slugger’s theory was that he was better off playing Bel-Air on back-to-back days to try to get off to a fast start.
Only 64 of the 312 players would advance from stroke play to match play—which would begin on Wednesday, with all the matches at Riviera. The Amateur wasn’t just a test of nerves, it was a test of endurance: the final was 36 holes, meaning that to win, a player had to play nine rounds of golf under ex
treme pressure in seven days.
That was one reason why Slugger had insisted that Frank walk every day when they played back home rather than take a cart, beginning in mid-July. And why he had been making Frank jog the four miles home after their second session at the range every evening.
Frank was excited to get to Los Angeles. They had arrived at lunchtime Friday and, since neither golf course was available for practice until Saturday, they had decided to make Friday a rest day. They ate at the Palm on Friday night. Frank was awed by the size of the steaks and the sight of some of the stars who were in the restaurant, most notably—at least to him—Davis Love III and Brandel Chamblee, who came in together. Love was working for Golf Channel during the Amateur. There were about eight others in their party, but Frank picked out Love and Chamblee.
The only problem with the dinner was the company—or some of the company. Tony Morton, the fast-talking Brickley rep, was there, and so was Ron Lawrensen, the agent from Double Eagle. Frank had already met about a half dozen agents and another half dozen equipment and apparel reps courtesy of his dad. He didn’t like any of them. And Keith Forman had told him his instincts were right.
Frank and Forman had been communicating regularly by email since their June breakfast meeting. He had come to trust Forman—even though he’d spent only one hour with him—in the same way he trusted Slugger.
Unfortunately, Forman wouldn’t be at the Amateur until Wednesday, meaning Frank had to survive stroke play in order to make the trip worthwhile. At that moment, Forman was in Charlotte at the PGA Championship. He would fly to L.A. the following Tuesday.
As Slugger and Frank walked to the range at Riviera on Saturday—it was straight down a massive hill from the huge clubhouse—they shared a laugh, remembering Thomas Baker’s reaction to seeing Brandel Chamblee and Davis Love walk into the Palm.
“Can you believe that?” Frank’s dad had said to the table, but mostly to Lawrensen and Morton. “Why would Davis Love go to dinner with Chamblee? All Chamblee ever does is put players down—especially Tiger.”
The Prodigy Page 3