Slugger laughed. “Just the opposite. Frank tells me if he makes it to the final, Double Eagle is going to put his dad on the payroll as a ‘junior talent scout.’”
Keith shook his head. That was also straight from the Earl Woods playbook. He’d been on the payroll of IMG, the giant sports management firm, until Tiger turned pro and could legally have an agent. The joke in golf had been that Earl had earned his money by delivering the greatest junior in history.
“So how good is this guy Beltke?” Keith said, changing the subject to Frank’s first-round opponent.
“Good,” Slugger said. “All those Oklahoma State guys are good. Plus, he’s twenty years old. This is a lot tougher draw than Frank had last year.”
Keith nodded. “He might be a better player now than he was a year ago, but he might not go as far as he did then.”
“He is a better player than last year for sure,” Slugger said. “He’s more consistent off the tee, and we’ve worked out some bugs with his putting. But you’re right—that doesn’t mean he gets to the semifinals again.”
“Part of you thinking it might be better for him to not get that far—or a round farther?”
“Oh yeah,” Slugger said. “Absolutely.”
* * *
Keith was up at six the next morning, his body still adapting to the time change. He waded through some texts and emails, and then went for a run in the area surrounding the hotel. He was on the road to the golf course by seven-thirty. Frank didn’t play until 10:48, but Keith wanted to make sure he had plenty of time to find the parking lot and the media tent—which would be different with the USGA in charge than they would be for a PGA Tour event.
He was also hoping to see Frank, if only for a couple of minutes, before he teed off.
Everything went off surprisingly smoothly, and Keith decided to wait inside the locker room for Frank and Slugger—who, he’d learned the night before, was caddying for Frank—figuring that Frank’s father wouldn’t be able to get in there and he might get a moment or two to talk to Frank without the old man glaring at him.
He walked up the steep hill from the media tent to the clubhouse, gave a friendly wave to the security guard on the locker-room door, and stopped at the front desk area to ask the locker guys if they could point him to Frank Baker’s locker.
“Third row on the right,” one of them said, pointing a finger in the general direction of the two rows of lockers. “Don’t think he’s here yet,” the guy added.
“Yeah, I know,” Keith said. “Supposed to meet him.”
He knew from experience that most locker-room guys and security people were suspicious of those wearing media credentials. Even though there was a poster outside the locker-room door that showed all the credentials that had access and one of them said in large block letters MEDIA, they often didn’t believe that was true—or were stunned that it was true.
Keith remembered talking once to Jaime Diaz of Golf Digest, who told him that he’d sat in on a training session for USGA volunteers several years earlier.
“The guy threw up a slide with a photo of someone wearing a media badge,” Diaz had recalled. “Then he said, ‘These are the least trustworthy people you will encounter all week.’ I remember thinking, No wonder people always give us a hard time.”
No one bothered Keith as he walked to the third row of lockers and found the one with BAKER, F., taped right over the name of the member to whom the locker normally belonged.
He saw a comfortable chair at the end of the row and sat down. He began looking at his phone, if only to appear busy while he waited.
He was reading a New York Times story on Rickie Southwick when he heard someone say his name.
He looked up and saw Frank Baker standing there with a grin on his face. Slugger was there, too—good news. At professional tournaments, caddies were generally let in the locker room only to carry a player’s clubs inside. At the Amateur, where most of the caddies were coaches, relatives, or friends, they had locker-room access.
Slugger being there was good news. Thomas Baker and Ron Lawrensen were also right there. That was bad news and—when Keith read the credentials dangling from their necks—there was more bad news.
Lawrensen’s credential said PLAYER REPRESENTATIVE. That wasn’t a surprise, but his presence in the locker room was. Keith had figured that, at an event where all the players were supposed to be amateurs, agents wouldn’t be allowed.
Apparently he’d been wrong about that.
Thomas Baker had two credentials dangling from his neck. One matched Lawrensen’s and the other said PLAYER FAMILY. That player rep credential fit with what Slugger had said the night before about Baker being put on the Double Eagle payroll. It also meant that, combined with the PLAYER FAMILY badge, there was no place he couldn’t go—other than inside the ropes or onto the driving range.
Keith realized he should have told Slugger his plan for the morning. If he’d known that Baker and Lawrensen would show up in the locker room, he’d have avoided them. Now there was no way out.
Slugger tried to finesse things. “Thomas, I know you remember my old friend Keith Forman,” he said. “Ron, I’m sure you and Keith have crossed paths on tour in the past.”
“Sure we have,” Lawrensen said, looking at Keith. “Since when do you cover the Amateur, Keith?”
His tone made his real question pretty clear: “What the blank are you doing here?”
Keith gave both men a phony smile and said, “Love Riviera, love L.A., and I’m always looking for the Next Ones in golf. You should know that, Ron. You’re here doing the same thing.”
Thomas Baker didn’t bother to hide his anger at Keith’s presence even a little bit.
“You may not be aware of this, Mr. Forman, but Frank’s got a match to play in a little while.”
“Totally aware,” Keith said. “Just wanted to wish him luck. Beltke’s a tough first-rounder.”
“No kidding,” Lawrensen said.
Keith glanced at Frank. He was white as a sheet. This had really been a bad idea. He decided it was time to cut his losses.
“Frank, all the best today,” he said, stretching his hand out in Frank’s direction. He was relieved when Frank took it and gave him a smile—his face still pale. “I hope I get a chance to talk to you after a win today.”
“You can get in line with everyone else,” Thomas Baker said.
Before Keith could decide whether to just swallow the obnoxious comment and bail out, Frank answered for him.
“I’m always glad to talk to you, Mr. Forman,” he said. “You know that.”
He gave Keith a friendly pat on the shoulder.
Keith returned it and then, without another word to anybody, pushed past Baker and Lawrensen and bolted for the door.
“Nice start, Keith,” he murmured to himself as he walked back into the sunshine. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock and he was already starting to sweat profusely.
7
“What was that about?” snapped Thomas Baker.
Frank could see in his father’s eyes that he was really angry. Clearly, Keith Forman’s presence in the locker room had upset him, and Frank’s directing any warmth in the reporter’s direction was some kind of violation of their father-son relationship.
Frank decided to play dumb.
“What was what about, Dad?”
It was the wrong play.
“That reporter is nothing but trouble, and you know it,” his dad said. “He’s just looking for some kind of story.”
Before Frank could answer, his dad whirled on Slugger. “You’re the one who brought him to Perryton. What were you thinking? And how did he get in the locker room here?”
He was shouting and Frank could see heads turning. Embarrassed, he whispered, “Dad, keep it down.”
Slugger looked stricken. Clearly, he didn’t want to get into a fight of any kind with his star pupil’s father—who also happened to be an important member at the club where he was employed.
“Thomas, the USGA decides who can come in the locker room,” Slugger said, almost stammering. USGA had come out of his mouth as “U-U-S-G … A.”
Frank could see he needed to be rescued. “Dad, this isn’t the time to talk about any of this,” he said. “I need to get to the range and warm up. And, for the record, I asked Slugger to contact Mr. Forman because I knew they went to college together and he knows a lot about the golf Tour.”
His dad was taken aback by this—which wasn’t surprising since it was a flat-out lie. Frank had barely known who Keith Forman was until Slugger had brought him up back in the spring.
But the lie worked—or perhaps mentioning that he needed to warm up worked.
His father shook his head, glared at Slugger for another second, and then said, “Okay, fine. We’ll discuss this later.” He looked at Lawrensen. “Come on, Ron, let’s get something to drink in player family dining.” He nodded at Slugger and Frank, then said, in a softer tone, “You go get ready.”
Mercifully, he and the agent turned and left.
“Thanks for the bailout,” Slugger said once they’d gone. “I wish Keith had told me he was going to look for you this morning. That was a bad idea.”
Frank was now sitting on a bench in front of his locker, changing into his golf shoes.
“Probably,” Frank said. “But I like him and I trust him—if only because I know you trust him.” Then he changed the subject. “How come my dad thinks Ron Lawrensen is the be-all and end-all when it comes to golf?”
“He’s smart,” Slugger said as Frank stood up. “He keeps telling your dad what he wants to hear and he’s paying him. If he tells your dad to fire me so he can bring in some big-name teacher who is one of his clients, your dad will probably do it.”
“No, he won’t,” Frank said with a smile. “Not if he wants me to keep playing golf.”
Slugger smiled.
“Think I’m kidding?” Frank asked. “See what happens if he tries.”
He wasn’t kidding. Not even a little bit.
* * *
Frank knew enough about Gil Beltke to understand that he was in for a long, tough day. Beltke made that crystal clear on the first hole of match play when he reached the green in two with what looked to Frank like a five-iron and then two-putted for birdie. Frank, a little unnerved by Beltke’s drive—very long and very straight—missed the fairway left, hit his second shot into the left bunker, and then couldn’t get up-and-down, missing about a 12-footer for birdie.
The match was less than ten minutes old and he was one-down.
It got worse before it got better. Frank bogeyed the difficult second hole to go two holes down before Beltke birdied the third. He was three-down after three holes. Walking to the fourth tee, he saw Keith Forman waiting for him. Unlike his father and Ron Lawrensen, Forman was allowed to walk inside the ropes. Forman was smiling as Frank followed Beltke onto the tee.
“Hey, Frank,” Forman said. “It’s just golf. No one’s going to die out here today. Take a deep breath and just play golf.”
He turned and walked away before Frank could say anything. Frank glanced to the right of the tee where his father and Lawrensen were standing. Both had their heads down as if they were afraid to look at him at that moment. Slugger was standing to the right of the tee, his face impassive as always. If the slow start bothered him, he wasn’t showing it. He had put the bag down and was wiping his face with a towel. It was closing in on noon, and the temperature was climbing quickly.
There weren’t more than fifty people following the match—and more than half of them were wearing Oklahoma State orange and whooping it up for Gil Beltke. With good reason, Frank thought.
It occurred to him that Forman was right. It was just golf. He remembered something he had read once in a book about baseball: sometimes the key to success is to try easier. It talked about hitters gripping the bat too hard or pitchers gripping the ball too tightly.
Try easier, he thought. Lighten up on your grip.
The fourth was a 236-yard par-three, and the USGA had decided to play the hole from the back tee. Beltke took a three-iron, which seemed like a lot of club to Frank, especially with the mild breeze behind them. He was right. The ball landed in the middle of the green, took a hop, and rolled off the back edge. For the first time in the match, Frank had a small opening.
Slugger, having seen Beltke pull the three-iron, wanted Frank to hit four-iron. That made sense. Except Frank knew he was a little bit longer than Beltke and, with the breeze, thought four might be a little too much. Plus, he was more comfortable taking a hard swing with a mid-iron than trying to finesse it. He always seemed to lose the ball to the right when he tried to swing easy.
“I want to swing hard, not easy,” he said to Slugger.
Knowing his propensity for losing the ball right when holding back, Slugger just nodded and handed him the five-iron.
Frank stuck his tee in the ground, stepped back, and took a practice swing and a deep breath. He made a point of gripping the club lightly, almost to the point where it felt as if it might fly out of his hands at impact. Perfect, he thought.
He got over the ball, relaxed his shoulders a bit, and took the club back in a smooth, graceful arc. His swing was hard but not strained. As soon as the ball came off the club, he knew he’d hit it perfectly. The question was, had he made the right club choice?
Slugger was thinking the same thing. “Be right!” he said as the ball soared in the direction of the green. That was golf-speak, meaning “be the right distance.”
It was. The ball started at the center of the green, then faded just a little—Frank’s best shot with an iron was a fade, and the flag was back-right. The ball hit near the front of the green, took a hop and then rolled straight at the pin. For a split second, Frank thought it was going in. But it pulled up somewhere very close to the hole—Frank couldn’t tell how close standing on the tee—but the applause from near the green from the folks in orange told him it had to be very close.
“Great shot,” Beltke said, walking briskly off the tee while Frank was still admiring his work.
As it turned out, the ball was about 18 inches from the hole.
Walking onto the green, Beltke turned and said, “Pick it up. Really nice shot.”
Having conceded Frank’s birdie putt from kick-in range, Beltke tried to hole out from behind the green with his wedge. He hit a good shot—it rolled about six feet past the hole—but not good enough.
Suddenly, Frank had life. He was now two-down with, as the saying went, a lot of golf left to play.
Try easier.
* * *
Whether it was his new mantra, Forman’s “It’s just golf” comment, or the soothing effect of his great tee shot on Number 4, Frank settled into a comfortable groove for the rest of the front nine.
The only problem was that Beltke, with two years of college experience under his belt, wasn’t going to be unnerved by one great shot or one birdie.
Both played very solidly for the next five holes. Each made one mistake: Frank, perhaps a little cocky after what he’d done on Number 4, tried to attack a sucker pin on Number 6—it was tucked left front—but missed the green and short-sided himself, leading to a bogey.
“Lesson learned,” Slugger said as they walked to the seventh tee. “They call it a sucker pin because only a sucker goes after it. Sometimes middle of the green is just fine.”
Frank knew his coach was right. Once he missed the green, he had almost no shot since there was no way to stop the ball close to the hole with so little green between him and where his golf ball had landed.
Fortunately, Beltke gave him a hole back right away, finding a bunker on Number 7 and then leaving his third shot in the bunker. They both parred 8 and 9, and Frank walked to the Number 10 tee still two-down.
He found Forman, who had kept his distance for most of the morning, standing next to the rope, arms folded, eyes hidden by sunglasses.
“How d’you think you playe
d those nine holes?” he said.
They had a moment to talk because the match ahead of them was still on the green and since the green was reachable, he and Beltke had to wait until it cleared.
“Other than the five-iron on four, no better than okay,” Frank answered.
“Make any long putts?”
Frank was surprised by the question. Forman had been watching from the beginning. He knew the answer was no. He played along.
“Unless you consider the six-footer for par at eight a long putt, no,” he answered.
Forman was nodding. “So you hit one truly good shot, didn’t make a big putt, and you’re two-down. What’s that tell you?”
“That I can beat this guy?”
“Bingo,” Forman said. “You probably should be three or four down. This guy’s not a killer. Take advantage.”
Frank nodded. The green was clearing. He was up.
* * *
The tenth at Riviera was one of the most famous short par-fours in golf. Not only was the green drivable, but many players could reach it with a three-wood. Frank fell into that category, and his tee shot on the hole the day before had given his round a huge boost, the same way the eagle at Number 1 had.
“What do you think?” he asked Slugger, unsure whether he should risk going for the green or lay up to a spot where he might have an easy pitch.
“More important, what do you think?” Slugger said. “What feels comfortable?”
Frank knew what Slugger was doing. He often played this game with him when they were playing in the early morning. There was considerably more at stake now than a dozen donuts.
The pin was tucked front-right, meaning if he went for the green he’d almost certainly have a very long putt even if he hit a good shot because bouncing the ball through the narrow landing area would be difficult at best and there was no way to stop the ball at the front of the green—unless he got very lucky.
But a layup would have to be almost as precise because if he didn’t get it onto the left side of the fairway—without reaching the rough—he’d have no angle to get close to the flag.
He was about to tell Slugger what he thought when the rules official who was refereeing the match said to him, “All due respect, Mr. Baker, but perhaps while we’re still young?”
The Prodigy Page 5