Southwick turned and looked the agent in the eye. “Sam, I started this conversation,” he said. “And I’m not finished yet. Do you know Keith Forman?”
Olson glanced at Keith. “Yep,” he said. “I do. How’s it going, Keith?”
“Fine,” Keith said, accepting the weakly offered handshake. He was thinking of asking where they’d met since he knew they hadn’t, but he was far more interested in what Southwick wanted to tell him.
“Try not to take too long, Rickie,” Olson finally said, in a much less strident tone. Clearly he didn’t want to upset his client-to-be. “I’ll meet you in the locker room.”
Southwick nodded and waited for Olson to walk away.
“Sorry,” he said to Keith. “Sam can be rude sometimes.”
“Sam’s an agent—that’s who they are and what they do,” Keith said. “By the way, he and I have never met. He made that up.”
Southwick shrugged. “Like you said, he’s an agent. But that does lead me to what I wanted to say to you.”
Keith waited. Southwick plowed on.
“I saw what happened on the tenth tee,” he said. “I didn’t hear the exchange, but I did see Baker walk over to you and the father charge over there.”
“No big deal,” Keith said.
Southwick put up his hand. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think this kid’s going to be a star and not just because he beat me. I could see it last year. You obviously see something in him, or you wouldn’t be out here walking eighteen holes with him two days in a row.”
Keith wondered how in the world Southwick knew he’d walked with Frank the day before when he’d been on the golf course.
Southwick read his mind. “Gil and I are good friends. We both read your stuff. You’re one of the few guys covering the Tour who writes regularly about non-stars, and you aren’t afraid to throw a punch.” He took a breath, then continued. “So I’m going to tell you something you probably already know. That father is a problem. That’s the word in the locker room already. And if you think Sam’s bad news, wait until you get to know Ron Lawrensen. He tried to sign me when I was a sophomore. I won’t even tell you what he offered, but let’s put it this way: my dad told him never to even speak to us again.”
Keith nodded, not wanting to interrupt.
“If you’re working a story on Frank, that’s good, but if you’ve got his ear at all—which I suspect you do since he went to you on ten—try to keep the dad and Lawrensen from ruining him. He seems like a really good kid.”
Keith was floored that Southwick knew so much, even though golf tended to be both a running soap opera and a constant rumor mill. Beyond that, he was amazed that Southwick would care enough to stop him and talk to him. Golfers were generally pretty selfish athletes. They almost had to be, because if they weren’t obsessed with their own success, then no one else—outside of family, their caddie, their agent, and their coach—was going to be.
Here, though, was Southwick, clearly concerned about the future of another player—even just a few minutes after that player had booted him from the U.S. Amateur in a stunning upset. Rickie Southwick, he decided, was a really good kid himself.
“I hear you,” Keith said. “That’s part of the reason I’m here. His swing coach, Slugger Johnston—”
“The guy caddying for him?”
“Right. We were college teammates. He called me to see if I could maybe get in the kid’s ear a little. There may be a story here when all is said and done, but I’m out here because Slugger’s got the same concerns that you do—and more.”
“Good,” Southwick said. “Clearly Frank likes you, so that’s a start. It looks like you’re gonna have a battle ahead, though. And tell Frank if he ever wants to talk to someone who’s dealt with a lot of what he’s got ahead, he can always call me.”
They exchanged cell phone numbers and shook hands again.
“Good luck,” Keith said as Southwick started to walk away.
“Thanks, man,” Southwick said. “I’ll need it.”
That was the last thing he said. It was also the first thing he’d said that Keith disagreed with. Rickie Southwick was only twenty-two, but he clearly had a pretty good handle on life in the spotlight already.
Keith could only hope the same would be true of Frank in five years. For now, though, he knew he had to focus on trying to help Slugger keep the kid on the right path for the next four days.
It would not be easy.
11
For the second straight day, Frank was too worn out to hit balls with Slugger once he finished with the media.
If he had thought he’d been asked to do a lot after the Beltke match, it was nothing compared to what he faced after beating the defending champion.
Most of the questions were easy—TV easy, he’d heard Keith Forman call them. There was the inevitable “How does it feel?” question. There was the ever-popular “Has it sunk in yet?” There was a question about Matthew Bryan, who would be his opponent the next day in the round of 16.
Frank almost said, “I’ve never heard of him”—which was true—but stopped himself, knowing that would come off as a putdown. Instead he said, “I’ve never played with him, but I’ve heard good things about his game.”
He’d heard nothing about his game.
The only tricky moment came when Steve DiMeglio from USA Today asked a question during the scrum with the print media, after Frank had stepped off the podium. Forman had warned him that there were always writers who didn’t want to ask an important question with the TV cameras rolling.
Sure enough, about a half dozen guys surrounded him as he came down the steps after a tournament PR guy had cut off the questions up there.
Ron Lawrensen was trying to push his way into the circle, saying, “Come on, fellas, he’s done. He’s got to play again tomorrow.”
Before any of the writers could protest, Frank held up a hand. “I’m fine, Ron,” he said, pointedly using his first name instead of calling him Mr. Lawrensen. “I’ll meet you and Dad in the locker room in a few.”
Lawrensen backed off.
Frank noticed his dad was nowhere in sight. Neither was Forman. It occurred to him that they might be somewhere having it out.
Gene Wang, from the Washington Post—Frank knew this because he could read the name on his credential—asked the question Frank had been surprised no one had asked him earlier: What had Southwick said to him when they’d embraced at the end of the match?
Frank explained how gracious Southwick had been and how he’d said, “I’ll see you out on tour in a few years.”
“Are you willing to wait a few years?” someone in the back asked. “There are rumors out there you might skip college and turn pro.”
“I’m going to college,” Frank said. “I’m just not sure where yet. I’ve still got another year of high school.”
Then Steve DiMeglio—whom Frank recognized because he was a frequent Golf Channel guest—asked his question: “What happened on ten?”
Frank said he’d already talked about ten.
“No, not the tee shot,” DiMeglio said. “The thing over by the ropes with your father and Keith Forman?”
Frank had wondered if he would get asked about that. But when no one asked him on the podium, he thought he was in the clear.
“Oh that,” Frank said, stalling for time. “It was a misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“How so?” DiMeglio pressed.
“It was my fault,” Frank said. “I went over just to say hello to Mr. Forman since we were waiting. My dad thought he had started the conversation and was concerned that might break my concentration. Keith—Mr. Forman—was trying to explain what had happened to my dad, and my dad got a little hot. He gets kind of tight when I’m playing.”
DiMeglio dropped it at that point and, fortunately, no one followed up. A few minutes later, Frank escaped—more or less unscathed.
He suspected that dealing with his father and Lawrensen would not be as
easy.
* * *
The locker room was almost empty when Frank walked inside, happy to finally feel some cool air. He had been dealing with the media for a solid forty-five minutes, meaning all the day’s matches were over. All the losers had cleared out pretty quickly. Among the sixteen players still alive, most were either on the driving range or had gone back to their hotel rooms to rest.
The only other player Frank saw was Nathan Smith, who was on his way out. They’d played nine holes together on Sunday after running into each other on the tenth tee during a practice round. Smith was a “true” amateur in that he had a job and didn’t play golf for a living. He had won the U.S. Mid-Amateur Championship four times. The Mid-Am was for players twenty-five and over. Slugger had explained that those who played in it had either failed as pros and regained their amateur status or had opted not to turn pro.
“A lot of them can really play,” Slugger said. “Even if they don’t do it full-time.”
That was true of Smith. He’d shot 33 on the back nine Sunday and made it look easy.
“Hey, what a win!” Smith said, pumping Frank’s hand when he walked in.
“Thanks,” Frank said. Then, embarrassed that he didn’t know the answer, he asked, “How’d you do?”
“Squeaked by, won on seventeen,” Smith said. “I was a couple down at the turn but managed to get my act together in time.”
When a player as good as Smith admitted he’d “gotten his act together,” it probably meant he’d blitzed the last eight holes of the match.
“Hey, if we both win twice more, we get to play each other,” Smith added. “If we do, go easy on me, huh?”
Frank laughed. “Yeah, right.”
He’d seen Smith’s name in his half of the draw when he first looked at it but had completely forgotten about it because he’d been so focused on Southwick—and because the semifinals were so far down the road.
They shook hands again and wished each other luck the next day, and Smith took off. Frank walked to the row where his locker was, expecting to see Slugger, his dad, and Lawrensen waiting for him. They were. But there were three other men waiting there, too.
Frank pulled up short. He suspected Lawrensen had brought the surprise guests.
“Thought you’d never get here,” Slugger said, giving him a guarded look. “Ron brought some guys who just wanted to say hello. They know you have to get out of here and get some rest.”
The message was hardly subtle, but Frank was grateful.
Lawrensen introduced the three men: one was from Callaway, the club and golf-ball maker; one was from Nike, which didn’t make golf equipment anymore but still had plenty of guys under contract to wear their swoosh; and the last was from ESPN. Since the sports network didn’t televise golf anymore, that was a surprise.
All three gushed about how well he’d played that day. They couldn’t wait to get to know him better, but they knew now wasn’t the time. He had a golf tournament to win in the next four days, didn’t he?
Yammer, yammer.
Frank tried to keep his answers short and sweet, changing out of his golf shoes amid all the gushing. All he could think about was how starved he was—he hadn’t eaten anything besides a couple of candy bars since he’d grabbed breakfast in the player dining area at nine-thirty that morning. He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after four.
The words of the three men were blending together as he picked a towel off the bench and wiped his face. Finally, he stood up and looked at his father as if his three new friends were invisible.
“Dad, I gotta pee,” he said. “And I’m starving. Can we please get out of here?”
He could see that his father wasn’t happy with the fact that his son was being borderline rude—at best—to these three nice men who apparently wanted to throw a lot of money in their direction at some point in the near future.
“Go ahead” was all he said.
As Frank walked away he could hear his father apologizing.
“I’m really sorry, fellas, he’s just had a long day…”
That Frank could agree with. The best day he’d ever had on a golf course, and all he could think about was getting away from this place and stopping at a McDonald’s. He would order a double hamburger and a large fries. No, make that two double hamburgers. Maybe a milkshake, too.
* * *
Frank almost literally had to beg to get the Mickey-D’s stop. Lawrensen had his own car, and the plan was for him to meet the Bakers and Slugger at six-thirty in the restaurant on the lower level of the JW Marriott where they were staying.
That sounded fine to Frank, but he didn’t want to wait two more hours—minimum—to get something in his stomach.
“You don’t need any junk food at this point,” his dad said.
Slugger was driving, with Thomas Baker in the front seat and Frank stretched out in the back.
“Dad, I’m not a swimmer or a runner,” Frank said. “I’m a golfer.”
They were, not surprisingly, stuck in L.A. traffic heading downtown.
His father didn’t answer. Instead, he started going off about how rude Frank had been to the three guys in the locker room.
“Cut him some slack, Thomas,” Slugger said, surprising Frank, because Slugger almost never contradicted his dad in any way. At the club Slugger never addressed any members by first name until invited to do so. As far as he knew, his dad had never told Slugger to call him Thomas. Then again, they weren’t at the club.
“Why?” his dad answered.
Frank saw Slugger shoot his father a look that said, Are you kidding?
“Because Frank just won the match of his life,” Slugger finally said. “He won two draining matches in a little more than twenty-four hours. He did media for forty-five minutes—all of it in this god-awful heat. I told you before we even went in there that this probably wasn’t the time for him to meet those guys. It’s not as if he’s turning pro tomorrow. There’s plenty of time for all of this stuff later.”
Frank knew his dad was about to lose it—he wasn’t used to Slugger talking to him this way. “By the way, Dad,” he interrupted, “what’s with the guy from ESPN? They don’t even cover golf anymore.”
“They don’t cover tournament golf,” his dad answered. “Ron has pitched them the idea of a documentary covering your first year as a pro. They actually have a crew out here shooting some stuff for background just in case it happens.”
Now it was Frank’s turn to be steamed. “Hang on, Dad. Mr. Lawrensen is selling a documentary on me as a pro now? Bit premature, no?”
“Not necessarily,” his father said. “You win here or make the finals and get to the Masters, we’ll need to seriously consider our options after that.”
“You think I should turn pro before I graduate from high school? Seriously?”
“You’ll graduate two months after the Masters. Worst case, we wait until the U.S. Open—since you’ll also qualify for it if you win here.”
Frank couldn’t help but think about what Keith Forman had said to his dad back on the tenth tee when his dad had told the reporter to stay out of his business.
Your business? Last I looked, Frank’s the one playing, not you.
Suddenly, Frank heard his father say, “McDonald’s, next exit. Pull off, Slugger. Let’s get the hero of the day a hamburger and some fries. He’s earned it.”
Frank, hearing sincerity in his father’s voice, said, “Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it.”
If he’d said anything beyond that it would have been along the lines of That’s the dad I grew up loving.
Even so, he was pretty sure the incident on the tenth hole was going to come up before the night was over. He hoped he wouldn’t lose his temper and start quoting Forman.
It’s not just my business, he thought to himself. It’s my life.
He hoped.
Meanwhile, his current version of Nirvana—the McDonald’s drive-through window—loomed.
12
&nb
sp; After the match that day, Keith Forman decided against even attempting to talk to Frank at the golf course. While Frank was still scrumming with a handful of guys, Keith saw Slugger, Frank’s father, and the dirtbag agent walking into the locker room with three other men. He recognized one—the Callaway rep—but not the other two, although the large swoosh on one guy’s shirt suggested he was from Nike. The third was anyone’s guess.
Clearly, going into the locker room would only lead to another confrontation.
When Frank finished with the scrum, he was led away by a PR person and a couple of security guards. It had now come to that—the USGA had decided the kid needed security to escort him 50 yards to the locker room. Keith decided he’d call Frank later to catch up. He then had a completely paranoid thought: What if the old man insisted on looking at the kid’s phone? At this point, anything was possible.
“Hey, Keith,” a voice said. He looked up and saw Steve DiMeglio coming in his direction. This couldn’t be good. DiMeglio had covered golf for USA Today for years. He was out on tour more than just about anyone. He knew his way around campus, as the saying went.
“Steve, what’s up?” he said, trying to sound casual.
“What was the deal with you and the kid’s old man back on ten?”
“No deal, really,” Keith said. “His swing coach is an old college teammate. He introduced me to the kid a few weeks ago, and we hit it off—I think. He walked over to say hello while they were waiting, and the father somehow thought I was trying to interview him during the match. Which, of course, was ridiculous.”
“Looked pretty heated.”
“Only for a second. It’s all good.”
DiMeglio looked at him. Clearly he was still suspicious.
“If you’ve already interviewed him, how come you haven’t written anything about him? Are you writing today?”
Keith was flattered to be reminded that most of the golf media read his columns pretty regularly. He was also trapped.
“I’m working on a longer piece. I’m honestly not sure when I’ll write. Of course if he wins here, I’ll write something—I’m just not sure what.”
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