His father put down his knife and fork and sat back in the booth.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Slugger stays. I’ll explain it to Ron.”
“Dad, you don’t have to explain anything to Ron,” Frank said. “But thanks. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Frank. I hope you know that I only want what’s best for you.”
Lawrensen returned.
Frank stood up to go.
“You straighten him out?” Lawrensen said as he sat down.
“Not exactly,” Thomas Baker said, looking at his son. “I think he straightened me out a little bit.”
Frank was smiling as he left the room.
* * *
He was still in the elevator when a text popped up on his phone. It was from Slugger.
Don’t know what you said or did, but it worked. I’m still your coach and your caddie at least for the rest of this week.
Frank called him after he’d gotten back to the room and flopped down on the bed. “Did he tell you what happened?”
“No. He just said he’d had a change of heart, at least as far as this week was concerned. You can tell me about it in the car tomorrow. We’ll leave a little earlier and let your dad and Lawrensen ride together.”
“Okay. Maybe we can grab a few minutes with Keith before they get there.”
“Not sure that’s a great idea. What if your dad and Lawrensen show up?”
“Don’t care,” Frank said. “Really don’t care. Tell Keith to meet us in player dining at nine-thirty, all right?”
His match was scheduled to tee off at 11:36. Thirty minutes with Forman would still leave him his usual ninety to warm up.
“See you in the lobby at eight-thirty,” Slugger said.
“I’ll tell Dad we’re leaving at nine,” Frank said with a chuckle.
“Don’t do that,” Slugger said. “Let’s not push our luck.”
Frank’s chuckle turned into a laugh. “Our luck is already sitting on a cliff.”
“True enough,” Slugger said. “Get some sleep.”
14
Keith Forman did not get a good night’s sleep.
He knew he was caught in the middle of something he simply didn’t belong in at all. He was a reporter, not an interventionist, and yet he’d intervened. He might have cost Slugger his job—not just as the kid’s coach but also at the golf club if Thomas Baker decided to really make it ugly—and Keith now found himself in a full-scale brouhaha.
He had no problem being at odds with anyone if it had something to do with a story he’d written or was trying to write. But being in a fight with a newsmaker, one that involved punches being thrown, was a bad thing—regardless of circumstances. Putting Frank into a choose-sides situation, even if he had the best of intentions, was unfair to the kid and unprofessional on his part. Plus, his stomach was killing him.
Other than that, the week had gone well.
Before bed, he had gotten a text from Slugger telling him he would still be coaching Frank the next day. That, at least, was encouraging, although Slugger’s future employment was clearly in doubt.
Still, he smiled when he read the rest of the text: Frank wants 2 meet for breakfast in player dining at 9:30. We’re going to leave hotel 30 mins b4 dad and his twin. Should give us some time.
Keith considered that for a moment. He had a vision of the senior Baker and the omnipresent Ron Lawrensen bursting into the dining room but didn’t really care that much anymore. And, if he did get thirty minutes with Frank, he could at least be a reporter during that time and try to get back to what he was really supposed to be doing.
He finally fell into a restless sleep sometime after midnight—he wasn’t sure when—but the phone started ringing with his wake-up call about fifteen minutes later. Except it wasn’t fifteen minutes later—it was seven o’clock, as he’d requested. He groaned, fell out of bed, and decided to skip his run. His brain was telling him he could use the endorphins, but his body was telling him to take a long, hot shower.
His body won the argument. He was in the car by eight-fifteen, wanting to be a few minutes early if there was no traffic, rather than late if there was. He pulled into the parking lot near the media tent a half hour later and walked up the hill to the clubhouse.
Player dining was down a long hallway and, arriving five minutes early, he nodded at the security guard and decided to grab some food from the buffet and find a table before Slugger and Frank arrived.
He was on his way inside the room when the security guard, who was actually a volunteer, not a rent-a-cop, stepped in front of him and said, “Sorry, sir, you’re not allowed in here.”
Keith sighed. He pointed at his credential and the lettering down the side. “What does PD mean?” he asked, pointing at the two letters.
“Player dining,” the man said.
“And where exactly are we standing?”
“Yeah, but you have to be accompanied by a player.”
“Where on this credential does it say that?” Keith asked. He was getting angry.
“This is what I was told,” the guy said.
“No, you weren’t,” Keith said. “Not by anyone who knows what they’re doing.”
He was done. He took a step to his right to maneuver around the guy, who promptly grabbed his arm.
Keith lost it. “You had better get that hand off me right now or—”
“Or he’ll probably kick your butt,” Slugger’s voice said over Keith’s shoulder.
He and Frank had walked up during the argument. Both were grinning, especially Slugger, who had witnessed a number of Keith’s run-ins with security types through the years.
The guard looked at Frank, recognized him, and began apologizing profusely. “If he’d just told me he was meeting you—”
“Sir, you have my deepest sympathy for having to deal with my hotheaded friend,” Slugger said.
They all walked inside, leaving the guard sputtering, “Good luck, Mr. Baker,” in Frank’s direction.
“I wish you hadn’t shown up,” Keith said.
“Oh, I’m so glad we did,” Slugger said. “I love seeing you get all wound up like that.”
* * *
They sat down to eat a few minutes later after going through the buffet. Frank and Slugger filled Keith in on the post-bar-fight events of the previous evening.
“Gutsy maneuver, Frank,” Keith said. “What do you think the fallout will be?”
“Don’t know,” the kid said. “Won’t know till we get home or at least till we’re on the plane. He does want me to win. And, believe it or not, he does love me. That’s why he backed down on Slugger.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Keith said. “And I think the smart thing to do right now is follow his example and not worry about anything except winning your match today. You think you can do that?”
“I can do it,” Frank said. “If I lose, it’ll be because the other guy’s better. I’m good at focusing once I’m on the golf course, no matter what.”
“Unless there’s a good-looking girl out there,” Slugger said.
“Yeah, I do sometimes get distracted if that happens,” Frank said, smiling.
“I’ll remember that just in case I ever need you to lose,” Keith said.
They all laughed. It was a good sound to hear. It was clear to Keith that Slugger knew which buttons to push with the kid. All the more reason why it was important that he not get fired—no matter what happened the rest of this week.
* * *
Frank wasn’t lying about his ability to focus once he teed it up. He birdied the first hole to go one-up on Matthew Bryan. From there, he never looked back. It seemed to Keith as if Bryan, who was a rising junior at Duke, felt like reaching the round of 16 was all he could possibly expect. Playing the young phenom who had beaten the defending champion, he looked intimidated early, falling behind four-down at the turn.
Bryan played better on the back nine and actually pulled within two-down after birdieing 15.
But Frank birdied his favorite hole on the golf course—16—to win the match three-and-two. Keith could tell by the look on his face as he shook hands with his opponent that he was disappointed that he’d allowed Bryan to hang around until the 16th hole.
As the carts pulled up to ferry the players back to the clubhouse, Keith had a few seconds with Frank. He knew that Baker and Lawrensen were already on a clubhouse-bound cart.
“You want to ride on the back?” Frank asked.
“No need. Pulling up to the clubhouse and having your dad and Lawrensen see me on the back of your cart would be like waving red in front of the proverbial bull.”
Frank nodded. Slugger was already on a four-seater cart with Bryan’s caddie. Bryan was in another cart.
“Didn’t play so well on the back nine today, did I?” Frank said.
Keith knew that’s what he was focusing on.
“Ever hear of Dean Smith?” he said.
“The basketball coach?”
“Yeah. He used to say all the time that a one-point win was fine with him, regardless, because it meant you won. You had an easy win—you were always in control. Enjoy it.”
“Tell that to my dad, will ya?” Frank said.
“Good idea,” Keith said. “I’m sure he’s dying to hear what I think right about now.”
They both laughed. Frank climbed onto the cart.
“Remember,” Keith said. “You’re in the quarterfinals. That was your goal for today. Period.”
The cart pulled away and Frank waved as it headed toward the clubhouse. Keith started on foot in that direction. The weather was cooler than it had been, so he didn’t mind a little extra walking.
“Hey, Forman,” someone said, coming up next to him, hand extended. “Mind if I walk with you?”
The guy was short and was sweating profusely, even though it wasn’t all that hot. Keith had never seen him before. But he had seen the logo on both his shirt and cap. They were identical and each had four letters: ESPN.
“Arnie Pearlman,” the guy said, giving him a phony smile. “I work for ESPN.”
“No kidding,” Keith said, and gritted his teeth at what he knew was soon to come.
15
By now, Frank had grown accustomed to the media swarm that awaited him at the end of each match—although it did seem to grow every day.
As he rode in the cart back to the clubhouse, Pete Kowalski, the USGA public relations boss, told Frank that he hadn’t done a green-side interview because he was going to be taken straight to the 18th hole tower to talk to Joe Buck and the Fox TV analysts. Once that was over, he’d go through his paces with the print media, Golf Channel, and local TV and radio.
Frank thought the idea of sitting in the tower with Joe Buck, Paul Azinger, and Brad Faxon sounded pretty cool. As the cart drove up, Frank could see that his father and Lawrensen were already there. Frank guessed they had been told what the USGA’s plans were and had asked to be driven to the tower.
But when the cart stopped at the bottom of the steps leading to the tower, Frank noticed that there seemed to be a problem. As Frank started to get out of the cart, he saw his father and Lawrensen in what looked like a heated conversation with someone he recognized as Mike Davis, the executive director of the USGA. He recognized Davis from having seen him on TV repeatedly during U.S. Opens.
Davis always came off on TV as outgoing and friendly. He was talking as Frank exited the cart, but it was clear right away the conversation wasn’t friendly.
“Mr. Lawrensen, Mr. Baker, I’m going to try to explain this one last time,” he said. “The USGA does not pay golfers to do interviews. In fact, in the case of an amateur, his college eligibility could be jeopardized if we did do it, which, again, we do not. The same is true of Fox. If you don’t believe me, I can connect you to Mark Loomis, who is their executive producer, and he’ll confirm that.
“Now, Frank isn’t required to go up in the tower at all. Most players—especially young ones who already have an ‘adviser’”—he nodded at Lawrensen, his voice dripping with sarcasm—“think the publicity is a good thing. But obviously, it’s your call.”
Frank and Pete Kowalski had both frozen in their tracks, listening to Davis.
Kowalski turned to Frank and said very quietly, “Do you want to do the interview?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then don’t look over there, and follow me.”
He turned in the direction of the steps leading up into the tower that were to their right. The argument was several yards away to the left. Frank followed.
When they reached the steps, a guard took down a rope to allow them to pass. “No one not wearing a USGA credential comes up these steps until I come back down,” Kowalski said. “Understand? No one.”
The guard nodded.
At that moment, Frank heard Lawrensen’s voice. “Hey, where are you going, Frank? Stop!”
“Keep walking,” Kowalski said, and Frank did as he was instructed.
Lawrensen was still yelling as they ascended the steps. Frank didn’t look back. He remembered something he’d read once: “Sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”
He’d ask for forgiveness later. Or perhaps not. What did he care what Lawrensen thought? His dad, though, was another story.
Fox was in a commercial break when they walked onto the set. There was an empty seat between Joe Buck and Paul Azinger that was apparently for Frank.
“You’re right there,” a young woman wearing a headset said, pointing at the empty spot. “We’re back in two minutes. Thanks for coming.”
“It was nothing,” Frank said, winking at Kowalski.
Buck, Azinger, and Faxon all shook his hand and congratulated him as a technician attached a microphone to the front of his golf shirt.
“That your home club?” Buck asked, nodding at the Perryton Country Club logo.
“Yes, sir,” Frank said.
Buck smiled. “No sirs up here, okay, Frank? I’m Joe, he’s Paul, and he’s Brad. Just relax and enjoy this.”
“Thank you, sir,” Frank said, adding, “Sorry,” as everyone smiled.
“Thirty seconds!” someone shouted.
The thirty seconds felt like an hour.
Buck welcomed everyone back to the “Sweet Sixteen of the U.S. Amateur.” Then he lavishly introduced Frank as “the sensation of this event to date, the teenager who beat defending champion Rickie Southwick in a fabulous match yesterday and made it look easy today against a very good player, Matthew Bryan.”
He turned to Frank and said, “Having fun yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Frank said, then reddened. “I mean, Joe. But I can tell you for a fact that it wasn’t easy today. Matthew’s a very good player, and even when I got him down, he kept coming at me.”
Azinger jumped in, saying, “Rickie Southwick was gracious enough to talk to us yesterday even after you beat him, and he told us he thought he played well—but you were just better than he was. He also said if you weren’t seventeen, you’d be ready for the Tour. What do you think?”
“I think I’m seventeen,” Frank joked, starting to feel a little more at ease. “I’m lucky enough to have a teacher, Slugger Johnston, who was a very good college player and understands there’s a lot more to the Tour than what happens inside the ropes. I’m looking forward to playing college golf.”
They showed some highlights and asked Frank to talk over the shots—which he was glad to do.
They came back on camera—Frank could tell because the woman who had directed him to his seat was pointing at the camera they were supposed to look at while they talked.
“One last question, Frank,” Buck said.
Frank assumed the question would be about playing Jerry Gallagher the next day in the quarterfinals. “Sure,” he said.
“A lot of people have noticed Ron Lawrensen, a very well-known agent, walking around with your dad all week. Now, we know it’s perfectly legal for an amateur to have an adviser like La
wrensen, but is there something more to it than that?”
Frank was caught off guard by the question. He felt himself go red again.
“Mr. Lawrensen is not my adviser. He’s talking to my dad about things that may happen down the road,” he finally said. “It’ll be a while before I need an agent.”
That was good enough. They thanked him and Buck said, “Let’s throw it back to Steve Flesch on seventeen.”
“Clear,” the headset woman said.
“Didn’t mean to trip you up with the last question,” Buck said. “My producer wanted me to ask you because I guess a lot of people have noticed.”
“I’m sure they have,” Frank said. “I’m sure they have.”
He shook hands, thanked everyone, and followed Kowalski back down the steps, dreading the sight of his dad and Lawrensen waiting for him.
But Frank saw no sign of the two. Confused, he said to Kowalski, “You think you can find out where my dad went?”
Kowalski nodded and pulled a radio from his belt as they got back into the cart, both sitting in the back. The PR boss told the driver to take them back to the media flash area—where the print reporters would be waiting—and put the radio to his mouth.
“Mike Davis,” he said.
“Here, Pete,” a voice came back instantly.
“Mike, can you go to eighteen, please?” Kowalski asked.
“Got it.”
Kowalski turned the little dial on the radio, jumping it from the number 4 to the number 12.
“Eighteen is our code for channel twelve, which is more private,” Kowalski explained. “Only a few of us know to use it.”
“Here, Mike,” he said.
“Go,” Davis answered.
“Frank Baker and I are on a cart headed to the flash area,” he said. “Frank’s wondering if you have a twenty on his dad.”
“Yes, I do,” Davis said. “He’ll be waiting for him in player dining once he’s done at the flash. I’ll meet you there to explain.”
“Copy,” Kowalski said, and turned the dial back to 4.
“Something must have happened after we went upstairs,” Frank said.
“Probably,” Kowalski said. “Mike will fill you in when we get there.”
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