“Or one day,” Frank said.
Keith smiled. “I’m being optimistic, and the way you’re playing—in spite of all this—gives me confidence that it’ll be three days. I like your approach, though. Worry about tomorrow before you think any farther down the road. Don’t even think about Saturday yet.”
They were all quiet for a minute, finishing their food. Frank was so hungry he was tempted to go back for more. He decided against it.
Slugger stood up. “I think I’m going to have a cup of coffee,” he said. “You guys want anything else?”
“You know, I wouldn’t mind coffee either, now that you bring it up,” Keith said.
“Me too,” Frank said.
“Be right back,” Slugger said.
“You drink coffee?” Keith said.
Frank shrugged. “I’m up by six every morning, spring, summer, and fall to play golf or work in the pro shop,” he said. “I started to drink coffee when I was thirteen. Usually I only drink in the morning, but if you guys are having one, I’ll have one, too.”
“I was the same way,” Keith said. “I get it.”
Frank leaned forward in his seat so he could lower his voice, although he wasn’t certain why he was doing so. “I gotta ask you a question,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“I really appreciate everything you’ve done and are trying to do,” he said. “I wasn’t so sure about Slugger asking you to come talk to me back in June, but I’m really glad he did.”
“But…?”
“But I’m wondering: What’s in this for you? You haven’t written anything about me or all that’s gone on this week. So…”
“You’d like to know what I’m doing here,” Keith said.
“More like, why have you put yourself out there for me the way you have?”
Keith just smiled.
“Did I say something funny?” Frank asked.
“No, not at all,” Keith said. “I’m smiling at how quickly you pick up on things.”
It was now Frank’s turn to smile. “Well, my dad is a stock broker, but somehow he doesn’t get a lot of this golf-business stuff, so I guess I have to,” he said. He paused. “Then again, maybe you opened his eyes a little.”
Slugger, returning with the coffees, heard the last comment. “Guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” he said.
Frank and Keith didn’t respond. They didn’t have to.
* * *
The answer turned out to be yes—sort of.
The morning routine didn’t change at all: after Slugger drove Frank to the golf course, they had breakfast and went to warm up, Frank working his way through a bucket of balls at the range, hitting his shorter irons first and then moving to the bigger clubs as he loosened up.
Frank’s dad arrived at the range with Lawrensen right by his side. Frank waved at his dad, who waved back.
“You think Lawrensen convinced him that everything Keith said yesterday was really his idea?” Frank murmured to Slugger, continuing his routine as he spoke.
“No doubt,” Slugger said. “But let’s not focus on that now. Let’s focus on Jerry Gallagher.”
As it turned out, there wasn’t that much to worry about. Gallagher had one of those days that even good players have on occasion. His first tee shot went way left and found deep rough. With Frank in the fairway, holding an iron in his hands for his second shot, Gallagher tried to gouge his ball out of the rough with a hybrid, knowing Frank was likely to reach the green in two.
The ball barely moved. He tried again. And again. By the time he got the ball onto the fairway, he was lying five and it was still his turn.
“Let’s not waste time here,” Gallagher said to Frank. He picked up his own ball, nodded at Frank, and said, “That’s good. Nice two.”
Frank laughed. “My first double-eagle,” he said to Slugger as they crossed the fairway to get to the second tee.
“Don’t get carried away by it,” Slugger said. “It’s one hole.”
The second hole was better for Gallagher; he made a par, but Frank rolled in a long birdie putt on one of the toughest holes on the golf course to go two-up.
“I’m four under,” Frank said. “Maybe I’ll shoot twenty-nine on the front nine and close him out on ten.”
He didn’t shoot 29, but he came close to closing Gallagher out in 10. Gallagher bogeyed the next three holes to go five-down and was reciting his concession speech after they both made par on the sixth.
“At least now I won’t lose ten-and-eight,” he said as they walked up the hill behind the green to the seventh tee. He lost, instead, eight-and-seven. Frank birdied the ninth to go six-up, then watched Gallagher take his driver at Number 10 and hit it so far over the green that he had no chance to get his second shot on the putting surface. He barely got his third shot onto the green, missed for par from 30 feet, and conceded Frank’s 15-foot birdie putt.
“I’d have made you putt just in case you three-putted,” Slugger said as they walked to the 11th tee.
“I think he just wants to get this over with,” Frank answered.
It was over on 11. Gallagher hit his second shot into the creek fronting the green and then somehow found the bunker hitting a wedge with his fourth shot. He blasted out to 20 feet and then took his cap off and shook hands. Frank was on the fringe with about a 35-footer for eagle. In theory, he could four-putt and Gallagher could hole his bogey putt to halve the hole and keep the match alive. But not likely.
Clearly, Gallagher wanted no part of it.
“I’m really sorry,” he said as they shook hands. “Quarterfinals of the U.S. Amateur, you deserved to play someone who could at least give you a decent match.”
Frank wasn’t sure how to respond. He understood what Gallagher was saying; he knew he was embarrassed and he felt bad for him. “Everyone has an off day,” he said finally.
“I picked a hell of a time to have one, didn’t I?” Gallagher said, forcing a smile. “Good luck on the weekend. I hope you win the whole thing.”
He then shook hands with Slugger while Frank shook hands with his opponent’s caddie.
Frank’s dad popped out of the crowd of onlookers to give him a hug and a backslap before the officials arrived to escort the players to the media area. Although Frank couldn’t see him, he knew Lawrensen was somewhere behind the ropes, but he was glad the agent didn’t come over to ruin the moment.
“I promise you one thing,” Slugger said as they rode the cart back to the clubhouse and the waiting media. “Tomorrow will be a lot tougher than this was, no matter who you play.”
Frank’s opponent would either be Nathan Smith or Edward Anderson III. He’d never met “Edward Anderson the third,” but he knew he was the son of some very rich CEO type who was a member at Augusta. Someone had told him that in the locker room earlier in the week.
He hoped he would be playing Nathan Smith. Win or lose, the day would probably be a lot more pleasant that way.
Frank was now two wins away from being the U.S. Amateur champion. He knew if he won, he’d be the youngest U.S. Am champion in history, eight months younger than Byeong Hun An had been in 2009 when he’d won a month shy of his eighteenth birthday. He was also one win away from making it to the Masters, which he knew was what his father and Lawrensen cared most about.
As he got off the cart where the media awaited, he had two thoughts. The first one was important: at this moment, more than at any other time in his life, he needed to focus on just one match. He couldn’t worry about what might happen in the final on Sunday, he couldn’t worry or care about who he played, and he couldn’t worry about what anyone else might have in mind if he made the Masters or if he somehow won the tournament.
All of that was for later.
The other thought was far less important: even though his was the first match to finish, Fox hadn’t asked him to come up to the booth today.
He wasn’t surprised.
* * *
After Frank finished with the reporters
, he headed back to the locker room to take a shower. It had been the most humid day of the week, and he was dripping. His father had texted to say that he and Lawrensen were on their way to the hotel for a meeting and they would see him at dinner. The final line of the text had nothing to do with plans: I haven’t said this all week and I should have: I’m really proud of you.
Hmm, Frank thought. Maybe his dad had heard some of what Keith Forman had said.
Frank was fine with his dad and Lawrensen having post-match plans. He really didn’t care what sort of meeting they were going to or who was meeting with them. He decided he wouldn’t even ask when he got to dinner.
Keith Forman, whom he’d only seen from a distance all day, was waiting for him just inside the locker-room door with Slugger, watching the other matches on a television that was behind the counter where the locker-room guys worked.
“Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re playing Edward Anderson tomorrow,” Keith said.
“Nice to see you, too, and, yes, that was a nice win today, wasn’t it?” Frank said lightly.
Keith laughed. “Sorry, the Anderson-Smith match ended ten minutes ago on seventeen. And I’d tell you nice win, except even I could have beaten that poor guy today.”
Frank nodded. “I can’t argue with that. He just couldn’t get it together. And I am sorry I’m not playing Nathan. He seems like a very good guy.”
“Don’t know him that well, but I promise you he’s a better guy than Anderson. The dad has quite a reputation, and so does the kid. Classic born-on-third-base guy who thinks he tripled. He’s already transferred colleges once or twice, apparently because nobody can stand him, even though he’s a really good player.”
Frank nodded. “I hear his dad’s a big Trump supporter.”
“Not many members at Augusta who aren’t,” Keith answered.
“Spoken like a true Commie,” said Slugger, getting a laugh.
They had walked back to Frank’s locker as they talked. Frank was taking off his shoes when Nathan Smith walked in, still sopping with sweat.
“Condolences, Nathan,” Frank said.
“Thanks, man,” Smith said.
“Didn’t they make you talk to the media?” Keith asked.
Smith nodded. “Yeah, but I told them I needed a few minutes to cool off first. Literally and figuratively.”
“Don’t blame you,” Frank said.
“Yeah, but that’s not really why I came in here,” Smith said. “I wanted to be sure I caught you before you left. Frank, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About Edward Anderson the blanking third.”
18
The four of them walked to the back of the locker room, where there was a card room that had been empty most of the week. There was no one in there, although the television was on. As they walked in, Frank could see his next opponent on the screen, sitting on the Fox set with Joe Buck.
It occurred to Keith Forman that Edward Anderson III’s father probably hadn’t asked Fox for money in return for the interview. Then again, ten grand was already latte money for him.
Keith knew Nathan Smith because he’d done a story on him a few years earlier when he had played in the Masters. The Mid-Amateur champion received an automatic invitation to the Masters, so Smith had played there four times.
Smith had agreed when Frank asked if Keith could join them in the meeting on the condition that he wouldn’t be quoted on anything unless Keith circled back to him first to ask permission. Keith honestly didn’t think Smith was going to say anything he’d want to quote, but as long as he had the option to go back if something became important, he was fine with that condition.
The sound was down on the TV, so they left it that way. They sat at a round table, and Keith, Frank, and Slugger looked at Smith expectantly.
“Here’s the deal,” Smith said. “There are a lot of rumors about Anderson in amateur golf circles. Mainly, that he’s a cheat. The main reason he transferred out of Stanford and Alabama is that his teammates couldn’t stand him and there’d been complaints from opponents that he colored outside the lines when it came to the rules. It was never anything blatant enough for him to get disqualified or in any kind of serious trouble. It was stuff that’s impossible to prove unless you’ve got a camera on the guy, and college golf isn’t on television except for the NCAAs.”
“What kind of stuff?” Frank asked.
“Re-marking balls a little closer to the hole, improving lies in the rough just a little by tapping the ground behind the ball with a club during his pre-shot routine—”
“Hardly ‘little stuff,’” Slugger said.
“Yeah, but tough to prove.”
Keith shook his head. “Hard to believe no one from either school ever said anything publicly about why such a good player would transfer.”
“Good point,” Smith said. “But remember who his dad is; being the son of an Augusta member makes you just about untouchable in golf. No one wants to mess with Augusta.”
Keith knew that was true. He knew enough people who worked at CBS, ESPN, and Golf Channel to know that even the all-powerful TV networks lived in fear of upsetting the Augusta membership, who had their own way of doing everything.
“So you’re saying I need to keep an eye on him tomorrow,” Frank said.
“Yep,” Smith said. “Especially on the front nine. You won’t be on TV until the back nine. That’s what happened today. He and I almost got into it on the fourth hole—before TV coverage came on the air. The kid isn’t stupid by any means.”
“What happened?” Frank asked.
“He hit his tee shot way right—not where it was going to be lost, but where he might have tree trouble. He and his caddie walked over there, and I wandered in that direction, too. When he got to where the ball was, I was standing about twenty yards away.
“So he called over the rules official and made a big deal of showing him some twigs and small branches that were loose—all of which he was allowed to move. The official told him it was fine to move them, then came over and explained to me what was going on.
“I said fine, but then I walked over a little closer. Anderson was moving stuff, and then I saw him reach very carefully for what I thought was a twig. Suddenly he pulled his hand back really fast—the way you do when you’ve made a mistake and maybe caused your ball to move.
“He looked up at me, then went back to moving stuff like nothing had happened. I said to him, ‘Ed, what just happened there?’
“He said, ‘Nothing, just moving these loose twigs.’
“I said, ‘Why’d you jerk your hand back like that?’ By now, I’d walked over to him and his face was bright red. I had no doubt the ball had moved. So I just asked him point-blank.
“He goes, ‘No, absolutely not!’ the way you deny something when you’re flat-out lying.
“I called the rules official back over. I told him what had happened and that I thought the ball had moved—though I couldn’t absolutely prove it, since I hadn’t seen his lie.
“The official was David Fay, who, remember, was once executive director of the USGA. He’s here this week with Fox as their rules expert, but he volunteered to referee one match a day through the quarters. He looked at me and said, ‘You really want to do this?’
“I said, ‘You bet I do.’
“He asked Anderson the question again about whether the ball moved. Anderson said, ‘The ball didn’t move. If it did, I’d have called it on myself.’ Then he looked at me and said, ‘I really resent you calling me a cheat.’ I looked at him and said, ‘Ed, I haven’t called you anything. I just asked you a question.’
“At that point, Fay walks over to the ball and crouches down next to it. He looks at it and says, ‘Mr. Anderson, I have to tell you, the ball appears to be lying differently than when you called me over.’
“Anderson says, ‘Are you calling me a cheat?’
“Fay is very cool. ‘I’m expressing my opinion,’ he
says. ‘I can’t penalize you, because I didn’t witness an infraction and, unfortunately for all of us, we don’t have TV replay available. So it’s up to you and your conscience to decide what the right thing is to do here.’
“Anderson’s glaring at both of us. Finally, he says: ‘I know what I did and I know the rules, Mr. Fay. I grew up playing at Augusta. I don’t need you or anyone trying to guilt me into penalizing myself for something I didn’t do.’”
“Very subtle with the Augusta reference,” Keith said.
“Yeah, no kidding. Fay and I just walked away. He apologized to me.”
“What’d he say?” Keith asked.
“That he should have stayed there and observed. He probably should have, but who expects someone to do something like that?”
They were all quiet for a moment.
“So what should I do?” Frank said.
“On the first tee, you take whoever is refereeing aside and you ask him to please keep an eye on your opponent. You don’t have to explain anything—my guess is, he’ll know what you’re talking about.”
Keith was concerned that Frank might spend too much time worrying about his opponent cheating. Slugger read his mind.
“That’s exactly the right thing to do,” Slugger said. “Except I’ll be the one to talk to the referee, and I’ll keep an eye on Anderson, too. You, Frank, just worry about playing golf.”
Smith nodded. “I agree. Honestly, I wish now I hadn’t even watched him. I was so angry I think I was distracted the rest of the day.”
“What happened on the hole?” Frank asked, a second before the words came out of Keith’s mouth.
Smith smiled sadly. “He hit his second shot onto the fringe and then holed out from there for par to halve the hole. He’s a cheat, but he can play.”
Keith found that especially unfortunate. The only thing worse than a cheat, he thought, was a cheat who was good enough to also win playing by the rules.
The Prodigy Page 12