When Loomis saw him, he looked surprised, but he nodded and put up a finger to indicate he needed a minute or two. He put his hand over the microphone attached to his headset and said something to the kid.
The kid walked back to Keith. “He said he’ll meet you outside in five minutes. Next break.”
“Thanks.”
Keith walked outside to wait. The sun was now very hot, and he sat on the steps leading to the truck because there was no place else to sit.
He had met Mark Loomis shortly after he’d started to write, and they sometimes played together at Winged Foot, Loomis’s club in Westchester County, north of New York City.
“This better be really important.” Loomis was standing behind him on the steps, a bottle of water in his hands.
“It is,” Keith said.
The two men shook hands and then walked in the direction of a nearby tree to find some shade.
“So what’s up?” Loomis asked. “I’ve got about three minutes.”
“Come on, Mark, you’ve got four players on the golf course. One of your guys can bring you back from break if need be.”
“Okay, five minutes,” Loomis said. “Talk.”
Keith rattled through what he had witnessed and voiced his suspicions. He knew he could trust Loomis, who would want to be sure that the integrity of the event hadn’t been damaged.
“We were on Anderson the whole time,” Loomis said. “We had a camera so close to him that he asked our guy to back off.”
Keith nodded. “But you had your other cameras rolling so you could switch shots quickly, right?”
“Sure, but no one told me they saw anything funny.”
“But you record everything? Just in case something happens off-camera that you want to go back to later?”
“Of course,” Loomis said.
“Can I get a look at what’s on those other cameras?”
Loomis looked at Keith as if he had just asked him to leave him everything he owned in his will.
“Now?” he asked.
“Now,” Keith repeated. “Look, Mark, you know Nathan Smith. He doesn’t make stuff up. If nothing happened, I should let the Baker kid know, because he’s convinced it did. But if something did happen, Anderson needs to be nailed.”
“I’ve played with Smith,” Loomis said. “Completely honorable guy and not a sour-grapes loser.”
Someone came out of the truck and hollered for Loomis. “We’re almost back, boss!”
“Tell Steve to handle it,” Loomis shouted back.
After the guy went back inside, Loomis was silent for a moment. “Tell you what,” he said to Keith. “I’ll get one of my associate producers to take you over to our backup truck. He can pull all that video, and you can take a look.”
“You got an AP we can trust with this?” Keith said.
“Yeah, absolutely,” Loomis said, pulling his phone off his belt. “Give me a minute.”
He hit what was clearly a speed-dial button. “Tom, I need you here outside the truck right now,” he said.
Within a minute, Loomis was introducing him to Tom Goldman.
“Keith will explain what he needs,” Loomis said. “Take him to the number two truck and show him everything he wants to see.”
Goldman nodded. “Follow me,” he said.
Loomis was already walking back to the truck. “Let me know what you find,” he said. “Or don’t find.”
* * *
It took the AP about ten minutes to figure out what Keith needed to see. There had been three other cameras in addition to the handheld working on the seventh hole: one behind the green, one behind the tee, and one mounted on a crane that could take in several holes.
“The crane-mount was on a wide-shot while that was going on,” Goldman said. “It won’t help.”
They went through what was on the other two cameras almost frame by frame. Only the one shooting back from the green had the caddie in the frame, but the shot was too long to show anything other than him bending down and checking the ball when he found it.
“Nothing,” Goldman said. “Sorry.”
Keith sat back in his chair. The number 2 truck was much smaller than the main truck, with only a few monitors and computers and only four chairs. He was a little bit surprised and, he had to admit, disappointed. He’d been convinced that all the modern technology available would show them what had happened. It was, however, possible that nothing had happened.
Goldman was starting to stand up when Keith had one last thought.
“What about the blimp?” he asked, referring to the MetLife blimp that was buzzing above the tournament, adding aerial shots to the coverage.
Goldman blinked in surprise for a moment and then said, “Never thought about that. Give me a minute.”
He turned back to the monitor and began pressing buttons. About a minute later, the shot the blimp had been recording came up on the screen. Keith could clearly see all four participants in the search: Edward Anderson, the caddie several yards away, and Tom Meeks and Frank observing.
“Can you get a closer shot?” he asked.
“I can enlarge it,” Goldman said, pressing one button repeatedly. The four men came into sharper focus and, when Goldman began to roll the video, Keith could see Anderson turning to say something to Meeks.
Just as he did, Keith saw the caddie pick up his left leg slightly and shake it.
“Hang on!” he shouted. “Go back.”
Goldman did.
“Look at that!” Keith said, watching the caddie again as he shook his leg. This time, the video kept rolling and, sure enough, Keith saw something that looked white and round drop out of the bottom of the caddie’s pant leg.
“Oh my God!” Goldman shouted.
Without another word, he rewound the video and then slowed it down at the right moment. There wasn’t any doubt about it: the caddie had dropped a ball from inside his pant leg to the ground. He then bent over as if examining something he’d just found before waving to the others that he’d found the ball.
“The old hole-in-the-pocket trick,” Keith said. He’d seen guys pull it in junior golf but never anywhere else.
“Having the caddie do it is smart,” Goldman said. “People are more likely to be watching the player.”
“Notice he did it while Anderson was talking to Meeks,” Keith said. “I’ll bet they planned it that way. Anderson was the decoy. Everyone’s looking at him because he’s talking while the caddie does the deed.”
“What do we do now?”
“First, we get Mark in here to look at this. Fox is now going to be part of the story.”
Goldman nodded and said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
While the AP ran back to the truck, Keith pulled out his phone and checked the status of the match. They had just finished the ninth hole, and Frank was two-down.
A minute or two later, Loomis burst into the truck, looking a little bit pale.
“True?” he asked as Goldman followed him in.
Keith stood up to give Loomis his chair. “See for yourself,” he said, nodding at Goldman, who retook his seat.
Goldman replayed the relevant sequence, slowing it down so Loomis could clearly see what had happened. As he watched, Loomis murmured profanities, his voice rising as it became more apparent to him that the U.S. Amateur was about to become a soap opera.
Finally, he turned to Keith and said, “Well, I guess I’m never getting invited to join Augusta National.”
“It’s very possible that neither one of us will ever set foot on the grounds there again,” Keith said. Gallows humor, he thought.
They both laughed.
Loomis turned to Goldman. “Email me the segment from the video file so I can show it on my phone. Then get over to the truck and tell Steve he’s in charge for a while,” he said. “You take over his chair in the meantime.”
Goldman nodded as Loomis got up from his seat.
“Let’s go,” Loomis said. “We have to ma
ke the USGA aware of this as soon as possible. Your guy is about to bogey ten and go three-down. This can’t wait.”
Keith followed Loomis out the door, and they walked to the far side of the compound. There were a number of carts lined up there. One said LOOMIS.
They both jumped in and Loomis pulled away, gravel and dirt kicking up as he floored the accelerator.
“Where are we going?” Keith asked.
“We gotta find Thomas Pagel,” Loomis said. “He’s the senior director in charge of rules. He’ll have to decide what to do next.”
What to do next, in Keith’s mind, was easy: walk out on the golf course, disqualify Edward Anderson and declare Frank Baker the winner. However, he knew it wouldn’t be that simple.
Golf was never that simple.
21
Frank was marking his ball on the 11th green, looking at a 25-foot eagle putt. He was in excellent position to close the gap back to one-down. He’d made a long par putt at the tenth to halve the hole, and Anderson had hit his tee shot at 11 in the rough, laid up, and then hit a really poor wedge shot that left him with a putt for 4 just as long as the one Frank was looking at for 3. Frank could feel the momentum he had lost on the seventh hole turning back in his direction.
Then he looked down the fairway and saw three carts coming toward the green. It was the first time all week he had seen a cart in a fairway, and he couldn’t imagine what was going on. He didn’t recognize the two USGA guys in the first one, but, as they drew closer, he could see that Keith Forman was in the passenger seat of the second. There were two more men in the third cart he didn’t recognize, but they were both wearing shirts that said FOX SPORTS.
Clearly, Keith had kept his word and figured something out.
Anderson stopped looking his putt over when the three carts braked to a halt in front of the green. Frank heard him mutter, “What the hell?”
The two men in the front cart walked quickly onto the green.
Keith and his driver and the two Fox guys in the third cart trailed them. The entire thing felt surreal to Frank.
“Gentlemen, a word please,” said the man who had been driving the first cart. He was tall, with short dark hair under a red cap, one that said USGA. He didn’t appear to be very old, no more than forty, Frank guessed. The other man looked to be even younger. He was shorter, but dressed identically.
They walked to the middle of the green, indicating they wanted the two players and presumably their caddies to meet them there. There were no handshakes, greetings, or small talk. Clearly, the middle of a U.S. Amateur semifinal wasn’t a place for any of that.
“Gentlemen, I’m Thomas Pagel,” the taller man said. “I’m the USGA’s senior director of rules and amateur status.” He nodded at his cart passenger. “This is Ben Kimball, the director of this tournament.” He then paused as if deciding what to do next. “Mr. Anderson, I’m here to inform you that we have video evidence of a gross violation of the rules that took place on the seventh hole.”
Frank felt his heart starting to race. He looked at Keith, who simply put a finger to his lips.
“What in the world are you talking about?” Anderson said. The confident smirk that had been in place most of the day was gone.
“We’re talking about the search for your ball to the right of the fairway following your tee shot on number seven,” Mr. Pagel said.
He turned to Anderson’s caddie. “What is your name, sir?”
“Jared Hopkins,” the caddie said. “But—”
Pagel put a hand up to stop him. He turned to one of the men who had been in the third cart. The man was holding a phone.
“On this phone is a video file taken from the camera in the blimp that shows you, Mr. Hopkins, dropping a golf ball from your pants pocket—specifically the left pocket—and then declaring that you had found Mr. Anderson’s tee shot.”
“No way!” Hopkins said.
Anderson put his hand on his caddie’s shirt to quiet him. “Mr. Pagel, I can’t believe anything like that happened. But even if it somehow did, I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Mr. Anderson, I know you’re fully aware of the rules of golf, one of which is that a player is responsible for his caddie at all times. Your caddie blatantly broke the rules by dropping that ball. Whether you were aware of it or not, you are responsible for that action.”
Frank could see Anderson and Hopkins looking at each other as if deciding what to do. Hopkins started to speak, but Anderson held up a hand.
“Okay, so if you can prove this, it’s just loss of hole, right? Also, I have a right to look at the video before you penalize me, don’t I? Or do we wait till the end of the match and somehow figure it out then?”
Frank wanted to jump in. This was match play. How could they possibly play on not knowing who had won the seventh hole?
Pagel, though, was shaking his head quite firmly in response to Anderson.
“This isn’t a loss-of-hole offense, Mr. Anderson,” he said. “This is a blatant violation of the first two rules in the USGA’s handbook. Rule 1-1 describes how the game is to be played, from tee to green, which you violated by dropping a ball. Rule 1-2 says a player may not exert influence on the movement of a ball or alter physical conditions. Changing golf balls, without informing anyone and not declaring the penalty involved, is clearly a violation of that rule. Given that we believe the violation to be intentional, you are disqualified.”
Frank felt his knees go weak. Slugger, clearly just as shocked, put a hand on Frank’s shoulder to steady himself. Keith was grinning and nodding. Frank could see that all color had drained from Anderson’s face under his green cap.
“You can’t do that!” Anderson yelled, lifting his chin. “Right here in the middle of the match! No way! It didn’t happen.”
“You’re welcome to look at the video, but I guarantee it won’t change anything. We looked at it quite carefully before we came out here because, honestly, none of us wanted to believe it. In the meantime, just to remove any doubt you might have, Mr. Anderson, let’s ask your caddie about it. Mr. Hopkins, do you mind showing us your left pocket?”
Hopkins took a step back. “Yes, I do mind. It’s my pocket.”
“Even if there’s a hole it doesn’t prove anything,” Anderson insisted.
“No, it just backs up what we already know,” Pagel said. “It’s your call. But I’m not obligated to show you the video; I’m only willing to show it to you as a courtesy. If you want the chance to protest the decision after seeing the video, I’m going to insist on seeing the pocket.”
By now, the crowd was getting antsy. Some were booing, others were clapping rhythmically. There were some cries of “Let’s play golf!”
Frank looked over and saw that his father and Ron Lawrensen had stepped under the ropes and were walking in their direction. Another man, whom he didn’t recognize, was doing the same. Frank put up a hand to indicate to his father and Lawrensen not to come closer.
Frank saw Anderson glance in the direction of the other man. He guessed it was his father—the Augusta National member. He wondered how this would play down there.
“Show him the pocket,” Anderson finally said to Hopkins. “Either way, it proves nothing.” He turned back to Pagel. “You give me your word I can see the video?”
“Absolutely,” Pagel said.
Hopkins reached into his right pocket. Several tees fell out. There was no hole in the pocket.
Pagel smiled. “I asked to see your left pocket, Mr. Hopkins.”
Hopkins sighed. He pulled out the left pocket. The hole was clear to see.
“Unbelievable,” Frank heard Slugger say.
“Not really,” Frank muttered.
Frank saw Ben Kimball pull a radio off his belt. “We need extra carts out here on eleven green ASAP,” he said. “Security, too.”
“Roger that,” a voice came back.
Pagel turned in the direction of what was now an extremely restless crowd.
“Ladi
es and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that we have had a disqualification in this match due to a rules violation. Mr. Baker is the winner and will play in tomorrow’s final.”
He said nothing more. No details—although they would, of course, come out shortly. Frank could see several carts racing up the 11th fairway.
He wasn’t sure what to do next.
“Should I shake his hand?” he said to Slugger.
“I think not,” Slugger said.
The man who Frank assumed was Edward Anderson’s father was now confronting Pagel.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he yelled. “What is this about? You can’t possibly have grounds to disqualify my son! Even if the caddie dropped a ball, there is nothing in either Rule 1-1 or 1-2 that says anything about disqualification.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Anderson, we have more than enough grounds,” Pagel answered. “If you look, Rule 33-7 says the committee has the right to disqualify a player at any time for what it considers a gross breach of the rules and etiquette of the game. This is clearly both.”
Anderson the elder was pointing a finger in Pagel’s face. “This isn’t over!” he screamed. “Where is Mike Davis? We’ll sue the USGA if we have to!”
Frank had met Mike Davis at the bottom of the Fox tower two days earlier. He wondered exactly where he was and if he knew what was going on. He got an answer quickly.
“I contacted Mike before I came out here,” Mr. Pagel said. “I explained the situation to him, and he was completely in agreement that disqualification was our only option. I’m truly sorry this happened.”
“You’ll be even sorrier before I’m through!” Anderson replied, stalking over to put an arm around his son.
It looked to Frank like the younger Anderson was nearly crying.
Keith was now standing next to Frank, offering a hand. “Not the way you wanted to win, I’m sure, but the guy’s a flat-out cheat,” he said.
“You think he knew?” Frank asked.
“What do you think?” Keith answered.
The Prodigy Page 14