“Slugger?” Frank said.
“One hundred percent. It isn’t like the kid didn’t have a reputation. He just pushed it too far. My bet is that caddie worked every round with a hole in that pocket just in case.”
By now, all decorum around the green had evaporated. Pagel and Kimball had security people surrounding them because a number of fans were shouting at them, demanding an explanation.
There were two security guards lurking near Frank, just in case. His father and Ron Lawrensen came up, both with wide smiles.
“So what happened on seven?” Frank’s dad said. “The guy dropped a ball over there in the kikuyu?”
“The caddie did,” Frank said.
“That’s why he was showing them his pockets?” Lawrensen asked. “He had a hole in one of them?”
Frank nodded.
“How’d they figure it out?” his dad asked.
Frank nodded at Keith, who briefly explained.
By now, in addition to the fans who were flooding the green, all the members of the media who had been walking with the match were there, too, trying to figure out the situation.
Almost by magic, Pete Kowalski had appeared.
“Media members, please listen up,” he said. “In fifteen minutes, the USGA will hold a press conference in the media tent to explain what happened.”
“What about the players?” someone yelled.
“We will ask both to come in after Mr. Pagel and Mr. Kimball are finished,” Kowalski answered.
Kowalski walked over to where Frank and his entourage were standing.
“You okay with that?” he asked Frank.
Frank shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
“We’ll have some time first, right?” Lawrensen said. “This is a very delicate situation.”
Frank looked at Lawrensen and at his father. “When did he become ‘we’?” he asked.
“Easy, Frank, not now,” Slugger said.
Frank realized his coach was right.
“You’ve probably got at least thirty minutes,” Kowalski said in answer to the question.
They began walking in the direction of the carts. Slugger had to go over and retrieve Frank’s bag, which was sitting by the side of the green. The Andersons had somehow disappeared.
“Where did those guys go?” Frank asked Keith.
“My bet is, if they aren’t in the parking lot yet, they will be momentarily,” Keith said. “They aren’t going to answer any questions.”
Frank’s dad walked up behind them. “I guess we owe you a thank-you,” he said to Keith.
“Just trying to do the right thing, is all,” Keith said.
Thomas Baker then put his arm around Frank and smiled broadly. “Son,” he said, “you’re going to the Masters!”
That thought had not yet crossed Frank’s mind. Now it did. But it didn’t make him smile. Not even a little bit.
PART II
22
“Mr. Baker, welcome to Augusta National. Please follow me.”
Frank just nodded at the middle-aged man in a blue sports coat who had come around the counter just inside the entrance to the locker room. Frank’s head had been on a swivel from the second they had pulled through the gate that took them down Magnolia Lane to the players’ parking lot.
As Frank, Slugger, and Frank’s dad had gotten out of their courtesy car, they had seen Rory McIlroy, the Irish superstar, getting out of his courtesy car. Every player arriving in Augusta was met at the airport by someone from the club who handed them the keys to their courtesy car—this year, a Cadillac Escalade. Except for the color—McIlroy’s was blue, Frank’s white—the two SUVs were identical.
But Frank wasn’t behind the wheel of his. Even though he had a driver’s license, the tournament organizers had asked him not to drive because he was still legally a minor, and their insurance wouldn’t cover him.
McIlroy had smiled when he saw Frank. It was Sunday morning, four days before the Masters actually started, and the players’ lot was less than half full.
“Frank Baker, the Perryton Prodigy himself,” McIlroy said, walking over to where the three of them stood, hand extended. “Rory McIlroy. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
As they shook hands, Frank was totally stumped for a response. Rory McIlroy was introducing himself to him as opposed to the other way around?
He finally came up with, “Mr. McIlroy, it’s an honor.” Then he introduced his dad and Slugger. There, he’d done it. Words had come out of his mouth. He’d never been more proud.
“It’s Rory,” the twenty-something star said to Frank as he shook hands with the others. “I’m not that old.”
That broke the ice.
Slugger was pulling Frank’s clubs out of the back. McIlroy had no clubs and there was no sign of a caddie. He seemed to read the confusion on Frank’s face.
“I’ve been here since Friday,” McIlroy said. “Decided to go with the get-in-early approach this year.” He smiled. “Figured I might as well try something different. Nothing else has worked in the past.”
McIlroy was trying to wrap up a career Grand Slam. He’d won the PGA Championship twice, the U.S. Open, and the British Open. All that was left was the Masters.
“Are you headed for the locker room?” Slugger had asked, no doubt hoping for some direction.
McIlroy shook his head. “No, I don’t go in there much. Harry just meets me at the little hut next to the range and we get to work. But if you go in the front door, the locker room is straight ahead on the right. They’ll set you up in there. Then you go next door to register.”
“Thanks, Rory,” Frank said, trying out the use of his first name.
McIlroy gave them a friendly wave and veered off in the direction of the range—or, as Frank knew it was technically called, the tournament practice area. Augusta National had a language all its own. There were no fans—there were patrons. There were no grandstands—there were observation stands. And, even though one of the tournament’s oldest sayings was “The Masters doesn’t begin until the back nine on Sunday,” there was no back nine, according to the membership. There was a first nine and a second nine.
Frank had studied all of this in his preparation for the tournament. He had lost the 36-hole U.S. Amateur final to John Caccese, a fifth-year senior at Oregon, three-and-two. He hadn’t played poorly at all; Caccese had just made every single important putt he looked at all day.
Being honest, even though he had given the match everything he had, Frank simply didn’t have much left emotionally after the insanity of his semifinal match with Edward Anderson.
Not surprisingly, Anderson hadn’t spoken to anybody in the media that afternoon after being thrown out of the tournament. As Keith Forman had predicted, he had gone straight to the parking lot as soon as the match had been declared over and had driven off in a cloud of dust with TV cameras recording his lightning-fast departure. His father had stuck around to declare that he would fight the DQ, “to the Supreme Court if need be,” before also storming off.
Frank had been left to say that he was stunned and disappointed by the way the match had ended. “I wanted to beat him fair and square,” he was quoted most often as saying, “but he took away my chance to do that.”
Forman had become something of a celebrity when both Thomas Pagel and Mark Loomis made the point that he had been the one who had asked to see several camera angles on what had gone on at the seventh hole. “It was nothing more than a gut feeling,” he said. “Something funny was going on over there. I could tell by Frank Baker’s face that he thought so, too.”
The only good thing that had happened on the day of the final had been Oregon coach Casey Martin making a point of telling Frank how much he admired the way he had handled the whole incident and the way he’d played all week.
“If you decide you want to play college golf on the West Coast, I’d be happy to offer you a scholarship right now,” he said. “You’re an impressive young man.”
It had
taken a while, after returning home, for Frank to figure out that losing the final was probably a lucky break—even if it was one he hadn’t sought. If he had won the match and been the U.S. Amateur champion at seventeen, the pressure from his father and Ron Lawrensen to start quietly making deals would have been huge. As it was, Frank knew Lawrensen was lining up corporate deals and his father still wanted him to turn pro after the Masters.
“What have you got left to do as an amateur?” he kept saying whenever the subject came up.
“Play in college?” Frank answered.
“You can go to college anytime you want,” his dad had said repeatedly. “The money Ron will make us from all the corporations, especially if you play well in the Masters, will never be greater. Corporate America loves youth.”
Slugger and Forman were Frank’s voices of reason during this period. Frank was being recruited by every major golf school in the country—and some not-so-major golf schools that were pretty good schools academically, notably Harvard and Yale, which were practically in his backyard. Slugger took Frank on a number of recruiting visits. His father allowed them to go on the visits in large part because Lawrensen had told him that the possibility that Frank might go to college would put him in a stronger negotiating position. As in: “If you can’t pay him X, then he just might go to college and keep his amateur status.”
Frank wanted to go to college, and he wanted another crack at the U.S. Amateur—especially since it would be played the following year at Pebble Beach, arguably the most famous golf course in the country—other than Augusta National.
Even though he hadn’t won the Am, the seventeen-year-old was getting a lot of attention as Masters week approached. Golf Channel sent Rich Lerner, its main anchor, to interview him and put together a lengthy feature that would air during Masters week.
Forman had stayed in touch regularly, but more in his role as unofficial under-the-radar adviser than as a reporter. They had talked about Keith “writing something when this is all over,” but neither of them knew what “something” meant or, for that matter, when “this” would be over.
“We’ll know,” Keith had said. “We won’t have to figure it out.”
They had decided to travel to Augusta on Saturday the week before the tournament and play the golf course for the first time on Sunday morning. Frank had been asked to appear early in the afternoon to meet the finalists in Augusta’s annual Drive, Chip & Putt Championship.
Augusta National and the PGA of America had launched DC&P five years earlier to encourage more kids to play golf. The carrot was this day—the Sunday before the Masters—when the finalists, ages seven to fifteen, got a close-up glimpse at Augusta National.
The competition wasn’t actually golf, just a golf skills contest. The only part of the famous golf course the kids actually got to play was Number 18—the putting part of the contest took place on the green there.
Because the DC&P finals took place at Augusta National and were televised by Golf Channel, they received a good deal of publicity. Frank hadn’t ever entered when he’d been eligible because he was interested in winning real golf tournaments, not a hyped contest. His goal was to actually play the whole golf course, not just putt on the 18th green.
Now he’d achieved that—even if the way it had happened still haunted him a little.
The plan for today was to walk on the first tee and see who was there. If the tee was empty, he’d play by himself, which was fine with him. Slugger was again caddying for him; his coach and his father had been getting along better since the blowup in Los Angeles and Forman’s subsequent talk with his father.
There was still, however, plenty of tension in the group. Frank and Slugger’s plan was for Frank to make a final decision on where to go to college when the Masters was over. He still had one more trip left: to North Carolina to see Duke, UNC, and Wake Forest.
Frank knew his dad was hoping he’d play well enough during the coming week that the corporate offers would skyrocket to the point where it would be impossible to say no. Frank’s feeling was that no number was high enough: he wasn’t ready. Slugger felt that way, and so did Forman.
There was likely going to be a big battle in the not-so-distant future. For now, though, Frank had decided to push it out of his mind—or at least to the back of his mind. He had two goals for the week: enjoy every minute and try to make the 36-hole cut after Friday’s round so he could play on the weekend. Anything beyond that was pure gravy.
* * *
The engraved invitation with the Augusta crest on it, which he’d been sent in February formally inviting him to play in the Masters, got them inside the building that housed the locker room. Frank showed the invitation to another guard standing in the doorway, and then he was shown to his locker by the gentleman in the blue jacket.
A few minutes later, having decided to tee it up, play right away, and worry afterward about time on the range—whoops, “the tournament practice area”—he walked out the clubhouse door with Slugger. They passed under the famous oak tree, planted in the 1850s, and made their way outside the ropes to the first tee. The public wouldn’t be allowed on the grounds until Monday, so Frank could see the panorama of the golf course clearly.
“Wow, this is really something,” he said to Slugger.
Some of the DC&P kids were down on the 18th green with a coterie of their families around the edge.
He walked onto the first tee, where two players were getting ready to tee off.
“Hey, you want to join us?” the first guy said. “I’m Jordan Spieth.”
Frank managed to remember his own name as he introduced himself and shook hands.
The second player came up behind Spieth. “Justin Thomas. First time here, right?”
“Um, yeah,” Frank answered.
“Well then, come on,” Spieth said. “We’ll try to give you some of the secrets about where to hit it and where not to hit it.”
“Sure,” Frank sputtered. He caught Slugger’s eye and they exchanged a can-you-believe-this? look.
“We’ve already hit,” Spieth said. “You’re up, rook.”
Frank nodded and found a tee in his pocket. Slugger handed him his driver and a golf ball.
He got the ball and the tee in the ground and heard Spieth say, “Just pretend the whole world is watching you, because that’s how it’s going to feel on Thursday when they call your name.”
“No pressure,” Thomas added. “No pressure at all.”
Frank looked at the two major champions. They were grinning from ear to ear.
Welcome to the Masters, he thought, and looked down at the ball. There was nothing left to do but swing the club.
23
Keith Forman’s original plan had been to arrive in Augusta on Sunday night so he’d be at the golf course on Monday morning. But when Frank told him the Augusta National people had asked him to come down on Sunday to glad-hand with the Drive, Chip & Putt kids, he changed his plans. He wanted to witness as much of Frank’s experience as he possibly could. He still wasn’t sure what form it would take, but he knew he was going to write something on everything that had happened.
The most interesting thing that had happened since the U.S. Amateur had little to do with Frank—except that it did.
Early in March, an online golf newsletter called Morning Read had reported that Edward Anderson II, the father of Frank’s disgraced U.S. Amateur opponent, had “resigned” his membership at Augusta National. Since the club never commented on membership, the newsletter quoted several club sources as saying that Anderson had been told he would not be receiving a dues statement for the following year and had been offered the chance to resign before the statements went out. The club never told a member directly he’d been bounced; it just didn’t send a bill for the next year’s dues.
After screaming from the highest hilltop that he would sue the USGA blind following his son’s disqualification, Edward Anderson II had gotten very quiet upon seeing the video showing Ja
red Hopkins clearly shaking the ball out of his pants pocket. He then fired Hopkins, who was Anderson II’s driver in real life, almost on the spot.
That had turned out to be a huge mistake, because Hopkins had instantly gone public, saying that both he and Anderson III had holes in their pockets and that the senior Anderson knew exactly what was going on as well.
After Morning Read broke the story, Keith decided to see if he could get either of the Andersons to talk. Augusta members—except for the chairman—never talked to the media on the record, but Anderson was no longer a member.
Through a member Keith had known long before the member had been invited to join the club, Forman was able to get the elder Anderson’s cell phone number. Much to his surprise, Anderson answered on the second ring.
“Mr. Anderson, this is Keith Forman. I work for Golf Digest—”
“I know exactly who you are,” Anderson broke in. “How did you get this number? Who do you think you are, calling me?”
“I think I’m someone who would like to give you a chance to tell your side of the story on your resignation from Augusta.”
“I will tell that story when I feel it is appropriate,” Anderson said, unintentionally confirming that the newsletter had the story right. “But it certainly won’t be to the muckraker who started this whole thing!”
In the back of his mind, Keith heard a little voice saying, Never argue with a source. But he couldn’t resist. “With all due respect, sir, your son and his caddie started the whole thing by cheating. He was a good enough player—”
“Call this number again and I will file harassment charges against you,” Anderson said, and cut the call.
On the one hand, the little voice had been right. On the other hand, Keith suspected if he had done everything by the book, he wouldn’t have gotten anything more from his source. At least, he told himself, he’d confirmed Anderson’s resignation.
He wrote a brief story for his website confirming that Edward Anderson II had resigned from Augusta, quoting the conversation verbatim. After that, Anderson was nothing more than a memory. Time to move on.
The Prodigy Page 15