* * *
Keith always had mixed emotions when he arrived at Augusta National. There was no denying the beauty of the place. The golf course, designed in the 1930s by Bobby Jones (the most successful amateur golfer of all time) and Alister MacKenzie (the famous British golf-course architect), had been lengthened and tweaked constantly, but the basic aesthetics had never changed.
For anyone who played golf or loved golf, seeing it for the first time was almost a religious experience.
But there was also no denying the club’s troubling history. No African American had played in the Masters before Lee Elder in 1975, and that came only after the rules had been changed to make any PGA Tour winner an automatic invitee. Several other very good African American players had been denied invitations to the tournament throughout the 1960s and early ’70s, prior to Elder’s victory at the 1974 Monsanto Open.
It wasn’t until 1990 that Augusta National first invited an African American to join the club—and that came only after the embarrassment at Shoal Creek, in Alabama, had almost caused the PGA Championship to be moved or canceled that year. Hall Thompson, Shoal Creek’s founder—who happened to be an Augusta member—had been asked by a local reporter in Birmingham what the reaction would be at the club if an African American applied for membership.
“That would never happen in Birmingham,” he had said, going on to add, “We don’t discriminate in every other area except when it comes to blacks.”
The comments set off a national firestorm, and when it finally died down, Shoal Creek had an African American member and the U.S. Golf Association and the PGA Tour had declared they would no longer hold tournaments at clubs that discriminated against anyone, whether by race, religion, or sex.
Augusta National was exempt from this rule because the Masters was technically not a PGA Tour event. It was a very small loophole, but Augusta had continued to crawl through it for another twenty-two years: although it did admit its first African American member shortly after the scandal at Shoal Creek, it only admitted its first female members in 2012—after years of controversy surrounding their absence.
Forman also found the club’s arrogance overbearing. TV “partners” lived in fear of violating any of Augusta’s various rules and traditions. God forbid an announcer should call the fans anything but “patrons,” or refer to a “front nine” or “back nine” instead of the “first nine” and “second nine,” or imply that anyone played in the Masters for anything but the hope of an iconic Augusta National green sports jacket and their name inscribed on the trophy at the clubhouse. Money? Never mind the two-million-dollar first prize—we don’t talk about money at Augusta.
That was no doubt because the membership was so overwhelmingly wealthy that it could do just about anything it wanted. Need a new driving range? Sure, let’s just get rid of the main parking lot, buy up all the land across the street, and move all the parking there. Build a new tee on the 13th hole? No problem—we’ll purchase land from Augusta Country Club next door at an outrageous price and build it. Want to move the media from a press building next to the first hole to use that space for corporate partners? Why don’t we build a Taj Mahal–like press center at the far end of the grounds and dig up Berckmans Road to create parking space?
Doing his job as a reporter was harder for Keith at Augusta than at any other golf tournament. The media had less access at the Masters than at any major: no range access, no inside-the-ropes badges. Access to the nonchampions locker room, yes; champions locker room, no. Most reporters didn’t mind. The parking was great, the food was excellent, and they could cover the tournament without ever leaving the Taj Mahal if they wanted. Many didn’t leave, except to buy souvenirs.
Forman knew he was privileged to cover the Masters and he was in a place any golf fan would kill to be, but the atmosphere of the place—the entitlement of it all—made him feel a bit squeamish.
This year, though, was different. He wasn’t here looking for general stories. He’d explained to the editors at Digest that he was working on a project involving Frank Baker and wanted to devote the entire week to him. They were intrigued enough to go along.
And so, after collecting his credentials in the press center, complete with the usual warnings about the instant expulsion—if not death—that would occur if you used your cell phone anywhere but at the Taj or the media parking lot, he set out in search of Frank.
He had sent him a text before getting out of his car because he knew that carrying his phone in the direction of the golf course and the locker room was a risk not worth taking. Just before he left the Taj, Keith saw a text from Frank: About to go play a few holes. See you out there?
Keith sighed. He’d made a mistake. Media had been allowed on the grounds on Sunday at Augusta National only since the launch of Drive, Chip & Putt. But it wasn’t until Monday that there was access to the golf course or the locker room. Until then, you were allowed in the three places where the DC&P competition was taking place: the so-called tournament practice area, the putting green, and the 18th green. You were also allowed under the famous tree outside the clubhouse entrance, where most of the golf world would gather to make deals, gossip, and be able to say, “I was talking to Tom Watson under the tree today and…”
On Sunday, Tom Watson would be nowhere in sight, nor would most of the players, unless you got lucky and caught one en route from the locker room to the golf course or vice versa. Keith knew that Frank would show up under the tree at some point to greet the DC&P kids along with defending champion Sergio García and a couple of other name players that Augusta National had “asked” to come and meet the kids. In the golf world an ask from Augusta National carried the same power as a presidential executive order. They asked; you did what they wanted.
It would be more than two hours before the kids’ tournament was over. Keith was trapped with nothing to do until then. He went into the restaurant, grabbed some chicken from the buffet, and sat down by himself. There weren’t a lot of media members on campus on Sunday. DC&P was covered extensively by Golf Channel—another “ask” from Augusta National—but the only reporters who covered it were those who had a local player participating or those like Keith who showed up claiming they were there to cover it but who were actually hoping to grab some time with a player or players. There were probably about thirty guys already in town. The rest would arrive the next morning.
“Hey, Keith, you here looking to interview a ten-year-old?”
Keith looked up and was pleasantly surprised to see Larry Dorman walking in his direction, tray in hand. Dorman had retired several years ago as the golf writer at the New York Times. He was not only one of the best golf writers of his generation but also the kind of guy who went out of his way to help and advise young writers—Keith had been one of those who had benefited from that.
Keith stood to greet Dorman, then shook his head as they sat down.
“I’m stalking Frank Baker,” he said. “Doing a lousy job of it right now. Why are you here?”
Dorman now wrote the annual Masters Journal, the official tournament book that chronicled the entire week.
“The club asked me to be here today so I can include some of the DC&P kids and highlights in the program,” he said. “Not exactly Woodward and Bernstein stuff, but they asked…”
“So you do.” Keith finished the sentence with a laugh.
Dorman nodded, digging into a salad. Even in his midsixties, Dorman still looked like the dogged reporter he’d been—slender, with dark hair and a trimmed beard with just enough gray in it to make it clear he was no longer young. His current assignment didn’t require doggedness. Keith suspected he missed that.
“So what’s up with Baker?” Dorman asked.
“I’ve been dealing with him and his family since the Amateur,” Keith said. “The answer is, I have no idea what’s up with him. He’s got the classic pushy father who smells big bucks, the sleazy agent hanging around ready to cash in. But he’s a nice kid who just wants
to play golf and go to college.”
“Let me guess: the old man and the agent want him to turn pro when this is over.”
Keith nodded. “When his last putt hits the cup at eighteen, whether on Friday or Sunday, corporate America will be backing a Brinks truck up to the garage of the Baker house.”
“Any good guys in this?” Dorman asked. “Besides you?”
“His teacher at the home club in Connecticut,” Keith said. “Guy named Slugger Johnston. Old college teammate of mine. But we’re both pretty helpless to do much.”
“That reminds me—what ever happened to the Anderson kid you caught cheating out at Riviera?” Dorman asked.
“The USGA suspended him from their events for a year,” Keith said. “Didn’t matter, though. He turned pro anyway. He made it through Q-School for the Web.com Tour last fall and has had a couple of top tens already this year.”
“So he can actually play a little.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the shame of it. If he’s ever good enough to be in contention somewhere, the cheating thing will be in the first paragraph of every story.”
“And the old man resigned from Augusta?”
“Yeah, apparently he was asked to.”
Dorman laughed. “We all know how that turns out, don’t we?”
“Every time,” Keith answered. “Every time.”
For a moment his mind drifted. He wondered where Edward Anderson II would be spending the week.
24
Frank felt as if he were dreaming as he, Jordan Spieth, and Justin Thomas made their way around the front nine. The beauty of the place was everything he had expected—and more.
Spieth and Thomas could not have been nicer, which didn’t surprise him, given their reputations. Still, they went well out of their way on every hole to warn him where not to hit it, which side of the green to play to, and to tell him what to expect as the week went on.
“Watch where we’re putting to on each hole,” Spieth urged. “Those are the places where the holes are likely to be starting Thursday. They’ve got ’em all in the middle of the greens today, but there’s no chance you’ll find a flag there once the tournament begins.”
“And don’t pay any attention to the speeds,” Thomas added. “These greens are probably rolling about eleven and a half or twelve right now. I promise you, on Thursday morning they’ll be fourteen.”
“At least,” Spieth added.
Frank knew that Augusta was notorious for its green speeds—and the club’s secrecy about them. Green speeds were measured by a very simple device known as a Stimpmeter, so called because a man named Edward Stimpson had invented it.
A Stimpmeter was an angled, three-foot-long track made of aluminum. You rolled a ball down it and measured the number of feet the ball rolled once it hit the green. Then you did the same test from where the ball stopped in the opposite direction. You added the two measurements together and divided by 2 to get the green speed. If the speed was five feet, you said the greens were rolling at 5; ten feet meant 10, and so on. The ideal green speed for championship golf was usually between 12 and 14. Some players insisted the greens at Augusta were as fast as 16 at times.
No one knew for sure, only that they were very fast once the tournament began. “You gotta figure they’ll be at least two or three feet faster on Thursday than on Wednesday,” Spieth said.
Even though they paused to try chips and putts from different spots on each green, they played quickly. Augusta had a one-ball rule, meaning players were not supposed to play more than one ball at a time in a practice round. Most places, players would routinely try a second or a third shot from the tee or from specific places. At Augusta, when you did it, you looked around first to make sure no one wearing green was watching.
“Better enjoy this,” Spieth said as they walked onto the seventh green. “By tomorrow, when everyone’s here, if you want to play eighteen holes it’ll take you five or six hours.”
“Easily,” Thomas added. “That’s why we get here early, so we can play nine holes the next three days and still feel like we know the golf course.”
“Helps to have played here before,” Spieth said.
Helps, Frank thought, to be a great player.
Jordan Spieth was already a three-time major champion at the age of twenty-four, and his first three finishes at the Masters had been 2-1-2. Justin Thomas, who was three months older, had won his first major, the PGA Championship, the previous August.
Thomas was almost blindingly long off the tee. Augusta’s fairways were wide enough that the players didn’t mess around with three-woods or irons off the tee—especially in a practice round. They just blasted. Thomas was no more than five foot ten, and if he weighed 150 pounds it was a lot. But his clubhead speed was amazing. Spieth was supposed to be not long, but he was plenty long enough. Frank, who considered himself long, found himself muscling up on a couple of occasions to keep up and, as a result, he sprayed a few drivers.
“Long helps, but isn’t required around here,” Spieth said. “Look at me, Zach Johnson, Mike Weir. None of us is that long, and we’ve all won. Finding fairways in the right spots is critical.”
Frank felt like he was in a PhD program for playing Augusta National. Which was why he felt a wave of disappointment when the three of them walked up the steep hill to the ninth green and saw three Augusta members wearing the club’s signature green jackets waiting for them.
“Perfect timing, gentlemen,” one green-jacket said, waiting near the back of the green as the three players walked off after putting out. “We’d be very grateful if you’d come and join us and meet some of the young people we’ve gathered here. Sergio’s already up there.”
He was smiling and his tone was light, but Frank knew this wasn’t a request.
One of the other green-jackets looked Jordan up and down. “Mr. Spieth, I know you’ll need a minute to go upstairs and grab your jacket.”
“Absolutely,” Spieth said. “Be down in a moment.”
“Do we need jackets, too?” Frank whispered to Thomas.
Thomas laughed. “Not unless one of us has won the Masters,” he said softly.
Frank got it. Spieth was going up to the champions locker room to get the green jacket he’d won in 2015. He knew that only the current champion—in this case, García—was allowed to take his green jacket off the club grounds. The other past champions had a green jacket waiting in their lockers when they came back each year. During tournament week, they were expected to wear their jackets for any non-golf public appearance.
“Justin, Frank, if you come with us, there are some youngsters who are very excited to say hello,” said the third green-jacket.
Spieth was literally running in the direction of the locker room. “Can’t he just send someone to get the jacket?” Frank asked Thomas. “Why’s he running like that?”
Two security guards had fallen into step with them, just in case someone stopped them for an autograph or a stray reporter showed up on the walk from the ninth green to the tree, where they could see a knot of people and a number of cameras. In truth, there weren’t many people around. The only folks allowed inside the gates were the families of the DC&P kids, the media, and, of course, members and their families. The security escort seemed unneeded to Frank, but he knew his was not to question why.
“No one can go in the champions locker room unless escorted by a champion,” Thomas said. “And Jordan just likes to run. Walking’s not his thing.”
When they got to the tree, the kids were lined up to meet them. It occurred to Frank that the oldest ones were only a couple of years younger than he was. Yet here he was going down the line behind Thomas, signing autographs, posing for selfies, asking kids their names, and congratulating those who were introduced to him as age-group champions.
One of the older girls was at least six feet tall and had a beautiful smile. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Baker,” she said in a southern drawl.
“Uh, call me Frank,�
� he said, his cheeks burning.
He was relieved when his green-jacket escort gently nudged him to keep moving. He’d used up all his clever lines with “Uh, call me Frank,” so he didn’t object.
Suddenly he heard a loud cheer. He turned and saw Spieth walking over in his green jacket. The kids were golfers. They knew who Thomas was, and they had a vague notion that Frank was one of the amateurs who had qualified for the tournament. But Spieth was a superstar: he and Rory McIlroy had become the two biggest names in the game when Tiger Woods’s problems had sidelined him.
McIlroy had won four majors, and Spieth had won three. Plus, they were both young and cool and friendly. Frank had seen that up close already today.
Spieth was clearly comfortable in this role. He took his time, working his way down the line, shaking hands, hugging some of the kids, kneeling to get down to eye level with the younger ones. Frank and Thomas had reached the end of the line so they stood and waited for Spieth.
Spieth made sure he left every kid with a smile on his or her face. When he reached Frank and Thomas, Frank noticed that another man in a green jacket had come up behind them to greet Spieth. This one he recognized: it was Jonathan Tucker, the new chairman of Augusta National.
He was tall and looked like a golfer—which he had been; he’d won the U.S. Amateur in the 1970s and had been a very good college golfer.
Tucker had a wide smile on his face as Spieth approached. “Jordan, great to see you again,” he said. “Thanks so much for doing this.”
“Happy to do it, Mr. Chairman,” Spieth said.
Tucker turned to Frank and Thomas.
“And thanks to both of you, too,” he said, shaking hands with them. “Justin, haven’t seen you since the PGA. Belated congratulations. That was great playing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman.”
“And Frank, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Tucker continued. “Having played in the Masters as an amateur, I’m always thrilled to meet the amateurs who’ve qualified to play here.”
The Prodigy Page 16