The Prodigy

by John Feinstein

  Oh jeez, he thought, that sounded like a seventeen-year-old.

  “So how much was that last chip-in worth?” someone asked.

  The others had already coached Frank up on this one. “Worth?” he said, smiling. “It was worth a double-high-five from Rory. There’s no gambling on the PGA Tour, right?”

  Everyone laughed at that one, and Frank was excused. He saw Keith Forman watching from behind his colleagues.

  “We need to talk,” Forman said. “Not here, not now, but later today. Without the Bobbsey twins anywhere in sight.”

  Frank nodded. “I’ll text you after lunch,” he said. “You can get to your cell phone in the press building, right?”

  Forman nodded. “No rush. Go have fun.”

  Frank did just that. The four players had lunch in a corner of the upstairs dining room. Mickelson had wanted to bring them into the champions locker room as his guests, but the few private tables were already taken.

  As they sat down amid a sea of green jackets, Mickelson looked around, then quietly slipped a fat wad of bills into Frank’s hands. Frank looked and saw they were all hundreds.

  “This is wrong,” he said. “Rory should get this.”

  “No way,” Mickelson said. “You earned it. And believe me, if you’d lost, the minute you turned pro, I’d have collected.”

  Frank had never seen so much cash before in his life. He looked at Rory, who nodded.

  “Don’t spend it all in one place,” his partner said, grinning.

  Frank stuck it in his pocket. It had been an amazing day.

  29

  Keith and Frank met at a McDonald’s, one that was well off the very beaten path of Washington Road, which ran along the northeast side of the course. After the kid’s incredible performance that morning, Keith worried that going to anyplace near the golf course would result in Frank being recognized early and often.

  He made the right decision. At three o’clock in the afternoon, the restaurant wasn’t crowded. They’d both eaten at the golf course, so they ordered milkshakes and sat in a small booth in a corner.

  Frank filled Keith in on the events of the day, finishing with Mickelson handing him the cash. “As we were getting up to leave, he said to me, ‘Kid, whenever you turn pro, that’ll be tip money.’”

  Keith laughed. “Actually, he’s not lying. He’s been known to leave hundred-dollar tips at drive-through windows. He’s the best tipper I’ve ever met in golf. Did he ask you when you were going to turn pro?”

  “No, but Rory did when we went back to the locker room for a couple minutes. He said he’s always wondered what college would have been like, but turning pro at seventeen had worked out pretty well for him.”

  Keith nodded. “Can’t argue with that, but Rory’s an unusual case.” He paused. “You need to make your own choice, not your dad and certainly not Ron Lawrensen.”

  “What’s Ron been up to?” Frank asked.

  Keith filled him in on what Mark Steinberg and Guy Kinnings had told him and about his meeting with the Brickley people.

  “So they think it’s a done deal?” Frank asked when Keith finished describing his conversation with Billy Nevins and the beautiful Ms. Erica Chambers.

  “Felt like it,” Keith said. “Maybe I’m missing something, but they were so confident I almost felt as if your dad had actually signed something. Although Nevins did say if you won the Masters that would change everything because Nike would probably triple their offer.”

  Frank almost coughed up his milkshake. “Win the Masters? Yeah, right.”

  “It was said in the same vein as someone saying, ‘If the Mets go undefeated this season,’” Keith said.

  “They are one-and-oh,” Frank said.

  “Exactly,” Keith said. “Only a hundred and sixty-one to go.”

  They both laughed, and then talked strategy for a few minutes. Clearly, there was nothing to be done the next few days except for Keith to keep his ears open for any more rumors.

  Frank told Keith he was going to play nine holes in the morning and then play in the par-three tournament. The club had “suggested” he play with John Caccese, the U.S. Amateur champion, and Nathan Smith, who had again won the Mid-Amateur title the previous fall.

  “They like to spotlight the amateurs as much as they can,” Keith explained when Frank told him his pairing. “That’s why they’re doing this but, more important, why you all play with past champions the first two rounds.”

  “Nathan’s got Bernhard Langer,” Frank said.

  Keith laughed. “Better bring a sundial,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Langer’s so slow the rules officials call him Herr Sundial. He’s still an amazing player for a guy who’s sixty, but boy is he an anchor out there.”

  Frank had taken an Uber to the McDonald’s since Slugger was nowhere to be found. Keith gave him a ride back to the hotel.

  “Just remember one thing,” Keith said as he dropped Frank off. “Your dad and Lawrensen can make a hundred deals if they want to, and if you say, ‘I’m not turning pro,’ there’s nothing they can do about it. It’s your life, your decision.”

  “When are you going to write something about all this?” Frank said, his hand on the car door. A valet was standing there, and Frank held out one finger to indicate he needed a minute.

  “No idea,” Keith said, although he’d been thinking about it a lot all week. “I might write a long piece for Digest next week. If you win the Masters, I might try to sell it as a book.”

  “It could come out at the same time as the book about the Mets’ undefeated season.”

  “Exactly,” Keith said.

  They shook hands and Frank jumped out of the car. Keith could hear the valet saying, “I saw you on TV today, Mr. Baker. It was very impressive…”

  Keith didn’t catch the rest. He didn’t need to.

  * * *

  After dropping Frank off at the hotel, Keith drove back to the golf course. Since it was late afternoon, all the traffic was heading away from Augusta National on Washington Road and it only took him about ten minutes to get back.

  As Keith drove, he heard Rory McIlroy’s voice in the back of his head, again and again.

  “I’m telling you, Keith, I know this is nuts, but that kid is good enough to win.”

  “Someday,” Keith had said, finishing the sentence.

  “Sunday,” McIlroy had said, not the slightest trace of a smile on his face.

  Before meeting up with Frank to go to the McDonald’s, Keith had been headed into the locker room to see if anyone was around who would be worth talking to when he again bumped into McIlroy, who was on his way out.

  They had joked for a minute about Frank’s chip-in being the greatest clutch shot that had never happened at the Masters when McIlroy had blurted out his comment about Frank.

  “Sit and talk to me for a minute,” Keith said.

  “My wife’s waiting for me,” McIlroy said.

  “One minute,” Keith said.

  They walked over and sat down on one of the couches in the empty lounge area just outside the locker room. Almost no one ever sat in the lounge.

  “Tell me what you mean,” Keith had prompted.

  “Look, he hits it just about as far as I do, and there are only a couple of guys out here who hit as far as I do,” McIlroy said. “He can really putt, and he likes pressure.”

  “But, Rory, it’s Tuesday. He’s seventeen. He’s never seen greens like the ones he’s going to see Thursday, much less if he somehow got into contention on Sunday. You’re a lock Hall-of-Famer, and look what happened to you the first time you had a chance here on Sunday. And you were twenty-one, not seventeen.”

  McIlroy was nodding in agreement as Keith spoke. “Everything you just said is true,” he said. “But I’ve played eighteen holes with this kid now, and I’m telling you I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t play well. Now, Sunday is always another story, I know that, but it’s not a fantasy.”

 
“Is it, at least, a long shot?”

  “Maybe. But not a hundred-to-one.”

  “What then?”

  “Fifteen-to-one? Ten-to-one?”

  “Those aren’t very long odds in a golf tournament. You and Spieth are probably six-to-one.”

  “I know that,” McIlroy said. He stood to go.

  “Hey, Rory,” Keith said. “Do you know how many amateurs have won the Masters?”

  McIlroy smiled. “Exactly none,” he answered. “First time for everything.”

  He walked out, leaving Keith sitting alone, staring into space.

  * * *

  After parking the car, Keith hightailed it to a meeting he’d set up the previous night. He had called Oregon coach Casey Martin because Casey had told him he’d be in town on Tuesday and Wednesday. Under any circumstances, grabbing a cup of coffee with Martin would be something he’d look forward to; now it had become important.

  Keith had met Martin in 2005 when they had played in the same first stage at Qualifying School. Keith liked and admired Martin, who’d been a teammate of Tiger Woods at Stanford. A year after their Q-School pairing, Martin had retired from the Tour and become the golf coach at Oregon. The Ducks had become a national power under him, winning the NCAA title in 2016 and finishing second in 2017.

  Keith walked into the Augusta National grillroom shortly after five and found it virtually empty, except for a couple of agents he recognized but didn’t know huddling at one table and Martin sitting at the other end of the room.

  As Martin stood to shake hands, Keith tried to wave him back into his seat.

  “I’m not a cripple,” Martin said, grinning. “I just limp a lot.”

  Martin still knew enough people on the Tour to get a PLAYER GUEST credential, which meant he had access to the grillroom.

  “Who hooked you up?” Keith asked, sitting down.

  Martin grinned. “Tiger,” he said. “He may not be playing this year, but he still has juice with the members. After all, he is a four-time champion.”

  The waiter came by and Keith asked for a tomato juice; Martin asked for another club soda. Keith would have loved a stronger drink, but knowing he would have to make his way through about a hundred cops leaving the premises, he didn’t want to chance one—much less the two he knew he’d want.

  “So, you sounded a little urgent on the phone last night,” Martin said. “What’s up?”

  “I know you’re recruiting Frank Baker,” Keith began.

  Martin broke in, laughing. “That’s hardly a scoop,” he said. “Everyone is recruiting Frank Baker.”

  “Yeah, I know. I also know he really likes you. But that’s not my point. There’s an agent running around trying to make deals for him because his dad wants him to turn pro as soon as he’s out of high school. I’m afraid he might jeopardize his eligibility. Am I nuts to be concerned?”

  Martin knitted his eyebrows and took a long sip of his drink. “You aren’t nuts at all,” he said. “You know how the NCAA can be. If this guy is making deals, the key might be the Cam Newton case.”

  Cam Newton, Keith knew, was not a golfer but a football player. During the one season when he had been Auburn University’s quarterback, stories had surfaced about his father basically selling him to the highest bidder. His eligibility had been put in doubt. Newton was on his way to winning the Heisman Trophy and leading Auburn to the national title. The NCAA did not want him taken off the field, so it ruled that if the so-called student-athlete did not specifically know that solicitations were being made on his behalf, he was still eligible to play for a college team. Auburn skated, too, since there wasn’t absolute proof it had ended up paying Newton or his father.

  Keith thought for a moment. “Well, in Frank’s case, I don’t think the kid knew anything was going on—until I told him an hour ago.”

  Martin shook his head. “You telling him shouldn’t count against him. Technically, you don’t know anything because all your information would have to be secondhand. But…”

  “There’s always a but,” Keith said. “What is it?”

  “The but is the NCAA. Frank’s a star but in golf, not football. Golf doesn’t make millions of dollars for NCAA schools. In fact, golf loses money. Golf Channel’s college TV deal is worth next to nothing, and no one sells tickets to college golf. Cam Newton was a multimillion-dollar product for the NCAA, not to mention the awful position it would have been in if he’d been declared ineligible and then won the Heisman Trophy.”

  Martin went on to say the NCAA could decide to take Frank down to send a message to other kids in nonrevenue sports: “Don’t mess with agents and corporations until you turn pro.”

  “What about Earl being on IMG’s payroll while Tiger was at Stanford?” Keith asked.

  “If they’d known, they might have done something. But remember, that didn’t come out until Tiger was already on tour.”

  “So my guy could be in trouble.”

  Martin nodded. “It’s all subjective with the NCAA,” he said. “But I can tell you the fact that there’s an agent involved and everyone in golf knows the father’s on the Double Eagle payroll won’t help.”

  “Technically, though, that’s not illegal,” Keith said, a little surprised that Martin knew about the dad’s deal with Double Eagle. “Does everyone really know?”

  “Yup. Remember, I said every college coach is recruiting him? Lawrensen’s been telling people not to bother because he’s already got the old man in his pocket.”

  “The kid wants to go to college.”

  “Then you better find a way to get the father and the agent to cease and desist.” He paused. “If it’s not too late.”

  Keith held his hand up so the waiter could see him. “I’d like a gin gimlet,” he said.

  He’d changed his mind about having a drink. He needed one. He’d worry about the cops later.

  30

  Wednesday seemed to take forever as far as Frank was concerned. After the high of Tuesday, he felt as if he’d done all the Augusta preliminaries. He was ready to tee it up and play for real.

  The par-three tournament was fun. He enjoyed playing with John Caccese and Nathan Smith, both guys he already knew, making it very comfortable.

  Caccese was a wreck at the thought of playing with Sergio García the next day. “Do you know what kind of crowd he’ll draw?” he asked at one point. “It’ll be ridiculous.”

  People had told Frank that the par-three course, which was at the far end of the property, down a hill from the clubhouse, was the most beautiful part of Augusta National. He’d found that hard to believe, but when he got there he understood. There were little ponds everywhere, and the trees seemed to soar even higher around all nine holes.

  He shot a respectable two-under-par 25 and was glad that he came nowhere close to Jon Rahm’s winning score of 22—which included a hole in one. The par-three had first been played in 1961. No par-three winner had ever won the Masters. Rahm said he wasn’t worried about the jinx. There were other players, Frank knew, who had said they would intentionally hit their tee shot in the water at the ninth hole if they had a chance to win.

  The real golf course was closed by the time Frank and his companions finished their par-three round. This was another Masters tradition: closing the golf course on Wednesday afternoon. It was done not only to get the course ready for Thursday but also to encourage players to take part in the par-three. Most did just that.

  Frank would have liked to have hung around the smaller course to watch Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, and Tom Watson—the legends threesome—play a few holes, but the crowds were so thick that he knew there was no chance. He decided against going back to the range. His swing felt great. Why do anything to tire himself out?

  He settled for an awkward dinner at the hotel with Slugger, his dad, and Lawrensen. Frank was dying to confront the two men about Lawrensen’s backroom dealings, but both Keith and Slugger had told him to leave it be until the tournament was over.

&nb
sp; “So how do you feel?” his dad asked, trying to make conversation after their appetizers had been cleared.

  “Pretty good,” Frank said as he picked at a crust on his bread plate.

  “Don’t worry, Frank,” Lawrensen said. “You can make the cut. It’s the weakest field of the four majors. Only eighty-nine guys playing because it’s so hard to get in, and a bunch of ’em are old-guy past champions who can’t really play anymore.”

  “Ron, you think I don’t know that?” Frank said, barely able to conceal his disgust. “Why don’t you just let me worry about being able to get the ball teed up in the morning, okay? Slugger’s my coach, not you.”

  “Frank!” his father said sharply.

  “Dad, he’s your adviser, not mine,” Frank said.

  The main course arrived at that moment. There wasn’t much talk after that. Frank was grateful.

  * * *

  “Fore please. Now driving, Frank Baker.”

  Frank knew this was another Masters tradition. The starter—the man introducing the players on the first tee—didn’t engage in the usual lavish intros players got at other tournaments. The only player in the field who was introduced with anything more than his name was the defending champion. For everyone else it was those few words. Zach Johnson, who’d won the tournament in 2007, had gotten them a moment earlier, followed by Justin Rose, who had been one swing away from being the defending champion.

  The tee on Thursday morning was absolutely packed at 8:48. Many fans (patrons) had simply stayed there after the traditional opening drives that Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player had hit at 7:45. Frank would have liked to have watched that ceremony, but he’d been on the range warming up.

  When he heard the starter call his name, he stepped forward and—as he’d seen Johnson and Rose do—waved a hand to acknowledge the applause, smiled, and teed his ball up. He was a little surprised as he looked down to see that his hand wasn’t shaking at all.

  Johnson had hit his drive in the yawning bunker on the right side of the fairway, the one that Phil Mickelson had so kindly pointed out to Frank on Tuesday. Rose had hit a perfect drive down the middle.