Frank took his practice swing, stepped back, took a deep breath, and stepped to his ball. As he looked up, all he saw was the fairway. He took the club back and—wham!—the ball came off his club perfectly. Almost without looking, he knew he’d hit it just where he wanted to.
He glanced up and saw the ball heading in a graceful arc in the same direction that Rose’s ball had gone.
“Sweet swing,” Rose said.
“What first-hole jitters?” Johnson added.
Frank was so excited that he practically ran down the fairway.
“Hardest part’s over now,” Slugger said as Frank handed him his driver. “Downhill from here.”
Actually it was downhill off the tee and then back uphill in the direction of the bunker and the green. Frank had been surprised at how hilly the golf course was. It didn’t look that hilly on TV, but he was now accustomed to it after playing 54 holes—including 9 on Wednesday morning—in the last four days.
When they arrived, Frank saw that his ball was about three paces beyond Rose’s.
“No respect for your elders at all,” Rose said.
If anyone in the field could relate to what Frank was experiencing, it was Rose. He had finished fourth as a seventeen-year-old amateur at the British Open in 1998, becoming an overnight national hero. He had then turned pro and missed twenty-one straight cuts.
Frank and Rose watched Johnson come out of the bunker and find another bunker, this one greenside.
“Tough start,” Rose murmured.
He took a seven-iron for his second shot and put it in the middle of the green.
That, Frank knew, was the place to aim. The flag was cut on the right side, near the back edge. If you flew your ball at the flag, you were apt to go over the green or, if you missed it right, shortside yourself and leave yourself with an almost impossible up-and-down.
“It’s a hundred sixty-two front, a hundred seventy-seven flag,” Slugger said, giving him the yardage. “I think Rose had it right, it’s a seven.”
Frank knew it wasn’t a seven. He was so pumped up that the thought of hitting a nine-iron crossed his mind for a split second. He knew that was wrong, too. He pulled an eight-iron, causing Slugger to give him a look.
“Trust me,” Frank said.
He aimed for the middle of the green, feeling a slight breeze coming from the left. The ball began to drift a bit right, and for a second Frank thought he’d pushed it. He hadn’t. The ball landed almost pin-high and rolled to the right. It stopped ten feet from the cup.
“Guess it was an eight,” Slugger said, grinning.
Frank walked onto the green to what felt like a hero’s welcome from the crowd. Johnson hit a good shot out of the bunker to about eight feet, but he missed the putt. Rose’s putt dove left at the last second, and he tapped in for par.
Frank looked closely at the putt and realized it was a classic Augusta National do-or-die putt. He knew the greens were like glass, even in the early morning. He also knew if he didn’t put some speed on the putt, it would break before it got to the hole. If he gave it some speed and missed the hole, it was likely he’d have a longer putt coming back.
“Don’t go crazy with this,” Slugger said softly, reading his mind. “Nothing wrong with par on this hole.”
Frank knew he was right. He knew that 4–4 (par, birdie) was a great start. There would be plenty of fives on this hole, as Johnson had just demonstrated.
The putt looked dead straight. He decided to just put a smooth stroke on it, and if it swerved right for a tap-in par, so be it. He checked his hands as he placed them on the putter. Not even a shudder.
He took the putter back just an inch and pretended it was a practice putt so as not to jerk the putter through the ball. Halfway there, he knew it was going in.
It did—dead center—or, as the TV guys bleated over and over, “Center cut!”
The crowd exploded.
As the three players walked through the ropes to the second tee, Johnson said, “You know almost no one makes three on that hole. And a seventeen-year-old in his first Masters never makes four, much less three.”
“Just lucky,” Frank said.
“Lucky, like hell,” Johnson said. He looked at Rose. “Ever seen a seventeen-year-old that cool in a major?” he asked.
“Nope,” Rose said, knowing Johnson was gigging him about the 1998 British. “Nothing close.”
“One hole,” Frank said.
“Your tee,” Johnson said. “Get up and hit.”
Having made birdie, Frank had the honor.
Brimming with confidence, he hit a high draw that bounced next to the fairway bunker and took off down the hill and out of sight.
He was so far down the hill when he got to his ball that he only needed a five-iron to the green. He left himself a 25-foot putt for eagle that he was happy to lag up to about 2 feet for a tap-in birdie.
Johnson and Rose also made birdies.
“The Perryton Prodigy is for real,” Johnson said as they walked off the green.
The third was a short par-four with a dangerously narrow green. Frank laid up with a four-iron, hit a careful wedge to the middle of the green, and was happy to make par and move on. There was a giant scoreboard left of the green. As he picked his ball out of the hole, Rose said to him, “Don’t look now, but you’re leading the Masters.”
Frank knew there were only a half dozen groups on the golf course, but he hoped someone would take a picture at that moment. He had a red 2 by his name—for two under. Rose and several others had red 1s.
Frank played the rest of the front nine cautiously, not going for anything spectacular. He knew that turning in even par or one under was just fine. He made his first bogey on the fifth when he misread a 40-foot birdie putt and sent it 10 feet past the hole. He got it back at the par-five eighth when he laid up to about 90 yards short of the green, hit a lob wedge to 6 feet, and made the putt. By then, Rose was also two under and Johnson was one under. They were all playing well.
Then, at the short but dangerous ninth, Frank got unlucky—and then lucky. His eight-iron approach was perfect—so perfect that it hit the bottom of the stick—the hole was near the back of the green—and rolled 20 feet away before stopping just before it got to the crest of the hill. Another 2 feet and the ball would have rolled off the green and to the bottom of the hill.
Instead, Frank made the birdie putt and turned in 33, giving him the lead by 1 among the early starters, including Rose and Rory McIlroy, who was two holes behind and also at two under.
The crowds following them had now swelled. It was impossible not to notice, even early on Thursday.
Frank parred 10, but bogeyed 11 when he pushed his tee shot, unable to get the trees running down the left side of the fairway out of his thoughts. He more or less laid up from there to the right side of the green, chipping to 15 feet and taking bogey. Another Masters saying: “Sometimes you have to remember that bogey can be a good score.” Eleven was one of those holes.
He made a routine par at 12, aiming for the middle of the green. Then he hit a perfect drive around the corner at 13 and found himself with a seven-iron in his hands for his second shot. He hit it perfectly and, as the onlookers got louder and louder, the ball rolled to within five feet. When he made the eagle putt, he was four under par.
He made a routine par at 14 and then found the rough at 15, meaning he had to lay up. His wedge was a tad long on his third shot, but he putted from off the green—and again got lucky. He misread the speed slightly—which was enough to cause disaster on this green. But he’d left the pin in since he was off the green and the ball hit it—moving fast—popped in the air and went in the hole for a pure-luck birdie.
“I don’t think I hit a good shot on that hole, and I made birdie,” he said to Rose and Johnson while they waited on the tee at the par-three 16.
“Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good,” Rose said.
Frank’s heart was pounding. He was now five under par and
was leading by 2. Most of the field was on the golf course by now. Rose and Johnson were both one under. If he could make three pars and shoot 67 …
Stop! he told himself. Stay in the present. He hit a cautious seven-iron to the middle of the 16th green and was thrilled to make par. Same thing at 17. At 18, for the first time all day, he saw a little shudder in his right hand as he teed the ball up.
Figures, he thought. Had to happen. Trying to hit a draw off the tee, he hit a slight push and found himself in the trees, right of the fairway. He had a shot—sort of—and tried to punch the ball up the fairway, hoping to somehow roll it up the hill and onto the green. Instead it rolled into the right bunker.
As they walked up the hill toward the green, the crowd stood to applaud. He knew some of it was for the two stars he was walking with, but it was also for the teenage amateur who, at that moment, was leading the Masters by one shot over Australian Mark Leishman and by two over Rory McIlroy and Dustin Johnson.
Sure, it was Thursday, but this was pretty cool stuff.
Frank stepped into the bunker and saw he had a perfect lie. He was 45 feet from the flag. It was not a difficult bunker shot—as long as your hands weren’t shaking.
No reason, he thought, not to get this up-and-down.
He worked his feet into the sand, glanced at the hole, and dug the ball out of the sand the way he had done thousands of times in practice. The ball popped into the air perfectly, landed about halfway up the green between him and the flagstick, and began rolling.
The noise grew and grew as the ball rolled toward the hole. “Easy does it,” Frank said aloud. “Stop right there.”
The ball was five feet from the hole at that point. But it was still rolling. It slowed, appeared ready to slide just past the hole, and then, to Frank’s shock, it disappeared—into the hole.
The place was going bananas. As he pulled himself out of the bunker, Johnson and Rose, both shaking their heads, came over to give him high-fives.
“Enjoy the interview room,” Johnson said.
“Whaa?” Frank said, barely able to hear over the noise.
“The interview room,” Johnson repeated. “That’s where you’re going next. You just shot sixty-six at the Masters, kid. You’re about to be famous.”
31
Keith Forman had walked all eighteen holes with Frank Baker and the two major champions, his disbelief growing with every hole. He wasn’t that surprised when Frank started birdie-birdie, but as the round continued he kept waiting for the “big number,” as the players called it, that would send him sliding down from that top spot on the leaderboard.
Every year at the majors, a complete unknown would pop onto the Thursday leaderboard, sending reporters scurrying to the tournament player guide to learn something about them. Almost inevitably, within an hour, the guy would find water or out-of-bounds or the trees, make a triple-bogey, and become an Andy Warhol fifteen-minutes-of-fame footnote.
Or they might hang in there, shoot a decent first-round score, and then blow up and shoot 77 the next day.
There were certainly plenty of places on Augusta’s back nine for the big number to happen. Keith breathed a sigh of relief when Frank’s tee shot at 12 found the green, and while Frank’s wedge shot was in the air at 15, Keith was holding his breath again, thinking it might bounce down the hill behind the green and end up in the water.
None of that happened. Even on 18, when Keith couldn’t see the lie because he was all the way on the other side of the green trying to peek over people’s heads, the thought that Frank might leave his third shot in the bunker and finish with a deflating double-bogey crossed Keith’s mind.
When Frank holed the shot, Keith let out an involuntary whoop—very unprofessional—causing Steve DiMeglio, who had come out and joined him on the 15th tee, to smile and say, “Aren’t you the guy who gives me a hard time for pulling for Sergio?”
Keith did give DiMeglio a hard time about his unabashed affection for Sergio García, as did others. “Hey, I reacted to the shot,” he said, a bit defensively. “Come on, tell me that wasn’t amazing.”
DiMeglio laughed. “Admit you’re biased. You’ve been chasing the kid around since Riviera.”
“Guilty,” Keith answered. There was no point arguing.
After Zach Johnson and Justin Rose putted out and the players and caddies gathered for the traditional post-round handshakes, he and DiMeglio started walking in the direction of the scoring area. They had to wait while security stopped everyone to let the players get through.
“I’m going to the interview room,” DiMeglio said. “I’m sure they’ll bring him straight there.”
Keith decided to wait outside the ropes near the scoring area. He was curious to see the scene there, even though he knew Frank would be taken to the interview room. He’d have to make a decision on when to leave because he’d have to walk about 150 yards to get a cart to take him to the Taj Mahal. The cart for Frank would be right there.
The three players were still inside signing their scorecards when he arrived. Keith saw Thomas Baker and Ron Lawrensen standing just outside the door. He didn’t mind the notion that a player’s father could get inside the ropes here, but it annoyed him that agents had that access. Still, there was nothing he could do.
Slugger came out first. He stopped to talk to Baker and Lawrensen, and Keith could tell the conversation was a little bit heated.
Finally, the caddie walked in the direction of Frank’s bag, which was a few yards away.
Richard Stone, who had worked with the media committee for years, came over and said, “We’re taking him straight to the interview room, Keith. Nothing here.”
Stone was doing Keith a favor by giving him a heads-up that he was wasting his time lingering by the ropes. Often, players would stop and talk there for a few minutes even if they were going to the interview room. That was apparently not the case when a seventeen-year-old amateur shot 66 for the early Thursday lead.
Keith was about to turn to leave when he heard Slugger calling his name and saw him walking in his direction.
“Amazing, huh?” Slugger said, striding up with his hand outstretched.
“Beyond amazing,” Keith said. “He’s not just good—he has a flair for the dramatic.”
“No kidding,” Slugger said.
“Hey, what was that with you, the old man, and Lawrensen?” Keith asked.
Slugger shook his head. “The cart to the interview room is a four-seater: driver, player, and two others. Frank doesn’t want Lawrensen on the cart. He’s worried about how that will look, especially if Lawrensen walks in with the old man while he’s talking.”
“He’s right,” Keith said. “Lot of eyes and ears all around this place. Lot of rumors, too.”
Slugger nodded. “Frank wants me on the cart instead. Old man is adamant.”
“Frank needs to just tell the green-jacket who’s directing him that he only wants his dad and you on the cart.”
“Bad idea,” Slugger said. “Last thing the kid needs right now is another blowup with his father.”
Keith sighed. Slugger was right. Choose your battles, he thought.
“Everything they’re doing is designed to force him to turn pro when this is over,” he said.
“The way he’s playing may force him to turn pro when this is over,” Slugger said.
Then Frank walked outside, looking around for Slugger. Spotting him with Keith, he gave Keith a wave. The green-jacket had his hand on his back, guiding him in the direction of the cart. Keith needed to step on it to get back to the Taj Mahal.
* * *
By the time Keith got there, Frank was walking onto the podium to take his seat. Keith looked over and saw Baker and Lawrensen sitting to the side, a security guard standing nearby as protection—as if they needed it.
The interview room in the Taj was huge and had what amounted to a moat—no water, just flowers—between the reporters and the podium, which felt as if it were ten feet high. There was
no scrumming post-interviews and no waiting for anyone outside the back door, like in the old press building.
Someone had joked that Tiger Woods was probably a consultant when they built the room because he was the one player who never, ever scrummed.
When a reporter wanted to ask a question, he’d raise his hand and his credential would automatically be read by the member on the podium who was sitting with the player and calling on people to ask questions. He would then call on the questioner by name. There was a microphone at every chair.
Richard Stone was the media committee member in charge of Frank’s interview.
As always was the case when a player came in, Stone began with a formal, lavish introduction.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have with us now Frank Baker, one of our amateur participants, the runner-up in last year’s U.S. Amateur. Frank opened the Masters today with a beautifully played sixty-six and is kind enough to join us here for a few minutes.” Then he asked Frank the first question. “Did you even dream about leading the Masters in your first appearance?”
Frank shook his head. “I thought leading after two holes was pretty cool,” he said. “When Justin Rose pointed to the scoreboard on three, I wanted to take a picture right there.” He smiled. “But I figured if I took out my cell phone, I might get banished from the golf course.”
That cracked up the entire room, except for Stone. “Questions?” he said, unsmiling.
The questions were routine: How had he fought his nerves all day? (No idea, just tried to play golf.) How were Zach Johnson and Justin Rose to play with? (Fantastic.) What was his most nerve-racking moment? (Third shot on 15.) Describe the third shot on 18. (Easy lie, normal bunker shot, just hoping to make 4.) What did he expect tomorrow? (Same as today, I hope.)
Frank was charming, smart, and humble. He said all the right things.
Stone wrapped up with a “Good luck tomorrow, young man,” and everyone turned to leave.
Keith saw a swarm headed in the direction of Baker and Lawrensen. That made sense. If you couldn’t scrum with the player, scrum with the father.
The Prodigy Page 21