“Middle of the green,” Slugger said. “Two putts and we’re out of here.”
That wasn’t what Frank was thinking. “You know what? You’re right,” he said to Slugger, grinning. “But I’m not actually mature enough to understand that.”
He stepped back from his ball and took a deep breath. He had exactly 93 yards to the flag. He hit the ball high in the air, aiming to fly it just over the flagstick. Which is exactly what he did. The ball flew past the stick, landed just on the edge of the green, and spun backward. Frank couldn’t see the ball because the green was elevated, but he could hear the crowd noise rising as the ball crept toward the hole.
He raced up the hill to get a look. The ball had stopped two feet below the hole.
He punched the air—mostly in relief—as he walked onto the green. All the spectators (that is, the patrons) were standing, giving him a whistling, cheering ovation.
“Whatever happens tomorrow, this is pretty cool,” Slugger whispered in his ear as they walked from the front to the back of the green, Frank stopping to mark his ball.
Slugger was right. This was pretty cool.
Kuchar had a 20-foot birdie putt that he just missed. He tapped in for a 70. Frank took an extra few seconds with his putt to make sure he didn’t do something silly because his adrenaline was so high. He knocked the putt in for 67, and the crowd went bonkers again.
He thought about something the great tennis player John McEnroe had once said: “They love you when you’re young; they love you when you’re old. The killer part is in between.”
Kuchar came over and gave him a hug. “That third shot was about the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said. “And one of the best shots I’ve ever seen.” Then he added, “Go out and win this thing tomorrow.”
Frank laughed at the thought.
Then he looked at the scoreboard for a moment. He was still in a three-way tie for the lead with Matsuyama and McIlroy. The way golf pairings worked, the first player to finish at a certain score was the last player to tee off the next day. He was the first one to post nine under. That meant unless two players got to ten under—which was unlikely—he would be playing in the final group at the Masters the next day.
Hope Christopher would be impressed.
“OMG,” he murmured to himself. “OMG.”
35
The buzzing of his cell phone woke Keith Forman. He blinked at the clock radio next to the bed: 6:26 a.m. He certainly hadn’t set an alarm for that hour. In fact, he hadn’t set an alarm at all.
He had fallen into bed at about 1:00 a.m. There was no need to get to the golf course early, so he would sleep in. The last group, Frank Baker and Rory McIlroy, wouldn’t tee off until 3:05 in the afternoon. One thing he hated about Sundays at major championships was all the waiting around for the final groups to tee off.
But there was his phone, buzzing incessantly at 6:26. He picked it up and squinted in surprise at the screen. It was Frank. If anyone should still be sleeping at this hour, it was the Prodigy. Maybe nerves had awakened him and he wanted to talk.
“Frank,” he said wearily, “what are you doing up so early?”
Frank sounded breathless. “I got a call,” he said. “Just now. It was from Jonathan Tucker.”
Keith was baffled. Why in the world would the chairman of Augusta National be calling one of the three guys leading the Masters on Sunday morning almost nine hours before his tee time?
“What did he want?” Keith asked.
Frank had paused for a moment, apparently trying to catch his breath. “He asked if I could come to his office at eight o’clock. He said he was sorry to call so early, but he wanted to see me before anyone was on the grounds.”
That sounded serious. “Did he give you a clue what it was about?”
“No,” Frank said. “He just said he’d explain when I got here and suggested I bring my dad with me but not Ron Lawrensen.”
“He brought up Lawrensen?”
“Yes.”
Alarm bells were going off in Keith’s head. If Jonathan Tucker had mentioned Lawrensen that way, it was clear he was aware that Lawrensen was in tight with Thomas Baker. Augusta National took the whole amateurism thing pretty seriously. That was one reason why an amateur who qualified for the Masters had to stay amateur in order to cash in his invitation to the tournament.
Frank was talking again. Keith had to catch up.
“I don’t want to bring my dad,” Frank was saying. “Whatever’s going on, he’ll make it worse. He won’t mean to, but he will.” He paused. “Keith, will you go with me?”
Keith wasn’t sure that was a great idea. Augusta National treated the media as a kind of necessary evil. They didn’t mind their presence as long as they stayed at arm’s length. Eat, drink, and be merry at the Taj Mahal, but don’t ask us any real questions. Just write about the “tradition unlike any other.”
“I’m not sure Mr. Tucker would be thrilled—”
“I don’t care,” Frank interrupted. “I need someone to come with me, and I want it to be you. I trust you.”
“What about Slugger?”
“I trust you,” Frank repeated. “You’re the only one who has no financial interest in me.”
That was mostly true, although Keith had spent a lot of Saturday night mulling his next move if Frank somehow became the first amateur to ever win the Masters. His instinct was to find a publisher as quickly as possible and start writing the book. He assumed Frank would cooperate. But he was nervous that a movie studio or a TV network might rush in and try to get Frank to sign a contract for a movie or a documentary. So he did have a financial interest in Frank.
Regardless, the kid needed someone there who would be inclined to look after his interests, first and foremost. He knew that wasn’t Lawrensen and, sadly, it probably wasn’t his father either. Slugger—maybe, probably—but his pal was worrying about his job.
“Okay, I’ll meet you in the locker room at a quarter to eight. We’ll walk over to Tucker’s office from there.”
“Thanks,” Frank said. “I’m really scared.”
“Don’t be scared,” Keith said. “They aren’t going to do anything to someone who might be responsible by sundown for the best story in Masters history.”
He hung up. He knew he was right. But he, too, was really scared.
* * *
Keith was concerned that he might have some trouble getting onto the grounds so early since the first tee time wasn’t until 9:50. But he wheeled into the press parking lot and was guided to a spot a few yards from the security entrance.
The security people made jokes about how early he was—“You gonna try to play a few holes?” one asked with a laugh as he went through the daily drill. He then dropped his computer off in the completely empty workroom and was pleasantly surprised to find one of the carts that served as a shuttle to the golf course and clubhouse area waiting outside.
“You must be a man on a mission getting here this early,” the driver said. “Leaders don’t tee off for seven more hours, you know.”
“I’m on my way to meet one of them,” Keith said, causing the man to give him a surprised look. Keith didn’t elaborate, and the driver didn’t ask any more questions.
Keith had his badge scanned and walked into the locker room at 7:40. Frank was sitting in the small dining area eating a bowl of Cheerios.
“Breakfast of champions?” Keith asked.
“That would be Wheaties,” Frank answered.
“Oh yeah, forgot,” Keith said.
He sat down across from Frank. Other than an ever-present waiter, the room was completely empty.
“Can I get you something, Mr. Forman?” the waiter asked him. Technically, the media wasn’t supposed to eat or drink anything in the locker room, but most of the waiters knew Keith and didn’t care—especially with the room empty.
“Got some coffee?” Keith asked.
“Right away,” he said, and was back in seconds to pour him a cup.
> Keith looked at Frank.
“Did you tell your dad?” Keith asked.
Frank shook his head. “No, I’ll tell him when it’s over—one way or the other.”
Frank finished his cereal, while Keith took a couple sips of the coffee. He wished he’d asked for it in a to-go cup. Too late. They got up and walked across the empty courtyard area to the building that housed Augusta National’s offices. At the door, a security guard stopped Keith.
“Sorry, sir, no media in here,” the guard said.
“He’s with me,” Frank said. “And I have an appointment with Mr. Tucker.”
The guard nodded. “Okay, then,” he said.
They were met at the top of the stairs by Steve Greenspan, Augusta National’s public relations director. He shook hands with Frank, then looked quizzically at Keith.
“Keith, I think this is a private meeting.”
Greenspan was almost incurably polite, and Keith tried to never give him a hard time, because he knew he had one of the hardest PR jobs in the world. For a second time, Frank stepped in before Keith had a chance to respond.
“Mr. Greenspan, I asked Keith to come with me,” he said. “Mr. Tucker told me I could bring my father. He’s not available. I asked Keith to come instead.”
“Well, it’ll be up to Mr. Tucker to decide about that,” Greenspan said. “Follow me.”
They followed Greenspan across a desk-filled room, down a hall past several smaller offices, and to a door at the end of the hall. When Greenspan pushed it open, Keith could see the room was massive, with large windows looking out on the courtyard area and beyond that the first fairway.
Jonathan Tucker was behind his desk, dressed as if he were about to go out and play eighteen holes. It almost felt strange to Keith to see an Augusta member not wearing a green jacket. There were two other men in the room, one in a green jacket, the other in a suit. Keith didn’t recognize either of them. They both stood back while Tucker got up to greet Frank.
“Frank, please come in,” he said, standing and coming around his desk to shake Frank’s hand. Then he looked at Keith. “No offense, Keith, but what are you doing here?”
This time Keith answered. “Frank asked me to come with him. I’m here as a friend, not a reporter.”
He realized as he spoke the words that he had gone way past the invisible line that reporters weren’t supposed to cross in their relationships with sources and people they covered. That ship, he supposed, had sailed long ago.
Tucker looked at Frank. “You invited him, Frank? He didn’t ask to come along?”
“I called him right after you called me, sir.”
Tucker nodded. “Okay, then, as long as we have an understanding that all of this is off the record, including the fact that this meeting is taking place.”
Keith was a little uncomfortable agreeing to that, but he decided it was okay. “Unless whatever is about to happen becomes public knowledge in some way.”
Tucker gave him a tight smile. “That’s fine.” He then turned to the other two men in the room. “Frank, I’d like you to meet Jamison Williams, he is the club’s legal counsel and, as you can see, a member.”
He didn’t bother to introduce Keith to Williams, which was fine with Keith. He was happy to be treated as if semi-invisible.
Tucker continued: “And this is Arthur Adams. He works for the enforcement committee of the NCAA.”
That brought Keith up short. What in the world was someone from the NCAA doing here on Masters Sunday?
“Why don’t we all have a seat?” Tucker said.
There were two chairs to the right of his desk and two to the left. Frank and Keith took the seats to the left. Tucker looked at Keith again. “We’re clear that this is completely off the record, right?”
Keith was tempted to say that he had no idea there was a difference between off the record and completely off the record. Instead he just said, “Right.”
Tucker cleared his throat, then looked at Frank. “I’m sorry to have to hold this meeting, Frank, when you have a very big day ahead of you. But it came to our attention yesterday that Ron Lawrensen, the agent, has been negotiating contracts on your behalf and, further, that your father, who at this point is your legal guardian, has signed a contract authorizing those negotiations.”
“But I had nothing—”
Tucker held up his hand. “Let me finish. We’ll certainly want to hear from you in a minute.” He lowered his hand and went on. “The tournament, as you know, is very clear about its rules concerning amateur players. If you or your father wanted you to turn pro at this stage, that would be fine. You just wouldn’t have been invited to play based on your runner-up finish in Los Angeles last summer. In fact, I should tell you there were some club members who didn’t want you invited after the incident with Mr. Anderson in the semifinals. We do have the right to suspend our normal procedures and not invite someone. I overruled those objections.
“I believe you were starting to say that you haven’t been involved in any of the ongoing negotiations. I’m sure that’s true. Under the rules, though, your father’s involvement makes you liable.”
“So what does all that mean?” Frank asked.
“It means we have to decide whether, in fact, you were no longer an amateur when the tournament began. If so, we’ll have to disqualify you.”
“So what’s he doing here?” Keith said, nodding in the direction of Adams.
“It was Mr. Adams who brought this to our attention,” Tucker said. “To be honest, I had heard some rumors from various people but chose not to believe them. When Mr. Adams called on Friday afternoon, I asked him to come here to lay out the NCAA’s case in person.”
“Case?” Frank asked.
Keith could see that Frank was pale and his voice now had a quaver in it.
“Hang on a minute,” Keith said. He looked directly at Adams. “Where did you get your information?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that,” Adams said crisply in the tone of voice that bureaucrats always seemed to use. It was the kind of tone that made you want to deck the speaker.
“What do you mean you can’t discuss it?” Keith said. “We’re here discussing things because someone accused Frank of not being an amateur because of actions he had nothing to do with. He has the right to know who his accuser is.”
“Our investigations are confidential,” Adams said, and turned to the chairman. “Mr. Tucker, I understand this gentleman has agreed to be off the record, but no one in the NCAA other than our communications department speaks to the media. So I won’t answer any more questions from him.”
Keith was disgusted. He looked at Tucker. “You gonna knock the kid out of the tournament on a technicality when he’s completely innocent because some NCAA bureaucrat comes to you with secondhand information? You’re a lawyer, Jonathan. Are you going to convict him without anything resembling a trial?”
Tucker, after looking surprised at being addressed by his first name, leaned back in his chair. He looked at Williams, the legal counsel. “Thoughts, Jamison?” he asked.
Williams hadn’t once looked at Keith since they’d walked into the room. Now he did.
“Sad to say, he has a point, Mr. Chairman,” he said. “Technically, we have enough evidence to disqualify him since Mr. Adams says there is plenty of documentation to prove the actions of his father and the agent. But, if you believe he’s telling the truth about not knowing what’s been going on, I think we should let him play. We can always vacate his finish later if we learn he’s lying. I’m sure the NCAA will be investigating this further.”
“You bet we will be,” the little snake Adams said. “Young man, you may get to play today, but if the information we already have is even a little bit accurate, you will never play college golf or receive any kind of NCAA scholarship.”
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Keith said, glaring at Adams. “I’ll find out who your source was, I promise.”
Tucke
r gave Keith a look and held up his hand. Then he leaned forward in his chair and looked directly at Frank. “Are you telling the truth, Frank? Understand, if we find out later that you’re lying, your entire future in golf will be in jeopardy.”
“I’m telling the truth, Mr. Chairman,” Frank said.
Tucker leaned back in his chair. “I think Jamison’s right. You go ahead and play today. For your sake, however, I hope I don’t regret this decision.”
He stood up. The meeting was over. Frank stood and shook hands with Tucker and Williams. Keith was glad when the player didn’t shake hands with Adams. Snakes could be poisonous.
Keith shook hands with no one.
He and Frank left.
“What do you think?” Frank asked as soon as they were out the door.
“I think you should go kick everyone’s butt today,” Keith said.
Frank actually smiled. “Even your guy Rory?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Keith said. “Even him.”
36
Frank knew the smart thing to do was probably go back to the hotel and see if he could steal a few more hours of sleep. But he was too wired and upset to even think about it. Plus, he wasn’t ready to talk to his father or Ron Lawrensen about what had just taken place. He knew they’d soon figure out he wasn’t at the hotel, but he needed as much time as possible before he had to talk to them.
Keith suggested breakfast and said he knew a place that was far enough up Washington Road that there wouldn’t be many golf people in there—especially this early. “Very popular with the locals,” he said. “Most of them are in church right now. Place should be quiet.”
Keith was right. When they walked into the Sunshine Grill, it was about 80 percent empty. The place was brightly lit and probably had seating for a hundred, including a long counter. They grabbed a table in back and both asked for coffee.
“Don’t drink too much,” Keith said. “You don’t want your hands shaking on the first tee.”
The Prodigy Page 24