“Unlike you, I do,” Keith said. “If I write about this, you will look like a sleazebag, and so will his father. The kid’s an innocent bystander.”
Chambers looked at Lawrensen. “If this damages his image—and I’m sure it will—we might have to reconsider some of the numbers in the contract.”
Keith almost laughed. “Figures that’s what you’d care about,” he said. “Trust me, Erica, I’ll make sure your image and Brickley’s image will take a hit, too.”
“Your friend was right about him,” Chambers said to Lawrensen. “He really doesn’t take a hint, does he?”
“Friend?” Keith said.
“Thomas Baker and I aren’t friends,” Lawrensen said, looking directly at Chambers. “We’re business partners.”
“Coming from you guys, that’s a compliment,” Keith said. “So, Erica, do me a favor and give me your cell number. I might need it if I write something to give you a chance to tell Brickley’s side of the story. Or should I talk to your boss, Billy Nevins?”
He was telling the truth, but that wasn’t the only reason he wanted the number. The germ of an idea had just come into his head—a long shot, he knew, but one that might be worth checking into at this point.
“Sure,” Chambers said. “Always glad to talk to the media.” She rattled off a number. Then she leaned forward and smiled. “If need be, we could do it over dinner.”
Keith smiled. “You’re a beautiful woman, and, trust me, the notion is tempting. But no thanks. I also know you guys are located in Connecticut, and that sounds like a switchboard number to me.”
“It’s not,” Chambers said. “Call it right now. You’ll get my voicemail since my phone’s in the car.”
“I don’t have mine either,” Keith said. “It’s back in the press center.”
“Call it later, then,” she said. “I’ve got no reason to hide from you.” She gave him her stunning smile. He decided he’d check later, when he had a chance. Which wasn’t now.
A roar was coming from the ninth hole. He looked at the scoreboard right of the ninth green. Frank and McIlroy were playing there now. One of them had just hit a great shot. It was time for him to make like a real reporter and go watch some golf.
“This isn’t over—not even close,” Keith said.
“Yes, it is,” Chambers said. “At least as far as you’re concerned. All you’ve got is a lot of innuendo. Believe me, Forman, I’ve handled better than you.”
“So have I,” Lawrensen echoed. “You’re way over your head here, Forman.”
“We’ll see,” Keith said, turning to leave.
* * *
Frank was happy to see Keith on the tenth tee. He hoped it meant he’d figured out what was going on.
“Everything okay?” he asked, walking to the back of the tee for a moment.
“All good,” Keith said. “Golf tournament starts right now.”
Frank wasn’t sure if Keith was just trying to reassure him so that he’d focus on his golf or if he’d actually figured something out. Either way, he had nine holes to play, and he knew worrying about what might come after that was foolish. He wondered for a moment where his dad and Lawrensen might be among the throngs of people.
He had the tee after the birdie at Number 9 and, feeling completely calm, he hit the ball perfectly, the ball drawing to the fairway and taking a big hop down the hill.
“I’m going to have you drug-tested when this is over,” McIlroy kidded as he teed the ball up.
His drive was just as perfect as Frank’s. The Masters—the back nine on Sunday—had begun.
For the next three holes, nothing changed. Both players had birdie chances at 10, both were happy to escape with par at 11 and 12. As they had walked off the 12th tee, Frank heard a roar coming from the 13th green.
“Jordan birdied,” Rory said. “That’s not an eagle roar.”
Frank knew he was right. He’d heard that you could actually recognize roars at Augusta, especially on Sunday. If Jordan had eagled, the roar would have echoed off the trees. This was loud, but not loud. That meant he, Rory, and Jordan were now tied for the lead.
The 13th had been Frank’s favorite hole all week because it suited his draw perfectly. Once again, he hit a perfect drive and, once again, his ball was within 200 yards of the flag. There was just one thing: McIlroy’s drive was 30 yards past him.
“Talk about drug-testing,” he said when he saw where McIlroy’s ball had come to rest.
“Little pumped up, I guess,” McIlroy said.
It occurred to Frank that for all of McIlroy’s friendly chatter, he desperately wanted to win the tournament and complete the career Grand Slam. Who could blame him?
Frank had 192 yards to the flag, and he hit a seven-iron. He pulled it a little bit, but the ball took a fortuitous bounce, rolled on the green, and stopped about 35 feet from the flag. McIlroy couldn’t have had more than 165 yards to the flag, and Frank heard him say, “It’s no more than a nine,” to his caddie. Frank was amazed—driver, nine-iron—to a par-five. He was long, but simply not in McIlroy’s league. At least not pumped up.
McIlroy’s shot was close to perfect; it landed a few yards short of the pin and rolled so close Frank thought it might go in. It stopped about two feet away. A kick-in eagle.
“Great shot” was all Frank could manage.
McIlroy just grinned. “Needed it, didn’t I?” he said.
Frank was able to two-putt for birdie. That meant he and Spieth trailed McIlroy by one.
They both reached the green at 14 safely, managing to get their second shots over the ridge that separated the two levels of the green. As Frank was marking his ball, he heard something resembling a gasp. He looked at the scoreboard and saw a red 9 going up next to Spieth’s name on 15. Somehow, he had bogeyed the par-five. Now McIlroy led him by one and Spieth by two.
McIlroy’s lead grew by another shot at 15. Again, he bombed a drive and he hit a midrange iron to about 20 feet. From there he two-putted for birdie. Frank was just as uncomfortable on the 15th tee as he was comfortable on the 13th. He just couldn’t seem to find the fairway. He thought he’d done it this time, but the ball kept kicking left and almost rolled into the trees. From there, he had to lay up and, holding his breath, barely held the back of the green with his third shot. He was happy to settle for par.
Except now, McIlroy led by two with three holes to play. Spieth had parred 16 and was three shots back. No one else was in contention.
The flag at 16, as was always the case on Sunday, was tucked left, near the water. It wasn’t as much of a sucker pin as it appeared to be because if you caught the slope in the middle of the green, the ball would roll in the direction of the pin. McIlroy, knowing he was pumped up, took a nine-iron. But he wasn’t quite that pumped up, and the ball stopped on the front of the green 50 feet below the hole.
Frank, knowing he had to make something happen to have any chance, went with a seven-iron. He figured it was really an eight-iron for McIlroy and he was about a club longer than Frank most of the time. He hit it just the way he wanted to, right-to-left, drawing to the middle of the green. It hit and began to roll toward the hole. It stopped eight feet away. He had a real birdie chance.
McIlroy hit a wonderful putt, leaving the ball inches short of a miracle birdie. He smiled and tapped in. Frank knew he was playing slower than he ever had in his life. But he needed deep breaths as he looked at the putt. He finally got over it, took one more deep breath, and hit the ball dead center.
McIlroy’s lead was one. It was a two-man golf tournament.
McIlroy was smiling as they walked off the green. “You just don’t want to go away, do you?” he said. “Have I ever done anything to offend you?”
Frank laughed. He was almost beginning to feel guilty about “not going away.”
He was so relaxed he smashed a perfect drive at 17. McIlroy’s was pushed and, for the first time all day, he showed a little frustration, letting out a soft profanity as the ball flew
right. His second shot found the left bunker. Frank’s second shot was about 25 feet short. The 17th was not a green you attacked. If you went over the green, you were all but dead. It was the place that had inspired CBS golf analyst Gary McCord’s infamous 1994 comment “There are body bags back there,” which had gotten him banned by the Augusta members.
Frank was thinking a par might mean he’d be tied for the lead going to 18. He was wrong. McIlroy hit a brilliant bunker shot to about three feet and made the putt. Frank’s birdie putt was wide right all the way. They went to 18 with McIlroy still up one.
Frank was figuring he had to make birdie to have a chance. Slugger had gotten so quiet he was almost afraid to ask him anything. The look on his face told him he was terrified. Frank took out his driver and said to himself, “One more time, please?” He got what he asked for, the ball bouncing beyond the fairway bunker. He’d given himself a chance.
McIlroy was silent now. He was clearly totally focused on what he had left to do. His drive was just as good as Frank’s, a little farther left, a little closer to the green.
The crowd was going nuts as they walked up the fairway. They were going to see history one way or the other: either a seventeen-year-old amateur was going to win the Masters or Rory McIlroy was going to complete the career Grand Slam. If nothing else, it was great theater.
When Frank got to his ball and asked Slugger for the yardage, Slugger looked at him blankly. “Yardage, Slugger?” he asked again.
“Sorry,” Slugger said, his Masters-green yardage book in his hands.
Frank noticed they were shaking. Good thing I’m the one playing, he thought.
“You’ve got a hundred sixty-eight front and a hundred seventy-four flag,” he finally said.
The flag was in its traditional Sunday spot: front-left.
It was a perfect seven-iron distance since it was uphill, but Frank knew his adrenaline was almost out of control. He pulled an eight-iron from the bag.
“You can’t get there with an eight,” Slugger said.
“Watch me,” Frank answered.
The crowd began screaming as soon as the ball was in the air. It hit on the front-center of the green and rolled hole-high, perhaps 15 feet right of the flag. Not a great shot, but a good one.
McIlroy was perhaps five yards closer. His shot, no doubt a nine-iron, was right at the flag. But the ball didn’t spin, and it rolled about 30 feet past the hole. Advantage, Frank.
They walked up the last hill onto the green with everyone on their feet. Frank realized he would probably never feel like this again, no matter where his golf career went from here. He took a moment to drink it all in.
McIlroy slowed so Frank could catch up to him as they went up the last hill.
“What’re you doing?” Frank said. He’d slowed to let McIlroy walk on the green first. That was the tradition: the leader went first.
“We’re walking up there together,” McIlroy said.
“But—”
“No buts. Walk.”
Frank did as he was told. The “USA!” shouts had died out, and fans were now screaming both their names.
McIlroy was a notoriously fast player, but he took plenty of time looking over his putt, which was almost straight downhill. Finally, he putted, and, for an instant, Frank thought he’d left it ten feet short. But Rory knew what he was doing. The ball picked up speed and finally died about 18 inches left of the hole.
McIlroy was clearly disappointed he hadn’t made it, because the door was still open for Frank to make his putt and force a playoff.
McIlroy walked to his ball and marked it. Then he looked back at Frank. “Am I in your line?” he asked. “You need me to move my mark?”
Frank saw that he did. “Can you move it one left?” he said. His putt would break right to left, so moving the mark to the left of the hole should take it safely out of his line. McIlroy put his putter head down and carefully moved his coin to the left the width of his clubface.
He moved out of the way. Frank knew the putt was going to break hard left when it got close to the hole. He remembered watching old footage of Mark O’Meara making almost the identical putt in 1998 to win the Masters and saying he had played the putt one ball farther right than he read it, because he knew the break was harder than his eyes told him.
Frank did the same thing. Five feet out, he was convinced he’d made it. Then, at the last possible second, came the dive to the left. The ball stopped an inch—literally an inch—left of the hole.
Frank felt all the air and adrenaline go out of him.
He had missed a playoff with McIlroy by that inch.
He tapped the ball in.
As Rory was putting his ball down, he said softly, “I can’t believe that didn’t go in.”
He stood to tap in and finally clinch his green jacket.
Frank started to step away to give him some space. Then he noticed something … something terribly wrong … and a warning flew out of his mouth. “RORY, STOP!”
McIlroy looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What?” he said, stunned to hear Frank’s voice at such a climactic moment.
“You didn’t move your mark back!”
McIlroy looked at him blankly for a split second, then understood. “Oh my God!” he said. “You just saved me.”
He put his mark back down and picked up the incorrectly placed ball. Then he stepped away, gathered himself, and moved the mark back, the width of his putter face. He put the ball down, glanced at the hole for a moment, and then tapped in.
The cheers were coming from everywhere as he took his cap off and wrapped Frank in a tight hug.
“Saying thank you doesn’t begin to tell you how grateful I am,” he said in Frank’s ear.
“You won fair and square,” Frank said, shaking with emotions he couldn’t begin to describe. “I wouldn’t have wanted to win on a technicality.”
Frank realized that only a few people in the crowd understood what had just happened. It didn’t matter. He’d given Rory McIlroy everything he could give him. And he’d done the right thing. He felt great.
As an amateur, he wouldn’t receive a dime of the eleven-million-dollar purse. But what he had won was priceless.
38
Remarkably, Keith Forman had a perfect view of everything that unfolded on the final green. He was able to push his way through the people standing to the left of the green by saying repeatedly, “Really sorry, Frank’s my nephew, I’d like to see this if possible.”
One man said angrily, “Why didn’t you get here sooner?”
Keith was ready for that one: “I’ve been walking with him all day.”
By then people were starting to say, “Hey, uncle coming through, help him out.”
Keith ended up standing directly behind the rows of lawn chairs where people were seated.
He thought Frank had made his birdie putt, so he was about to push his way out to go back to the 18th tee for the start of the playoff when he saw the ball dive left and just miss the hole. He was waiting for Rory to tap in so he could watch the handshake when he heard Frank shout, “STOP!”
He turned back to see McIlroy step away from his tap-in putt and then re-mark his ball and move the mark. Realizing what had happened, Keith set out to get to the scoring area the second the two had finished hugging.
He circled to the right to avoid the area that had been blocked off to get the players through and actually arrived just before they did.
Frank, Rory, and the two caddies went inside. A moment later, Slugger came out and took his phone from Frank’s golf bag and made a call. Since the tournament was over, taking his phone out was apparently okay. Keith was trying to get his attention, but his college teammate wasn’t looking in his direction.
Keith desperately wanted to talk to Frank before he and McIlroy were carted to Butler Cabin for the TV green-jacket ceremony. After that would come the formal green-jacket ceremony on the putting green, and it would be a solid thirty minutes—at least�
��before he’d have any chance to get close to him.
Slugger finally got off the phone and Keith shouted his name, a no-no, but he didn’t care at that point. Slugger saw him and walked over, phone still in hand.
“Who were you talking to?” Keith asked.
“Just now?” he said. “Amanda.”
That was his wife. Something in the way Slugger answered the question made Keith think he was lying.
“What an ending, huh?” Keith asked.
“Yeah, I guess,” Slugger said, without much enthusiasm.
Frank walked outside and was instantly surrounded by green-jackets pointing him at a cart. Keith called his name, figuring it was futile. TV waits for no man—or teenager.
Keith saw one of the green-jackets talking urgently to Frank, pointing at the nearby golf cart. Rory hadn’t come outside yet. Frank put up one finger and walked quickly to where Keith and Slugger were standing—Slugger inside the rope, Keith outside it.
Keith reached over the rope to hug him. He didn’t really care who saw him at this point.
“I couldn’t be more proud of you,” he said. “The way you played, and then what you did for Rory at the finish.”
Frank frowned and looked at Slugger. “Did you tell him yet?” he asked.
“Tell me what?” Keith asked.
“Slugger said I should have let Rory putt from the wrong spot,” Frank said.
Keith shot Slugger a look of surprise.
“Heat of the moment,” Slugger said. “All I could think was, if Rory putts from the wrong spot, Frank wins the Masters.”
Keith knew that failing to move your mark back was a two-stroke penalty. “You’d want him to win that way?”
Slugger looked sheepish. “I guess not.”
“You were pretty mad when we walked off,” Frank said, clearly not buying Slugger’s back-off. “Hey, they said I have to go as soon as Rory comes outside, so what’s up?”
Keith snapped back to what he wanted to get done.
“Slugger, I need to make a quick phone call—really quick—and my phone’s back in the press center. Loan me yours for a second.”
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