Neither Frank nor Slugger interrupted once while Keith told his story. When he finished, Frank took a long sip of his milkshake and simply said, “Wow.”
Slugger nodded. “That was a risky move,” he said. “You could have gotten punched or arrested or both.”
Keith laughed. “Already been punched,” he said. “Worst-case scenario, I might have gotten tossed out of there. I don’t think I was going to get arrested by rent-a-cops, especially for going into a room I was clearly credentialed for.”
Frank’s mind was racing. He wondered how his father thinking that “some” of what Keith had said made sense would actually manifest itself. At the very least, he didn’t think he had to worry about Slugger getting fired—at least not this week. That alone was a relief.
“I would advise you not to look online tonight or read the newspaper in the morning,” Keith said. “This is now officially a tabloid story the media can blow up into more than it is.”
“Except a lot of this drama isn’t made up,” Slugger said.
Keith nodded. “True. Which is all the more reason to go back to the room and, if you’re hungry before you go to bed, order something lighter than this”—he nodded at Frank’s tray—“and just worry about Jerry Gallagher.”
Frank had already been thinking about Gallagher. He knew he was, like Nathan Smith, a true amateur and that he’d finished second in the Amateur twelve years ago, meaning he’d played in the Masters. Playing in a quarterfinal match in the Amateur wasn’t likely to intimidate him.
“Already thinking about him,” Frank said. “I know he’s a good player and, you’re right, a good night’s sleep is exactly what I need.” He paused. “Now tell me what you think my dad will do next. Do you think there’s any chance he’ll fire Lawrensen?”
Keith shook his head. “No, no way,” he said. “Remember, your dad is on the Double Eagle payroll now. Plus, I promise you by tomorrow morning—if not sooner—Lawrensen will have him convinced that everything I said was in his plan from the start.” Keith paused for a moment to let Frank take that in. “The good news is, you should have a reprieve for the rest of this week. After that, all bets are off. A lot of what happens in the next few months will depend on what happens in the next three days.”
“Or one day,” Frank said.
Keith smiled. “I’m being optimistic, and the way you’re playing—in spite of all this—gives me confidence that it’ll be three days. I like your approach, though. Worry about tomorrow before you think any farther down the road. Don’t even think about Saturday yet.”
They were all quiet for a minute, finishing their food. Frank was so hungry he was tempted to go back for more. He decided against it.
Slugger stood up. “I think I’m going to have a cup of coffee,” he said. “You guys want anything else?”
“You know, I wouldn’t mind coffee either, now that you bring it up,” Keith said.
“Me too,” Frank said.
“Be right back,” Slugger said.
“You drink coffee?” Keith said.
Frank shrugged. “I’m up by six every morning, spring, summer, and fall to play golf or work in the pro shop,” he said. “I started to drink coffee when I was thirteen. Usually I only drink in the morning, but if you guys are having one, I’ll have one, too.”
“I was the same way,” Keith said. “I get it.”
Frank leaned forward in his seat so he could lower his voice, although he wasn’t certain why he was doing so. “I gotta ask you a question,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“I really appreciate everything you’ve done and are trying to do,” he said. “I wasn’t so sure about Slugger asking you to come talk to me back in June, but I’m really glad he did.”
“But…?”
“But I’m wondering: What’s in this for you? You haven’t written anything about me or all that’s gone on this week. So…”
“You’d like to know what I’m doing here,” Keith said.
“More like, why have you put yourself out there for me the way you have?”
Keith just smiled.
“Did I say something funny?” Frank asked.
“No, not at all,” Keith said. “I’m smiling at how quickly you pick up on things.”
It was now Frank’s turn to smile. “Well, my dad is a stock broker, but somehow he doesn’t get a lot of this golf-business stuff, so I guess I have to,” he said. He paused. “Then again, maybe you opened his eyes a little.”
Slugger, returning with the coffees, heard the last comment. “Guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” he said.
Frank and Keith didn’t respond. They didn’t have to.
* * *
The answer turned out to be yes—sort of.
The morning routine didn’t change at all: after Slugger drove Frank to the golf course, they had breakfast and went to warm up, Frank working his way through a bucket of balls at the range, hitting his shorter irons first and then moving to the bigger clubs as he loosened up.
Frank’s dad arrived at the range with Lawrensen right by his side. Frank waved at his dad, who waved back.
“You think Lawrensen convinced him that everything Keith said yesterday was really his idea?” Frank murmured to Slugger, continuing his routine as he spoke.
“No doubt,” Slugger said. “But let’s not focus on that now. Let’s focus on Jerry Gallagher.”
As it turned out, there wasn’t that much to worry about. Gallagher had one of those days that even good players have on occasion. His first tee shot went way left and found deep rough. With Frank in the fairway, holding an iron in his hands for his second shot, Gallagher tried to gouge his ball out of the rough with a hybrid, knowing Frank was likely to reach the green in two.
The ball barely moved. He tried again. And again. By the time he got the ball onto the fairway, he was lying five and it was still his turn.
“Let’s not waste time here,” Gallagher said to Frank. He picked up his own ball, nodded at Frank, and said, “That’s good. Nice two.”
Frank laughed. “My first double-eagle,” he said to Slugger as they crossed the fairway to get to the second tee.
“Don’t get carried away by it,” Slugger said. “It’s one hole.”
The second hole was better for Gallagher; he made a par, but Frank rolled in a long birdie putt on one of the toughest holes on the golf course to go two-up.
“I’m four under,” Frank said. “Maybe I’ll shoot twenty-nine on the front nine and close him out on ten.”
He didn’t shoot 29, but he came close to closing Gallagher out in 10. Gallagher bogeyed the next three holes to go five-down and was reciting his concession speech after they both made par on the sixth.
“At least now I won’t lose ten-and-eight,” he said as they walked up the hill behind the green to the seventh tee. He lost, instead, eight-and-seven. Frank birdied the ninth to go six-up, then watched Gallagher take his driver at Number 10 and hit it so far over the green that he had no chance to get his second shot on the putting surface. He barely got his third shot onto the green, missed for par from 30 feet, and conceded Frank’s 15-foot birdie putt.
“I’d have made you putt just in case you three-putted,” Slugger said as they walked to the 11th tee.
“I think he just wants to get this over with,” Frank answered.
It was over on 11. Gallagher hit his second shot into the creek fronting the green and then somehow found the bunker hitting a wedge with his fourth shot. He blasted out to 20 feet and then took his cap off and shook hands. Frank was on the fringe with about a 35-footer for eagle. In theory, he could four-putt and Gallagher could hole his bogey putt to halve the hole and keep the match alive. But not likely.
Clearly, Gallagher wanted no part of it.
“I’m really sorry,” he said as they shook hands. “Quarterfinals of the U.S. Amateur, you deserved to play someone who could at least give you a decent match.”
Frank wasn’t sure how to respond. He understood what Gallagher was saying; he knew he was embarrassed and he felt bad for him. “Everyone has an off day,” he said finally.
“I picked a hell of a time to have one, didn’t I?” Gallagher said, forcing a smile. “Good luck on the weekend. I hope you win the whole thing.”
He then shook hands with Slugger while Frank shook hands with his opponent’s caddie.
Frank’s dad popped out of the crowd of onlookers to give him a hug and a backslap before the officials arrived to escort the players to the media area. Although Frank couldn’t see him, he knew Lawrensen was somewhere behind the ropes, but he was glad the agent didn’t come over to ruin the moment.
“I promise you one thing,” Slugger said as they rode the cart back to the clubhouse and the waiting media. “Tomorrow will be a lot tougher than this was, no matter who you play.”
Frank’s opponent would either be Nathan Smith or Edward Anderson III. He’d never met “Edward Anderson the third,” but he knew he was the son of some very rich CEO type who was a member at Augusta. Someone had told him that in the locker room earlier in the week.
He hoped he would be playing Nathan Smith. Win or lose, the day would probably be a lot more pleasant that way.
Frank was now two wins away from being the U.S. Amateur champion. He knew if he won, he’d be the youngest U.S. Am champion in history, eight months younger than Byeong Hun An had been in 2009 when he’d won a month shy of his eighteenth birthday. He was also one win away from making it to the Masters, which he knew was what his father and Lawrensen cared most about.
As he got off the cart where the media awaited, he had two thoughts. The first one was important: at this moment, more than at any other time in his life, he needed to focus on just one match. He couldn’t worry about what might happen in the final on Sunday, he couldn’t worry or care about who he played, and he couldn’t worry about what anyone else might have in mind if he made the Masters or if he somehow won the tournament.
All of that was for later.
The other thought was far less important: even though his was the first match to finish, Fox hadn’t asked him to come up to the booth today.
He wasn’t surprised.
* * *
After Frank finished with the reporters, he headed back to the locker room to take a shower. It had been the most humid day of the week, and he was dripping. His father had texted to say that he and Lawrensen were on their way to the hotel for a meeting and they would see him at dinner. The final line of the text had nothing to do with plans: I haven’t said this all week and I should have: I’m really proud of you.
Hmm, Frank thought. Maybe his dad had heard some of what Keith Forman had said.
Frank was fine with his dad and Lawrensen having post-match plans. He really didn’t care what sort of meeting they were going to or who was meeting with them. He decided he wouldn’t even ask when he got to dinner.
Keith Forman, whom he’d only seen from a distance all day, was waiting for him just inside the locker-room door with Slugger, watching the other matches on a television that was behind the counter where the locker-room guys worked.
“Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re playing Edward Anderson tomorrow,” Keith said.
“Nice to see you, too, and, yes, that was a nice win today, wasn’t it?” Frank said lightly.
Keith laughed. “Sorry, the Anderson-Smith match ended ten minutes ago on seventeen. And I’d tell you nice win, except even I could have beaten that poor guy today.”
Frank nodded. “I can’t argue with that. He just couldn’t get it together. And I am sorry I’m not playing Nathan. He seems like a very good guy.”
“Don’t know him that well, but I promise you he’s a better guy than Anderson. The dad has quite a reputation, and so does the kid. Classic born-on-third-base guy who thinks he tripled. He’s already transferred colleges once or twice, apparently because nobody can stand him, even though he’s a really good player.”
Frank nodded. “I hear his dad’s a big Trump supporter.”
“Not many members at Augusta who aren’t,” Keith answered.
“Spoken like a true Commie,” said Slugger, getting a laugh.
They had walked back to Frank’s locker as they talked. Frank was taking off his shoes when Nathan Smith walked in, still sopping with sweat.
“Condolences, Nathan,” Frank said.
“Thanks, man,” Smith said.
“Didn’t they make you talk to the media?” Keith asked.
Smith nodded. “Yeah, but I told them I needed a few minutes to cool off first. Literally and figuratively.”
“Don’t blame you,” Frank said.
“Yeah, but that’s not really why I came in here,” Smith said. “I wanted to be sure I caught you before you left. Frank, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About Edward Anderson the blanking third.”