Frank actually enjoyed the back nine more than he had the front.
There was a lot more variety to the holes. The flag was dead center on the tiny, treacherous 12th and, as they walked on the tee, Streelman said, “You see where the flag is? That’s where you aim, no matter where the hole is on any given day. Hit it in the middle, make three, and get out of here.”
Frank knew enough about the history of the golf course to know all about the famous meltdowns that had occurred at the 12th, most recently Jordan Spieth’s 8 on Sunday in 2016 when he walked onto the tee with a three-shot lead and walked off the green trailing by three—since Danny Willett, the eventual winner, was birdieing 15 at the same moment.
He also knew all about 13 and 15, the famous par-four-and-a-halfs. Both were reachable par-fives fraught with danger—and plenty of water. One could make 3 on either hole, or 7. The 15th was especially daunting, with water both in front of the narrow green and behind it.
The 18th tee was about as scary a tee shot as Frank had ever seen—there were trees pushing up against the fairway on both sides, making it look as if you were trying to fit the ball down a bowling alley. The hole was long and uphill. If you hit a draw and couldn’t fly the fairway bunker, you had trouble. If you hit a fade and pushed the shot even a little, you had tree trouble.
Streelman, who would be playing his sixth Masters, reminded Frank on several occasions to not believe what he was seeing and sensing on the greens today—just as Spieth and Thomas had done. He showed him where he thought the first day’s hole locations would be, but told him he’d be feeling his way—like everyone else—on Thursday.
Even though Frank understood that playing the golf course well on Monday was a bit of a mirage, he was still fired up when he rolled in a six-foot putt for par on 18 to shoot 68. If nothing else, he could always tell people he’d shot 68 at Augusta National, practice round or not.
His father and Lawrensen were waiting for him when he and Slugger walked from the 18th green to the clubhouse inside the ropes that separated the public from those with special passes. Lawrensen was, comically, wearing a credential that said ANDREA SASAKI. That was Frank’s mother’s name, now that she’d remarried, so clearly his dad had applied for a badge for her even though she had no intention of coming.
Since Augusta National always limited the number of credentials it would give to agents—and to media outlets—it was routine for agents to use extra family badges. It was also routine for everyone to look the other way.
“You played great!” his father said, beaming. “Second time on the golf course, and you shot four under par!”
“This wasn’t the golf course I’ll be playing Thursday,” Frank said, although he was pretty excited by how he’d played, too. “The greens will be completely different then.” Now he was just parroting Streelman, Spieth, and Thomas.
“True, but you showed you can handle the length of the course,” Lawrensen said. “That’s important.”
Frank didn’t disagree. He was looking around for Forman, who was nowhere in sight.
“Let’s go eat,” his father said.
“Dad, Slugger says the best food in the place is in the caddie barn,” he said. “A lot of the players eat there. I think I’ll go eat there with him, if that’s okay. We’ll have dinner tonight at the Double Eagle house.”
Like a lot of the big-time agencies, Double Eagle Inc. had rented a big house not far from the golf course. They brought in a chef for the week and invited all their important clients to dinner every night. It was a way to get a good meal in relative privacy and not hassle with getting a reservation at a restaurant when the town was bursting at the seams with people.
Frank’s dad hesitated. “Can the media eat in there?” he said. He was clearly thinking about Forman.
“Nope,” Slugger answered. “Just players and caddies.”
“Fine, then. You going to hit any balls after lunch?”
“Don’t think so,” Frank said. “It’s getting hot, and this is not an easy golf course to walk. I want to eat, get back to the Marriott, and get off my feet.”
His dad nodded. “Perfect. Let’s meet in the lobby at six to go to dinner. I hear you have an early tee time tomorrow.”
Rory McIlroy had texted Frank that morning—they’d exchanged cell phone numbers—to say he and Jason Day wanted to play early because the planned nine o’clock tee time would mean a six-hour round.
“They told me we’d tee it up about seven-thirty. Rory and Jason say that’s the only way to play eighteen holes and not lose your mind. So I want to be here by seven to warm up.”
“I’m going to store the clubs and get out of the jumpsuit,” Slugger said. “I’ll meet you in the eating area.”
Slugger was wearing the white-and-green jumpsuit that all Masters caddies were required to wear, even during practice rounds. The jumpsuit had the name BAKER on the back and the number 36 on the front. Frank knew that meant he had been the 35th player to register for the tournament. The number 1 always went to the defending champion. The rest of the numbers were given out in the order in which players arrived.
Frank and Slugger walked down the hill to the area roped off for the caddies. As they started to walk in the direction of the club storage area, a guard stopped them.
“Sorry, young man,” the guard said, nodding at Frank. “Caddies and players only in this area.”
“He’s a player,” Slugger said.
The guard laughed. “Sure he is—I bet he’s the next Tiger Woods.”
Slugger reached into his bag, where he had stored Frank’s wallet, watch, and player ID while they were playing. He shoved the ID in the guard’s direction. The guard took it, looked closely at the photo and then at Frank, and finally handed it back to Slugger.
“How old are you, young man?” he asked.
“Seventeen,” Frank answered.
“Well, good luck to you, then,” he said. “Maybe you are the next Tiger Woods.”
Slugger peeled off to store the clubs, and Frank walked inside to where the buffet was set up.
“About time you got here,” he heard a voice say.
He looked in the direction of the voice. It was Keith Forman.
* * *
“How did you get in here?” Frank asked. “My dad only let me eat here because he thought you couldn’t get in. Caddies and players only.”
“Unless a player or caddie walks you in,” Keith said with a smile. He turned to a tall, lean man standing next to him. Frank recognized him instantly.
“Jim Mackay, meet Frank Baker.”
“You’re Bones!” Frank said.
Jim “Bones” Mackay was almost as famous as Phil Mickelson, the player he had caddied for dating back to 1992, before the two had split the previous summer.
“I know,” Bones said, smiling.
Frank knew that 1992 Masters champion Fred Couples had hung the nickname on Mackay years earlier, in part because the caddie was tall and rail-thin and in part because Couples had trouble remembering names.
They chatted with Bones for a few minutes before heading to the buffet line. By then, Slugger had joined them. Frank’s head was spinning. It looked as if half the players in the field were eating with the caddies.
They found a place to sit and Frank’s eyes bugged completely out of his head when he realized that Tom Watson was sitting almost directly across from him. Watson, who had won the Masters twice, didn’t play in the tournament anymore, but as a past champion he had a lifetime invitation and was obviously in town for the annual champions dinner on Tuesday night.
Keith apparently knew everybody, because when he said hello to Watson, the legend bellowed, “Forman, how the hell did you get in here? Do I need to call security?”
He was grinning when he said it and stuck his hand out to say hello. Watson then turned to Frank and said, “Young man, I’ve heard you have a great future, but you need to be careful about who you hang around with. Never trust the media.”
He was still grinning as Frank was trying to find his voice. He finally did and, reaching across the table, said, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Watson.”
“It’s Tom,” the legendary champion said. “And, for the record, I thought you handled yourself wonderfully during that debacle at Riviera last summer. It was a terrible moment for golf, and you were caught in the middle.”
“Th-thanks,” Frank managed, amazed that Watson knew what had happened. Then again, everyone in golf knew what had happened. It had been a bigger story than the final outcome of the Amateur, which Frank still thought was very unfair to John Caccese, who had, after all, won the thing. All the talk the following week had been about Edward Anderson III getting caught cheating.
Frank had just taken a bite from a fried chicken leg when Watson said, “Who’ve you got Thursday?”
“Um, don’t know yet,” Frank answered. “Waiting for the pairings. I guess they come out today.”
“They’re out,” Watson said. He turned to the man sitting next to him, who was wearing glasses and talking intently to Andy North, the two-time U.S. Open champion who now worked for ESPN. “Neil, hand me the pairings, will you?”
The man he’d addressed didn’t even look at Watson, but simply reached for a piece of paper that was under his left hand and passed it over. Watson began glancing up and down the list.
Frank had been thinking a lot about who he might play with the first two rounds. He knew the amateurs were always paired with past Masters champions. John Caccese would play with Sergio García, because the U.S. Amateur champion always played with the defending Masters champion.
Watson found his name on the sheet. He smiled. “You did pretty well: Zach Johnson and Justin Rose.”
Johnson had won the Masters in 2007, beating Tiger Woods down the stretch, and had also won the British Open in 2015. Justin Rose was the international player in the group—a Brit who was the 2013 U.S. Open champion and had a reputation as one of the nicer guys in golf.
Watson handed the pairings to him. “That’s a good group for you. They’re both good guys and they play fast.”
Watson was one of the fastest players in the game’s history and was well known for not liking to play with slow players—other than Nicklaus, who was as slow as he was great, and who was also a close friend of Watson’s.
Frank felt his stomach twist a little as he pictured himself on the first tee Thursday with the two major champions. Not only was Rose a past U.S. Open champion, but he had lost in a playoff to Sergio García here a year earlier. A lot of people would be watching Rose and Johnson—which meant they’d be watching Frank.
Slugger read his mind. “No matter who you play with, a lot of people are going to be watching you,” he said. “Don’t sweat it. Like Tom says, it’s a good pairing for you.”
Frank looked down at the sheet. They were teeing off at 8:48. At least it was early. He wasn’t going to sleep Wednesday night, so the earlier they teed off, the better.
Watson and the man he’d called Neil stood up to go. Frank had figured out that Neil was Watson’s caddie.
Watson leaned down to talk to Frank in a low voice before he left. “I’ve heard some stories about that agent Lawrensen running around trying to make deals for you. Don’t get carried away with all this. You’re a high school senior, right?”
Frank nodded.
“Go to college. If you’re any good, there’s plenty of time to play golf.”
He shook Frank’s hand, patted Neil on the shoulder, and they took off.
Slugger watched them leave, then turned to Frank and said: “You see his caddie, Neil Oxman?”
Frank wasn’t paying attention. He was thinking about what Watson had just said.
“What?”
“Neil Oxman, Watson’s caddie.”
“What about him?”
“He’s probably the richest guy in this room. In real life he’s a big-time political consultant,” Slugger said.
“A Democratic political consultant,” Keith put in.
Slugger was nodding. “Yup, a commie, just like Keith. But a rich one.”
Frank smiled and nodded vaguely, but all he could focus on was what Tom Watson had just said in parting: “Go to college.”
He knew the legend was right. But how could he convince his father of that? He snapped from his reverie. That could wait. He had a tee time the next day with Rory McIlroy, Jason Day, and Phil Mickelson—ten major titles among them. There was no reason to think of anything else. At least for now.