Wednesday seemed to take forever as far as Frank was concerned. After the high of Tuesday, he felt as if he’d done all the Augusta preliminaries. He was ready to tee it up and play for real.
The par-three tournament was fun. He enjoyed playing with John Caccese and Nathan Smith, both guys he already knew, making it very comfortable.
Caccese was a wreck at the thought of playing with Sergio García the next day. “Do you know what kind of crowd he’ll draw?” he asked at one point. “It’ll be ridiculous.”
People had told Frank that the par-three course, which was at the far end of the property, down a hill from the clubhouse, was the most beautiful part of Augusta National. He’d found that hard to believe, but when he got there he understood. There were little ponds everywhere, and the trees seemed to soar even higher around all nine holes.
He shot a respectable two-under-par 25 and was glad that he came nowhere close to Jon Rahm’s winning score of 22—which included a hole in one. The par-three had first been played in 1961. No par-three winner had ever won the Masters. Rahm said he wasn’t worried about the jinx. There were other players, Frank knew, who had said they would intentionally hit their tee shot in the water at the ninth hole if they had a chance to win.
The real golf course was closed by the time Frank and his companions finished their par-three round. This was another Masters tradition: closing the golf course on Wednesday afternoon. It was done not only to get the course ready for Thursday but also to encourage players to take part in the par-three. Most did just that.
Frank would have liked to have hung around the smaller course to watch Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, and Tom Watson—the legends threesome—play a few holes, but the crowds were so thick that he knew there was no chance. He decided against going back to the range. His swing felt great. Why do anything to tire himself out?
He settled for an awkward dinner at the hotel with Slugger, his dad, and Lawrensen. Frank was dying to confront the two men about Lawrensen’s backroom dealings, but both Keith and Slugger had told him to leave it be until the tournament was over.
“So how do you feel?” his dad asked, trying to make conversation after their appetizers had been cleared.
“Pretty good,” Frank said as he picked at a crust on his bread plate.
“Don’t worry, Frank,” Lawrensen said. “You can make the cut. It’s the weakest field of the four majors. Only eighty-nine guys playing because it’s so hard to get in, and a bunch of ’em are old-guy past champions who can’t really play anymore.”
“Ron, you think I don’t know that?” Frank said, barely able to conceal his disgust. “Why don’t you just let me worry about being able to get the ball teed up in the morning, okay? Slugger’s my coach, not you.”
“Frank!” his father said sharply.
“Dad, he’s your adviser, not mine,” Frank said.
The main course arrived at that moment. There wasn’t much talk after that. Frank was grateful.
* * *
“Fore please. Now driving, Frank Baker.”
Frank knew this was another Masters tradition. The starter—the man introducing the players on the first tee—didn’t engage in the usual lavish intros players got at other tournaments. The only player in the field who was introduced with anything more than his name was the defending champion. For everyone else it was those few words. Zach Johnson, who’d won the tournament in 2007, had gotten them a moment earlier, followed by Justin Rose, who had been one swing away from being the defending champion.
The tee on Thursday morning was absolutely packed at 8:48. Many fans (patrons) had simply stayed there after the traditional opening drives that Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player had hit at 7:45. Frank would have liked to have watched that ceremony, but he’d been on the range warming up.
When he heard the starter call his name, he stepped forward and—as he’d seen Johnson and Rose do—waved a hand to acknowledge the applause, smiled, and teed his ball up. He was a little surprised as he looked down to see that his hand wasn’t shaking at all.
Johnson had hit his drive in the yawning bunker on the right side of the fairway, the one that Phil Mickelson had so kindly pointed out to Frank on Tuesday. Rose had hit a perfect drive down the middle.
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.”