1
The ball was already in the air when Frank Baker yelled, “Last chance to save a dozen if you quit now!”
“No way!” came the answer from Slugger Johnston in the golf cart on the other side of the fairway. Which was exactly what Frank had expected his teacher to say. In truth, it was what Frank had hoped Slugger would say.
The ball cut through the dewy early-morning air and landed about 20 feet short of the flag on the 18th green at Perryton Country Club. It took one hop, then rolled forward before skidding to a stop somewhere inside five feet. Frank couldn’t be certain how close the ball was to the hole because the green was slightly elevated and the flagstick was near the back of the green. He didn’t need to see it, though, to know it was close. The shot had felt perfect coming off his club.
Slugger had already hit his second shot into the right-hand bunker, which was why Frank had been willing to give him a chance to concede his victory and only have to buy Frank a dozen Dunkin’ Donuts on the way to dropping him at school. During the school year, this was their weekday morning routine: Slugger would pick Frank up and they’d arrive at the club by five-thirty, hit balls for thirty minutes, and then jump in a cart and play a quick nine holes. They would play for a dozen Dunkin’ Donuts. Each press—starting another mini-match if one player fell two holes behind—was worth another six. Frank usually won and always shared his winnings with kids in his first class of the day, which was the only way his skill at the sport had ever earned him much admiration among his classmates.
If Frank’s putt for birdie went in, he’d shoot 34—two under par. Slugger, who had been the golf pro at Perryton CC for five years—and Frank’s swing coach for almost as long—was still a good player at the age of thirty-two, but when Frank was on his game, Slugger couldn’t beat him.
Frank had already closed out the dozen-donuts match, and Slugger had pressed for six more on the 18th tee. Frank’s offer to let him off the hook wasn’t so much about showing mercy as about making Slugger give up with the ball in the air—which Frank knew Slugger would never even think about. It was Frank’s way of taunting. You didn’t get to taunt while playing golf too often.
Frank had only been 147 yards from the flag when he hit his second shot. He’d brought his putter with him so he could walk up to the green. It was only a little after seven, but the air was already warm and the bright blue sky was cloudless. Frank and Slugger both wore golf caps and sunglasses to protect themselves from the already-blazing morning sun.
When they’d teed off on Number 10 at six o’clock—they alternated nines each morning, today was a back-nine day—the sun was up, but there was still a hint of coolness in the air. Frank loved this time of day and loved being on the golf course at such an early hour.
Most of the time, he and Slugger had the place to themselves, could still see some dew on the grass, and, as they drove off the tenth tee, could see most of the back nine—the trees overhanging the fairways, the pristine bunkers, and the water hazards were fun to look at from a distance as long as you kept your golf ball away from them.
Sunrise and sunset were great times to be on a golf course.
That was especially true for Frank Baker—whose full name was John Franklin Baker, after the early twentieth-century Baseball Hall of Fame player John Franklin “Home Run” Baker. Thomas Baker was a baseball junkie with a passion for the history of the sport. He had once dreamed that his only kid would be a baseball star, and had called him “Home Run” when he was little, but now he was completely immersed in Frank’s golf career.
Frank was not quite seventeen, wrapping up his junior year at Storrs Academy. He was being recruited by every college in the country that had a big-time golf team. He had no idea where he wanted to go to school. In fact, at that moment, he had no idea if he was going to go to college.
As he walked up the slope to the green, he saw two men—one his father, the other someone he didn’t recognize but who instantly raised Frank’s concern meter. Who shows up at a golf course at seven-fifteen in the morning wearing a suit?
“Nice shot, Frank!” his father shouted. “Three feet, Slugger! That good?”
“Hell no,” Slugger answered, digging his feet into the bunker. “It’s more like four feet, and he has to putt it. Donuts at stake here.”
The man in the suit laughed—a bit too hard, Frank thought—at Slugger’s little joke.
Slugger’s bunker shot rolled to within ten feet. A nice shot, but not good enough. Now that both players were on the green, Frank pulled the flagstick from the cup and set it off to the side, out of the line of play.
“Frank, putt that out if Slugger insists and then come on over. I want you to meet someone,” his dad said, looking at Slugger, who nodded, even though he was away, indicating it was fine for the kid to putt first.
Frank took his time. For one thing, the putt was four feet—no sure thing. For another, he was in no rush to meet his dad’s friend.
But he did knock the putt in.
Then he and Slugger, as they always did, took their caps off to shake hands. Slugger was a stickler for proper golf etiquette—whether on an empty golf course early in the morning or in the heat of a big tournament.
After replacing the flag and collecting their equipment, Frank and Slugger walked over to where the two men stood.
“What’d you shoot?” his father asked.
“Thirty-four,” Frank said.
“Not bad. What’d you hit in here to eighteen?”
“Nine-iron.”
“One-fifty flag?” his dad asked, slipping into golf jargon. One-fifty flag meant 150 yards to the flag for his second shot.
“One-forty-seven,” Frank said, nodding.
Without pausing, Thomas Baker turned to the man in the blue suit and said, “Frank, I want you to meet Ron Lawrensen. He’s a VP at Double Eagle Inc., and reps some of the upcoming young guys on tour.”
Frank hadn’t ever heard much about Double Eagle, but he knew that reps—agents—handled all the business details for pro golfers: getting them into tournaments, drawing up contracts, arranging travel, handling media appearances and sponsorships. They did all the boring stuff so that players could just focus on golf. And they were well paid for it, sometimes taking upward of 20 percent of an athlete’s income.
“He’s a pro—kind of a pro’s pro,” his dad finished.
Lawrensen’s face lit up with a smile, and he put out his hand. Frank started to shake it, but Lawrensen twisted it into a bro-shake and pulled Frank in for a shoulder bump—a very awkward shoulder bump.
“Been wanting to meet you ever since the Amateur last year,” Lawrensen said, the smile still plastered across his face. “I thought for sure you were going to Augusta.”
Augusta National Golf Club was the site of the annual Masters Tournament, held every year at the start of April.
Frank said, “I never led in the match and I lost on sixteen, so I don’t know why you thought that.”
His father gave him a sharp look.
Frank didn’t really care. The guy had just met him and had already brought up the most disappointing day of his golf career—his semifinal loss in last summer’s U.S. Amateur. If he had won, he would have qualified to play in the Masters, since both finalists received invitations. But Rickie Southwick had beaten him handily in the semis.
Frank changed the subject. “This is Slugger Johnston,” he said. “He’s the pro here, and he’s my teacher.”
Mercifully, Lawrensen didn’t go for a bro-shake or shoulder bump with Slugger. In fact, he said nothing to Slugger beyond “Nice to meet you.”
Slugger, being polite, no doubt, but also looking for information, said, “What brings you to town, Ron?”
The agent gave him a no-big-deal shrug. “A few of my guys are playing an outing down at River Highlands,” he said. “Media-day type of thing for the Travelers. Then I head to Memphis and from there on to Erin Hills. The circus never stops.”
He gave a world-weary shake of his head after ticking off the next stops on the Professional Golf Association Tour. Memphis was this week; then the U.S. Open was at Erin Hills in Wisconsin the following week, and then the Tour came to Hartford after that, with the Travelers Championship being played at River Highlands—which was about 20 miles south of Perryton.
“I thought it might be interesting for you to spend a little time with Ron, hear about what might be in store for you,” Thomas Baker said. “We can grab breakfast inside—”
“Dad, I have to get to school,” Frank protested.
“First period is at eight-thirty,” his dad said. “I’ll drop you off this morning. We’re ten minutes away, and it’s not yet seven-thirty. Slugger can pay off those donuts tomorrow. Right, Slugger?”
“Sure thing, Thomas,” Slugger said. He didn’t really care about the donuts, and neither did Frank.
“Thanks, Slugger. Come on, Frank. Let’s get some food in you.”
He and Lawrensen turned in the direction of the clubhouse. Frank looked at Slugger.
“You coming?” he said.
Slugger shook his head. “Wasn’t invited.”
“I’m inviting you.”
“Just go,” Slugger said softly, putting his hand out for Frank’s putter and nine-iron. “We’ll talk later. I’ll take care of the carts and the clubs.”
Text copyright © 2018 by John Feinstein
