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  This book is dedicated to the memory of David Sattler, who didn’t love golf, but who absolutely adored his children. It was an honor to call him my brother for twenty-seven years.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  You will notice a number of real people mentioned in this book. They are there because they’re friends who I hope will enjoy their fictional selves as much as I enjoy them in real life. Among them: Mike Davis, David Fay, Tom Meeks, Pete Kowalski, Rory McIlroy, Jordan Spieth, Phil Mickelson, Zach Johnson, Justin Rose, Kevin Streelman, Brandel Chamblee, Davis Love, Joe Buck, Paul Azinger, Brad Faxon, Mark Loomis, Steve DiMeglio, Jerry Tarde, Larry Dorman, Mark Steinberg, and Guy Kinnings. I have fictionalized everyone connected to Augusta National because, well, it’s Augusta National.

  Thanks also to all my friends and colleagues in the golf world, notably to Dave Kindred, who hangs out with me whether he likes it or not at golf tournaments, and to all the folks I had the pleasure of working with at Golf Channel for the last nine years.

  Thanks also to Wes Adams, my editor at FSG, who liked the idea from the beginning and was willing to let me write a sports novel that isn’t about football, basketball, or baseball. Thanks also to his two assistants during this process, Megan Abbate and Melissa Warten.

  Then there is my agent, Esther Newberg. This is my thirty-ninth book and Esther has been involved with all thirty-nine of them—something she no doubt regrets almost daily. She got the first one sold in 1985 after five publishers rejected it, and she continues to be my staunchest advocate even when I infuriate her—which is often. She also has a knack for hiring brilliant assistants. Most recently both Zoe Sandler and Alex Heimann have brought to the table the thing Esther and I both lack most—patience, which is greatly needed in dealing with both of us.

  Finally, my family. My sister, Margaret, and her two sons, Ethan and Ben, suffered the crushing loss of my brother-in-law, David Sattler, in December after a long, sad illness. My brother, Bobby, will no doubt be upset that this book isn’t about a fifty-something low handicapper who suddenly “finds it,” and wins the Masters. His wife, Jennifer, and two sons, Matthew and Brian, know I’m not exaggerating. Thanks also to my in-laws, Marlynn and Cheryl, and to, as my daughter Jane calls her, “Grandma Marcia,” my dad’s widow, Marcia Feinstein.

  Last, not even close to least, my remarkable wife, Christine, and my three fantastic children, Danny, Brigid, and Jane. I will close with that because as Jane—now seven—likes to say to me, “Daddy, you’ve written enough for today.”

  As usual, she’s right …

  —J.F., Potomac, Maryland

  PART I

  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.”

  2

  Keith Forman rolled over in bed, stared at the ceiling, and took morning inventory.

  The first question, and the most crucial one: Where am I? His instincts quickly told him he was in yet another Courtyard Marriott. But where? It came to him: Germantown, Tennessee, a suburb of Memphis.

  It was Tuesday at—he rolled over slightly so he could see the clock—6:35 a.m. Time to wake up. Tuesday was a big day for him at a golf tournament—any golf tournament. Tuesday was the day players first showed up and, since they had no official responsibilities until the next day’s pro-am, they usually had time to talk to reporters like Keith.

  He picked up his cell phone off the night table and glanced at it. There was one message on the screen: Commie, call me ASAP.

  Slugger.

  Forman groaned. What in the world could Slugger Johnston want with him? They had been classmates at the University of Richmond and teammates on the UR golf team ten years earlier. They’d stayed in touch some through the years since both were still in golf—Slugger as a club pro in Connecticut, Keith as a golf writer. But they’d barely talked since Donald Trump’s inauguration because Slugger kept sending him emails that started, MAKING AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.

  Forman had stopped responding because, as a dyed-in-the-wool Boston liberal, he had been sickened by the outcome of the presidential election the previous November. That was why Johnston called him “Commie.” It had been his college nickname because everyone else on the golf team was, as he liked to put it, “so far right, they were almost left.”

  Slugger had earned his own nickname in college, too—after an ill-advised locker-room fight with a guy from the football team.

  Now, after almost six months of radio silence, Slugger wanted something—and he wanted it ASAP. Forman sat up and smiled. He knew what Slugger wanted: U.S. Open tickets for one of his members. Made sense. The Open was a week away.

  Forman was thirty-two and once upon a time he had aspired to be part of the traveling circus that was the PGA Tour, just not this way. He had gone to the University of Richmond as a scholarship golfer with dreams of playing the Tour someday, of being a player like Phil Mickelson, Ernie Els, or Vijay Singh. Heck, he’d have settled for being the next Geoff Ogilvy, the Aussie who won the U.S. Open in 2006—the year Forman had graduated—and who hadn’t done much since.

  He didn’t think once about being Tiger Woods because he knew he’d never be that good. No mere mortal was that good.

  He’d had a reasonably good college career and had graduated with a degree in history, making him different from most of his teammates. He’d hoped that a few years of playing golf full-time, whether on mini-tours or the Hooters Tour or even the Web.com Tour, would get his game to a level where he could play with the big boys. The Web.com was one step from the PGA Tour; the Hooters Tour was two steps away. The mini-tours were the low minors, but players did occasionally work their way up the ladder from there to the big bucks.

  Forman
had gotten married shortly after graduating. He’d met Julie McCoy at a golf team party when both were juniors. They got married in her hometown, Asheville, North Carolina, and Julie’s dad told Keith he’d loan him fifty grand to get him started as a pro.

  “You pay me back when you begin making the real money,” Julie’s dad had told him. “The only interest I want is for you to take good care of my daughter.”

  Forman had failed to pay off the loan or the interest. He’d spent three years playing mini-tours in Florida and had made a total of $27,116. His biggest check had come when he tied for ninth at an event in Sarasota and brought home the princely sum of $2,811.

  That money was barely enough to pay for his expenses—which included a small apartment he and Julie shared in Orlando and paid for with his tiny checks and her salary as a bank teller. The plan had been for her to go to graduate school and get an MBA once Keith started to make real money.

  The real money never came. Three times Forman went to the PGA Tour’s Qualifying School, a three-step grind, which, if all went well, led—back then—to the PGA Tour, or at least to the Triple-A Web.com Tour. Twice, Forman made it through the first stage but hit what players called “the second-stage wall.” Second stage had a lot of good players—some who had been on the PGA Tour but had fallen to that level. Others were future stars on the way up. Jordan Spieth had once failed at second stage. That’s how tough it was.

  After Forman hadn’t even made it to second stage in his third Q-School try, he drove home from Tampa to find Julie and her father waiting at the apartment.

  “I was hoping we could go to dinner to celebrate you making it,” his father-in-law said. “Let’s go out and get a good steak anyway.”

  Forman knew that his golf-sponsor/dad-in-law hadn’t flown down from Asheville to celebrate getting through first stage. Second stage—maybe. But he’d just flunked first stage.