From Sunday's Times and News-Star
The
clubhouse entrance to Augusta National Golf Club is breathtaking Magnolia Lane,
and a large officer of the law guarded it at 10:50 on the morning of Monday,
April 9, 2012, when I pulled in and handed him what amounted to a golden
ticket.
“Glad
you could come,” he said. “Drive on up and they’ll greet you at the clubhouse.”
It
was impossible not to smile, because usually an officer in such a position asks
if I would mind stepping out of the car. This was going to be a good day.
I
drove one-inch an hour. Seriously. It has to be an Augusta record for slow play
over that 330 yards. And not just because my fuel pump was about to go out. No,
I was about to play, for lack of a better term, a round of golf at America’s
most notable, historic and beloved course, and I was milking it.
For
the golf fan, the Monday after the Masters has a sort of day-after-Christmas
feel to it. Not so last year for the lucky few of us who won the annual “media
lottery” and were granted a round. With caddies in their white jumpsuits. With
all the gallery ropes taken down. With no people where 40,000 had been the day
before.
Sweet.
All
week during the tournament my car had been parked at an Augusta home under a
tree. Bird poop. I couldn’t see driving down Magnolia Lane in a pooped-on car
with a bad fuel pump and a suspect battery. (My jumper cables were in the
passenger seat.) So I went through a car wash across the street, then drove in
like I was somebody.
On
this day, they treat you better than they’d treat a member. For instance, you
get a locker in the Champion’s Locker Room. I had Phil Mickelson’s. Beside
me/Phil were lockers with the engraved names of Nick Faldo and Larry Mize and
Gary Player and Henry Picard, the 1938 champ who I feared might be rolling over
in his grave. “Give me about six hours, Mr. Picard,” I whispered, “and I’ll be
gone. If my car starts.”
Two
things. One, try to get a ticket online to the Masters’ practice rounds at
Augusta. This piece of land that began as a nursery is as fabulous as you’ll
see. There is help everywhere on the course. Prices for concessions and
souvenirs are at break-even rates. It might be the best and most well-run
sporting event in the world.
Two,
with borrowed shoes and clubs and having not played in months, I shot a foot
wedge-aided 96. In real life, that would be about 110. But there is little
about Augusta National, or that day, that was like real life. I had a fine
time.
Bogey
on 1. Parred 2, 7 and, from the sand, 16. Back left bunker on 12. Pond at 15. Hit
a pine with a wedge on 10 – sounded like a rifle blast – and the ball dropped
15 feet below the hole.
“Never
seen THAT shot before,” one of our caddies said. They said that a lot that
round. Glenny. Jimmy. Rhett. And Mr. Lucky. My Mount Rushmore of Caddies.
At
the turn, a nice man in tie and black pants and vest made us a drink that
fizzed. Maybe a 7-Up and cranberry juice. On regular days, one of our caddies
said, for members who wanted a drink at the turn, vodka would be added.
The
bartender laughed. “Well,” he said, “this sure ain’t no regular day.”
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