The Year I Went to the Masters

It was 2004, on a Saturday. I arrived in a Jeep Cherokee driven by a member of Augusta National whom I had never met. He was the connection through which I had secured this one day pass, a bonus gratuity from the giant insurance company which owned the Broker-Dealer I worked for at the time. The Cherokee pulled onto the lush grass just behind Butler cabin at the stroke of 8:00 in the morning and I felt like a Greek god as I walked on the most beautiful lawn in America, around Butler cabin and past the sign informing patrons of Bobby Jones’ rules for watching the Masters. There would be no running, no cell phones or cameras, and most importantly—no cheering allowed for bad shots…absolutely no heckling would be tolerated!

Like most American men I had spent a lifetime watching The Masters on television. The place was an enchanting mix of history and beauty and I could scarcely believe my good fortune. What was I even doing at a place this beautiful? For the week leading up to this day I could hardly sleep. During all of that tossing and turning I had come up with a plan for the day. My first appointment would be at the pro shop which was close to Butler cabin. I figured I would go through there and buy souvenirs and whatnot, then drop them off in the Cherokee before heading out on the course. It was a reasonable plan. 

As I entered the pro shop along with hundreds of other equally dumbstruck visitors I was shocked at how inexpensive everything was. I grabbed a green basket and began throwing stuff in—“wow…that shirt is only 20 bucks? What??” The bad news arrived when I went to check out and the clerk said, “that will be $585.” No way I was going to part with any of my treasures so I happily paid. Then it was time to execute the remainder of my well thought out strategic plan for making the absolute most of my one and only day at Augusta National.

My plan was simple. I would begin by walking the entire course, moving along with the pace of play, not following any particular golfer. I just wanted to see every hole for myself. It took me nearly two hours and by the time I trudged up 18 my legs felt like I had run a marathon with a forty pound backpack. Words cannot adequately describe just how monstrously hilly the place is. It’s strange the specific details I remember—and the ones I don’t. For example, on the first tee box as I began my trek I remember the first guy I watched tee-off. Retief Goosen. But for the life of me I can’t remember his playing partner. I remember watching Tiger Woods hit his approach shot to the 9th green and almost throw his club in anger even though the ball landed twenty feet from the pin! When he got to the green I understood his disappointment. The putt ended up being a 60 foot monster which he damn near made. Such are the devilish undulations of the greens at Augusta.

After walking the course I was hungry. There was a green building nestled in the woods on the course which sold sandwiches and drinks. My pimento cheese sandwich came in a green wrapper, my beer in a green cup. I handed the guy a five dollar bill and he gave me two quarters in change. Unbelievable. I stood in the gallery around Amen Corner and watched a couple groups come through. Then I latched on to Phil Mickelson and followed him the rest of his round. He would win the Masters that year, his first of three wins at Augusta. On the 18th I was on the edge of the rope that held back the gallery around the green—exactly where Phil’s approach shot landed a mere ten feet from me! I looked at the delicate chip shot he faced as he made his way up the fairway. I told the buddy I was with that if I dropped 10 balls at that spot and hit all ten I didn’t think I could get a single one within 10 feet of that slippery pin placement. 

Phil walks up, flicks a delicate wedge to within 2 feet and tapped in for his par. Crazy.

If you’ve watched the Masters perhaps you’ve noticed the worn area across the 9th fairway. It’s the designated area for patrons to cross. I was walking with a large crowd across it at one point and heard the sound of a cell phone ringing. Everybody sort of gasped because of Bobby Jones’ warning. Then I see this idiot fifteen feet ahead of me reach into his pocket and answer the call!!! Suddenly, as if by magic, this security guy in a bright yellow windbreaker appears out of nowhere, taps the idiot on the shoulder and firmly escorted the guy off the premises—to the polite applause of several patrons closest to him. At the Masters, you do it their way or you hit the highway.

So, yes, I’ll be tuned in this weekend. It will be stunningly beautiful. But, nowhere near as beautiful as it was 21 years ago when I was right there in the middle of heaven.