Golf Fore the Good

I set up a simple, quick trip to Georgia to visit my brother and play a little golf. In the planning it had not occurred to me that it was Master’s week.

Barely a week before my excursion I was spending some social time at the local golf course bar and someone brought up the fact that I’d be ever-so-close to Augusta National and should try to score an entry pass to the famed tournament.

When first attempts failed to procure a badge my husband took it upon himself to call on a friend in high places. Voila! A coveted pass for Thursday’s round was mine (thanks, Babs!).

I vacillated about attending because the drive from Atlanta to Augusta is not a short one but the golfer in me won out. How could I possibly turn down an opportunity to attend one of golf’s sacred events? I simply couldn’t. So my brother generously devoted the entire day to me, personally escorting me all 162 miles to Augusta and back again. We actually spent more time in the car than I did on the National’s gorgeous grounds. I’m not sure exactly how my brother felt about the five-plus hours of travel time that day but for me it was worth every mile.

Leads on a second pass failed to materialize. That meant my chauffeur’s only chance to view the action was either peeking through the privet hedge or laying out $1000 for a day pass. He’d won a pocket full of cash from me on the golf course in the last few days but not nearly enough to justify paying scalper’s prices. That meant there’d be no pimento cheese sandwich for him that day but he was happy to drop me at the back gate and head elsewhere for the duration, graciously settling for wings and beer.

Left to my own devices and not knowing at all what to expect I strode confidently down the walk-in entrance. I successfully passed through the first wave of security with only a mild warning about the size of my purse. As I moved on signs appeared everywhere – no this, no that, only such and such.

I quickly realized that other than small firearms I pretty much was carrying every item not allowed into Augusta National. Not to worry; southern hospitality was the order of the day and though I had to relinquish my purse and nearly its entire contents I was greeted with smiles and direct, efficient instructions. Perhaps as accustomed as I am to the hard, clipped inflections of the Northeast, it was all those soft southern accents that eased the procedures.

Security was tighter than at an international airport. Even my water bottle was stripped of its label, whether for purposes of limiting commercial advertising or litter containment or both. I am not a big lover of lines and tend to be impatient when made to wait but somehow the whole process merely added to my anticipation as opposed to creating an annoyance. I passed swiftly through the gauntlet and then – just like that! – I found myself inside the gates of Augusta National.

I felt like Dorothy popping out of a black and white world and into a land of Technicolor splendor. They say Ireland has forty shades of green. Augusta National surely rivals that.

The slopes and valleys of the fairways, the substantial elevation changes and the undulations of those torturous greens all danced with sunlight. Green, green everywhere - marred only by the shockingly white bunkers, beribboned by reflective ponds and the so picturesque yet so very treacherous Rae’s Creek, tinged with Azalea pinks and Dogwood whites. It was a kaleidoscope of color.

The crowds were substantial but not so great as to be impassable. I was struck but the sheer number of people milling about the grounds yet the quiet that hung in the air. You have to love the game of golf, its history and its etiquette, for in no other sport could you gather so many spectators together and witness such decorum.

As a newbie to the National I wanted to see it all, to miss nothing. It quickly became apparent that not only could I not see it all in my allotted time, I realized that I would barely dent the “to do” list my husband had sent to me: eighteen things you must do if you visit the Masters.

Our driving time precluded me from meeting my badge benefactor early in the day, unfortunate because I’m sure the gentleman would have set me on the proper path and offered some valuable insight into the action. Suffering a major blond moment and having left all my contact information back in my purse at the security checkpoint, I also missed a mid-day meeting with him. My apologies; no one regrets this more than I.

I have an acquaintance who has visited the Masters for decades. I might have caught up with her as well, had I been a bit more organized, and picked up some pointers on viewing the tournament. It didn’t happen. A curious side note: the most often asked question upon my return home has not been “how was the tournament?” or even “did you see Tiger?” but has been “did you see Louise there?” She is, in our little New England town, synonymous with the Masters, with her soft southern accent and Georgia roots. I can understand now why each and every trip to Augusta is so special for her.

Alone with my map and guide book, I strode wide eyed around the course. Eventually I choose – or so I thought - a primo spot, timing it perfectly to view a few favorite players. A hour later I found out about the morning’s hour fog delay and had to reassess my plan. Time was a-wasting. I set off to Amen Corner, a definite “must see.”

Walking over a small rise alongside the eleventh fairway I caught my first glimpse of the Hogan Bridge. This was the defining moment of my day, a personal epiphany. My breath caught in my throat as I considered the stunning beauty of the course, the history of the tournament and the challenges of Amen Corner that have charted the destiny of so many golfers’ lives. This is why I’d come to the Masters.

For any avid golfer, short of a visit to St. Andrews I cannot think of another setting that could compare to the view from that knoll at Augusta National. It held an even more intimate association for me, as bridges of all sorts and sizes, both literal and figurative, hold a special place in my heart and mark many occasions of my life.

My pilgrimage was short but oh, so sweet. While I might have better organized my time there to view a few more holes or to see more of the players in the field, what I took away was not about the action on the golf course but the aura of the course itself and the depth its traditions.

Many people object to the austere management of the Masters tournament by the powers-that-be at Augusta National. I have even heard the regime referred to as “Nazi-like.” Not I. What I felt on the grounds of Augusta National was pride, respect and heritage, albeit perhaps a tad over-protective; a sense of preservation and the realization that the Masters is a gem to be revered, a golf tournament unlike any other.