Sheldon is snoring. It’s 3:15am. I can’t sleep. But it’s not the snoring that keeps me from falling back to sleep. No, it’s definitely related to a massive bucket list item I’m about to check off later this day. You see, in a few short hours I’ll be crossing a magical threshold into golf heaven. Later today mouth-breathing Sheldon and I will be heading to Augusta National Golf Club, the annual host of the Masters Tournament. It’s not just a casual day of watching the best battle it out for a green jacket either, but the final day nonetheless. Yes, we are headed to Sunday at the Masters. So if you know anything about professional golf, you may understand why a golf nerd like me is having trouble sleeping.
Disclaimer: This was such a monumental day for me that I may write excessively on items some may find trivial. For this I apologize, but I wanted to note anything and everything for personal reasons. I’ll try to keep the mundane details short.
Sleep escapes me for another 15 minutes and my re-connection with the world of slumber ultimately fails on all fronts.
I resort to my phone and surf through Twitter and Facebook, focusing primarily on anything Masters related. I dissect any analysis I can find. Some figured Patrick Reed was going to run away and hide on Sunday; others believed Rory McIlroy was due for a Rory-style low round and maybe even a career grand slam.
I wasn’t sure. All I knew was my one day at the Masters better not be a runaway victory.
Then again, I’m at the Masters on Sunday. Can’t be too greedy, right?
4:00am. The Masters-themed alarm tune which has been my go-to for three running years sounds almost in pure synchronization as mutant-breath Sheldon’s stock Android alarm. (He’s a simple man.) I’m already up and brushing my teeth before he manages to moisten what I imagine to be a desert dry mouth.
Getting dressed was a breeze despite the early hour. I had my outfit planned for a few months. Remember – golf nerd. Borrowed white Nike golf shorts from my brother, a lime green golf polo covered by a conveniently appropriate green Masters quarter zip sweater that has been waiting patiently in my closet for his big day. He’s performing nicely so far. To top it all off a white No Laying Up visor which adopted a very Masters-look with its green script on white. I quickly snapped a picture to friends. I mean, it’s my big day. I can’t look like a dud.
Locked & Loaded
Google Maps hinted 1 hour 45 minutes from Covington to Augusta National. There’s no way it took us more than an hour and a quarter. I was motivated.
As we neared the town of Augusta, it was abuzz despite the morning darkness. Honestly a sight to see. I could watch the pandemonium in the streets for hours if the front gate wasn’t beckoning me so strongly.
Ticket sellers, ticket buyers, front lawn parking spots for rent, clothing tents, pop-up bars, even soon-to-arrive John Daly slanging merchandise in a Hooters’ parking lot were among the services available within a stone’s throw of the course.
As we slowly turned into the north gate driveway, it began to really hit me. We had officially entered onto Augusta National’s property. Barring something extremely unforeseen, Sheldon and I were soon to be on the actual course. I grinned like a complete moron at every and each patient parking lot attendant as they smoothly showed us to a spot.
The Nissan Rogue dash showed 5:51am. Hastily we grab our things – but no phones of course, and took off. Hoping to be first in line, maybe at worst 10th, we had agreed to arrive early. The gates didn’t open until 8:00am.
Our walk to the north gate was only about two minutes, but there were definitely a few cars in the lot already. We were surprised to see about 400 people already lined up. After grabbing our spot, I walked up to the first row to inquire how early they arrived. 3:30am was the magic number. Yowza.
One thing about Georgia, despite its striking April afternoon warmth, it can still be quite cold in the early hours of the morning. Mass amounts of people did their best to shuffle around in useless attempts at staying warm while a constant breeze cut through us all. However, almost immediately did I realize how small a price it was.
Security promptly segregated the line into sections of about 75-100 people. A Sheriff did the rounds explaining the initial dos and don’ts in the most policeman-type voice you can imagine. It’s serious stuff. Then in waves of 30 seconds, groups are unleashed through the final security checkpoint.
From this point on it’s reminiscent of what I imagine to be a new-pudding-day at a retirement home; you’re not allowed to run, so the masses walk “briskly” as best they can gently elbowing past any competitor. You see, once your chair is placed on the grounds at Augusta National, no one is allowed to move it for the remainder of the day. It’s a high stakes game.
As you may imagine, the 18th hole is most popular as that is where it all ends and where the winner is usually decided. Without any previous experience besides studying the course via their exquisite website, Sheldon and I navigate to the 18th green as quickly and efficiently as possible. I was told ‘NO running!’ only once during this mission, to which I deemed an ultimate success.
We entered the course from the patron pavilion and the sight punched me in the gut, but in a good way if that’s possible. Even in the mad quasi-dash to 18, I grabbed Sheldon’s bony, weak shoulder and asked him something along the lines of “Can you believe this?!” There may have been one or two expletives in there somewhere. Can’t confirm.
Up a sharp slope to your left, tucked behind the 1st tee is the 18th green. Everyone has now sighted their target and simultaneously moving in for the kill. Chairs are being laid faster than freshman young women at a Varsity house party. The opening to enter the seating area is roped off providing only the width of a single body at approximately 25-foot intervals. I try to duck the rope in the madness but am quickly called off by a nearby member.
“Do NOT duck under the rope.”
Whoops.
Security and ANGC members hold significant power during this week. Should they deem it necessary, one can be removed from the property and have all future privileges revoked. Nonetheless nearly everyone is on their best behavior.
I quickly re-evaluate and (politely ) budge my way six feet left to an entry point. Oh, hey, there’s Sheldon. In my mix of euphoria and anxiety, I completely forgot about my bearded partner-in-crime. Swiftly we enter through the opening and place our chairs as close to the green as possible. 9th row, back right on a back to front slope (which is great for someone who’s vertically challenged like myself) is where we finally planted down. Exhales all around. Although at the time it looked miles away from the pin, our biggest challenge had been completed.
A sight to see was the celebrating of those who had successfully placed a chair. Random patrons turning to their immediate rights and lefts high-fiving and cheering loudly. It was a big deal. At that point I felt much better about our chair location. Sweet.
Now what? Might as well spend a crap load of money. To the merchandise shop!
Augusta National is debuting their brand new golf shop, and my oh my, it’s phenomenal. 360 degrees of alluring items in a beautiful state-of-the-art facility. After initially eyeing up wine glasses and tumblers, I turned around to find the place filled up shoulder-to-shoulder in the span of two minutes. This was going to take some efficiency.
Unfortunately I am not efficient and I’m easily side tracked – this time it’s a little golf course merely a knockdown gap wedge away snatching my attention. I riffle through the shelves grabbing whatever calls my name all while doing my best to remember the moderate list of items for friends and family.
They’re lucky if they get something green let alone what they asked for.
In the mass of people and excitement, I successfully lost Sheldon again. I gave a short and brief attempt at locating him and his pastel red pants to no avail. Whatever. He sucks anyway.
I returned to our primo seats thinking it would be a good meeting spot, but no bearded red pants. Hmmm. I can’t head out onto the course now or I’ll never find him. I also can’t miss all the action without someone dubiously questioning our friendship as I skip from hole to hole like a five year old.
Ah ha! Pastel red pants! There he is … nope. I have incidentally located a Japanese fellow who has managed to find that same pair of pants. Unreal. Props to his sick Honma jacket, though.
My search was thankfully short. Sheldon emerged stuffing his hairy face with a sausage biscuit and a coffee. I’ll now do the same. Total cost: $3. Good thing Augusta National is ultra sloped, because I plan on over eating like the cheat day to end all cheat days.
Food and buddy in tow. Let’s goooooooo!
We decide to walk the entire course front to back as we have about 90 minutes before Vijay Singh tees off solo. We literally start at the first tee box.
Let me get this out of the way now. There are rumors the Masters and other PGA tournaments use camera lenses that accentuate the green of the fairways. Regarding Augusta National, this is false by a landslide. Even the worn down fairway crossings for patrons are still greener than you’ll ever get your front lawn. As we walk from the first tee and cross the fairway, I couldn’t help but stray a few feet beyond the crossing path and drag my hand down the immaculate mixed green blades of Bermuda & Ryegrass. Amazing.
Another interesting observation of the first hole which is not easily noticeable on TV is the substantial valley in the fairway almost immediately off the tee. A player must carry the ball roughly 280 yards to flight this valley or else he or she is faced with a long and sharp up-slope approach. Immensely fascinating for the nerd in me. Oh, and if you wanna take on the fairway bunker on the right, it’s only a 314 yard carry. Not a big deal.
We arrived at the first green after walking under the tall Augusta pines and some cool low hanging trees that I have zero clue what they’re called. Standing at the front left greenside bunker, we marveled at its perfection. Crisp edges and meticulously raked white sand accompanied by a mild six-foot lip. The sand appeared so light and well groomed you could possibly whiff right under the ball if not careful. Something not commonly found in the rain-soaked Pacific Northwest.
Now for the Augusta National cliche I hope to avoid overusing – the varying elevation throughout the course. One word: severe.
Walking down the second hole is breathtaking. A hard dogleg left that would leave you extremely hesitant to toboggan down should it be covered in snow. I also was not aware of how quickly the red hazard line comes into play on the left. I don’t know how more guys don’t end up penalized given the acute slope from the fairway through the pine straw.
Approximately half way down the fairway it opens up and the green sparkles in the sunlight as if it’s God’s gift to the golfers. Surrounded by bunkers, each inch is illuminated causing a sense of pure nirvana. It looks miles away and it’s difficult to fathom how some players have only irons in.
Another interesting note is how close greens are stationed to the next tee box. I’m not sure why I imagined it differently, but it’s quite convenient from a patron perspective.
Being as hole 3 is the shortest par 4 on the course, we only looked down the fairway from the tee box. This is followed by me rattling off random tidbits to an unimpressed Sheldon. It’s not that he doesn’t care, but he’s likely heard these kinds of minute details many times in the months leading up to today.
Hole 4. Flowering Crab Apple. A moderate 240 yard par 3 protected by a colossal bunker at the front of the green. Gimme ten tries and I might make par once. Maybe. Good grief.
As we rip around holes, finally Amen Corner came into view. Glowing in the morning sun, we stood motionless at the par-3 12th and the first half of the par-5 13th. It’s exactly like all the beautiful pictures you’ve seen before, but better. Better because you’re there; you’re in its presence breathing the same air that’s providing vivacious life to all the azaleas. Wow…
There is zero disappointment. Zilch. Everything is how you hoped it to look. Everything is in its exact place. Everything is perfect.
It reminds me of my first NHL game. When my brother, dad and I stepped out of the concourse into Rogers Arena (then GM Place), it was all so real and yet so fake. It was exactly what you had hoped, but you couldn’t believe you were actually there.
16 is a fun hole to walk around. The water sitting dead calm, almost black in color surrounded by a massive bank on the left side. The green is much smaller in person than on TV in my opinion. In fact, I noticed that about many of the greens. I can only imagine this accentuates the undulations and ridges even more making them increasingly hazardous.
Finally the walk up 18. If you think you can make it as a golfer on the pro tour, stand behind the 18th tee box and give me your honest thoughts. The chute one must hit out of appears as narrow as a New Westminster heritage home hallway. Then there is the drastic elevation and dogleg right. I’d need handsome Bradley Cooper and a sniper rifle to hit the ideal fairway position.
We made our way back to the entrance of the golf course where it borders the patron’s pavilion. A large scoreboard with individual player’s hole-by-hole scores awaits you. However it only truly confirms how many more birdies they all make to every bogey of your own.
Sheldon, channeling his inner Michael Simon Toon, delivers his masterpiece. He throws out the idea of checking out the driving range.
Eureka, Sheldon! How did I forget about that?
We book it to the range.
I can’t recommend this enough. Sure watching guys stripe irons in action is great, but watching them hone their craft beforehand is nearly as incredible. Also, you are offered a real appreciation for players you may not be familiar with. I was caught off guard by the effortless power and precision of Kyle Stanley’s 3-wood fade.
Bryson DeChambeau has massive putter-style grips on his well-documented uniform-length clubs. He also must be a great locker room guy because nearly everyone stopped by to say hello. This was not a custom provided any other player on the range from what I saw.
The range patrons stood and clapped for only one player while we were there – Bernhard Langer. He was great. It was still a little frigid out so he suggested we continue clapping to stay warm. Silky stride on him, too. Probably a great dinner date.
Kiradech Aphibarnrat is just as wide as you may imagine, but far shorter than I thought. Nothing actually golf related, but still, made me go hmmm.
Same with Xander Schauffele. Not tall. This is encouraging as he’s a phenomenal player and will be for a long time and has nearly the exact same build as I do. So you’re telling me there’s a chance.
Martin Kaymer was swinging as smoothly as a silk ribbon at the opposite end of the fairway. Phil Mickelson, to Kaymer’s immediate right, hit driver for what felt like 45 straight minutes. Phil being Phil. Love it.
Then, from the far left of the range, emerging from a small walkway that led from who knows, out He strode. Dressed is black pants, a black cotton Nike sweater and a black Nike hat: Tiger. Woods.
Players had entered the driving range from my right all morning, including Tiger’s playing partner Rafael Cabrera-Bello, so I had hoped he would do the same. It would at least provide me a 20-foot glimpse as he waltzed by. No luck.
However after a few wedge shots, we noticed small pairs of range patrons slowly clearing out. Two by two, as a pair to our left would vacate their seats, Sheldon and I would scoot down five or six seats closer to Tiger. Slowly but surely we had advanced to about 50 feet from him as he started hitting a mid iron.
I saw him at Chambers Bay in 2015, but nothing like this. This was the warm up range at Augusta National on Sunday of the Masters. I shouldn’t have to qualify that statement.
Tiger is one of the main reasons I stuck with golf. Slice after shank after club throw as a 16 year old junior hacking up Sequoia Springs GC in Campbell River (sorry Mr. Brown, I was actually trying really hard), I would envision my next shot being a pured iron all over a pin and triumphantly walking after it.
It never happened, but I continued to watch Tiger destroy records and it only fueled my determination.
Now here he was. A shadow of his mid-2000 form, but slowly regaining his competitive shape again. He could’ve walked out with a cane at age 85 and I would be just as smitten.
He worked his way through his bag as I took diligent mental inventory of each strike.
He was hitting it well. Really well. Wedges landing no more than five feet from each pin. Carved mid-irons shots all landing within the same 10′ x 10′ area. Bombing drives up the left side of the range passing all the other balls to that point. No joke. His drives were easy to spot if you lost them in the pale Georgia clouds because they would fall 10-15 yards passed the previous longest drives. He’s still got it.
He moved to the chipping area. What once was a sporadic line of viewers along the ropes quickly, and I mean quickly, increased to a hoard of tippy-toers attempting a small glimpse at his renown touch around the greens.
I was actually shocked at his shot repertoire; as stupid as that may sound. Tiger was behind a bunker hitting to a pin about 25 feet away. All from a tight lie, he hit three high flop shots landing nearly dead with no roll, three mid-high running flop shots, and without adjusting stance or club, three low runners that barely cleared the bunker. He left one on the lip and nearly holed another two. Heck, that was worth the $115 ticket price itself.
He didn’t stay long, and from what I can remember he didn’t make a single practice putt, but I could be wrong so don’t quote me. After he walked off the practice facility, ample space along the putting and chipping ropes was immediately provided if you wanted to check out Brian Harman.
Time for another coffee.
Did I mention how outstandingly kind and polite every single staff member is at ANGC? It only added to my dorky grin.
Suddenly there is a serious gathering at the first tee. We’re talking four to five deep not including those who have placed chairs down. You know that can only mean one thing.
Tiger has arrived.
Big Cat, a contemporary online moniker for Tiger, is well back of the leaders. I thought this may work out in my favor as many won’t be as interested in following him. Wrong as usual.
Sheldon and I made our way up the right side of the first hole around the 330 yard mark. We snag a great spot along the rope which provides a decent view of the green, although because the greens are so undulating, it’s actually difficult to get a good view of them unless you’re directly beside it.
Tiger is known to go left off the first tee. I think of the last 50 tee shots on the first hole, Tiger has gone left 52 times.
We see a drive hammered up the fairway about mid to left center. Absolutely crushed. No way that’s Tiger’s. Is it? Here he comes. Striding up the fairway, slowly directing himself towards the drive in question. Hell ya, Tiger hit the fairway and doesn’t have much more than a wedge in.
We’ve already seen DeChambeau miss right and have a delicate chip trundle farther and farther from the hole until it was off the front of the green. So again, not a news flash, but one must be precise on these putting surfaces.
Tiger steps up to the ball with what appears a 52 degree wedge (total guess). A great tempo swing and every head cranes up and follows the ball down.
Boom. Flagged it. Four feet max. Everyone cheers as if he was leading. This guy, I tell ya.
As Tiger’s caddy Joe LaCava followed Tiger to the first green, a small woman sitting in a chair under one of the cool unknown low hanging trees surrounded by a small group smiled wide and shouted “Yaaaa Joey!”
I quickly recognized the large brimmed floral visor.
It was Kultilda Woods – Tiger’s mother.
I absolutely jinx Tiger by revealing to Sheldon I have never seen Tiger birdie in real life. Bam! His putt hits the lip and kicks 90 degrees left. A collective groan bellows out. Dammit, Heavenor.
As you know from my exemplary previous detailing, the second hole is a sharp downhill dogleg left. Dumb-dumb Sheldon and I stand about 150 feet from the tee box on the left side directly against the rope.
The first drive is pummeled down the right center. It avoided the fairway bunker and kicked forward down the slope. I prayed that was Tiger’s. The next was only heard, not seen. Patrons standing in the pine straw down the left side turn immediately to their left. Someone was in trouble. Yikes.
Before I could decide where to move next, almost out of nowhere, appeared Tiger. He was about four bodies in front of me, walking directly down the left rope line. Three bodies. Two bodies. Wham! There he was. Walking past me at the distance of about two Golf Pride multi-compound grips.
“I…I love ya, bud.”
That’s it. That’s what I managed to formulate in the most astounding sporting moment of my life thus far. I love you, bud. What an idiot.
Tiger did a half cap tip as he walked by, but I think that was towards everyone in general as they were still clapping despite his pull-hook tee shot.
But if my friends ask, he looked me right in the eye, winked and gave me the hand-pistol.
We crossed the second fairway with the idea of walking down the right side as the pin is almost always on the right side of the green on Sundays. Nearing the green we noticed an army of patrons gathered around it, so we agreed to jump to the short par-4 third to reserve a good spot.
“Ooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” The crowed roared as we got out of view.
I figured Tiger nearly missed either pitching in for eagle or jarring a bunker shot. This was confirmed as shortly after the crowed erupted with a “Yaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!’
The scoreboard reflected the assumed birdie shortly after. I was quickly reminded I still had yet to see one live.
We watched Tiger unfortunately make bogey at the short but difficult par-4 third. Despite driving the ball to Atlanta, he was left with a very difficult second shot that he failed to get on the green. Golf’s funny that way. A short hole can be much more difficult than it initially appears. Remember ladies: size isn’t everything.
But as we watched his tee shot from the long par-3 4th, it began to track. As if on queue, Tiger stuffed his tee shot to six feet, almost holing out for an ace as it rolled over the hole. I threw my arms up in excitement. That would’ve been nuts.
The crowds were really out in force now following Tiger. The afternoon was nearly upon us and unless you had a chair planted, getting a good view of Tiger was a tall task. (See what I did there?)
I made the argument to jump to the par-4 7th tee, grab a good spot and watch a few players tee off and wait for Tiger. Sheldon nodded along as he usually does. He’s a simple man, remember?
Because the course was getting so busy, it nearly took the whole time to weave through the crowds to the 7th tee as it took Tiger to play the holes. We arrived just in time to watch Brandon Grace and Bryson DeChambeau tee off a group before Tiger.
Once Tiger arrived and piped a drive he again walked past us in close proximity, but this time I withheld any fanboy comments. I think Sheldon appreciated it.
Instead of following Tiger down 7, we decided to check out Amen Corner and maybe get a seat in the grandstand overlooking all the action.
That idea was quickly nixed as the 20-something patron lineup wasn’t moving at all and there were numerous empty Masters chairs available closer to the iconic par-3 12th tee box. So we casually walked down and claimed two. A victimless crime.
This was probably one of the coolest parts of the day. We watched five groups come thru that hole and each swing was just as exciting as the next.
First up was Tyrrell Hatton and US Amateur runner-up and current University of Texas student Doug Ghim.
The pin location is your standard “sucker pin” for us mortals as it stands dangerously close to the front right portion of the green where any mis-hit short and right is destined to roll backwards off the front into the water. The Masters has never necessarily been won on the 12th hole, but it has definitely been lost.
From what I can assume, Hatton pushed his tee shot slightly and was saved only by the fact it was hit far enough where the front right portion of the green didn’t come into play. He let out an audible sigh to the applause and chuckles of the patrons.
Ghim hit a similar shot, but drew it just a touch left of Hatton’s ball. It was great.
You can easily notice the anxiety in a player’s face as their ball soars through the warm air. Wind plays such a key factor on this hole, players will routinely take an extra moment to analyze the wind direction and strength.
A nearby patron looked up and muttered to who I imagine to be his grandson, “It’s all in the tree tops.”
I assumed he meant that is how you read the wind for this particular hole. Or he’d started drinking early. One of the two.
In between groups there’s a volunteer who’s priority is to remove any small divot fragments from player’s tee shots and lay down fresh green-colored seed and sand mix on the divots leaving the tee box as spotless as possible. Perfection is not taken lightly at Augusta National. No, sir.
Kaymer, Stanley, Aphibarnrat, Schauffele, DeChambeau and Grace all hit tee shots with Sheldon and I eagerly watching mere feet away in our borrowed seats.
“If we can stay here until Tiger tees off, that would be perfect,” I say.
The crowds are really starting to file in now as Tiger and his partner make their way down 11Â – the start of Amen Corner. I anxiously look back each minute or so taking note of how quickly all the empty Masters chairs are filling up. I’m convinced someone will eventually request us to move before Tiger gets to the tee.
We get lucky. Tiger two-putts the par-4 11th from about 25 feet and makes his way to the 12th tee. He’s standing literally 10 feet away making practice swings as I stare mouth agape like I’m a sleeping Sheldon.
Tiger hit a flush, yet safe approach into 12Â landing nearly the middle of the green between the front and back bunkers. Considering he had fared quite poorly on the 12th hole this week, I’d consider it a success.
At this point the afternoon was well underway, the leaders would be teeing off shortly so we decided to make our way back to the top and see what we could find.
Shortly after arriving at the top of the property, we noticed how fun it would be watching player’s bomb tee shots off of the downhill par-4 10th. And, oh look who’s walking up to the tee – Adam Scott. A picture of swinging excellence. If there was one person you’d want to watch hit a single shot all day, Adam Scott would be at or near the top of the list.
Adam was paired with Daniel Berger, and both players did exactly what was expected. They punished a couple 3-woods down the center of the fairway. Adam lost his a touch right but I would imagine the only recourse was a slightly longer approach.
That’s when I saw her. Standing there in casual yet sporty walking attire and cute, little navy blue New Balance runners. Natasha Staniszewski stood there chatting with a couple friends. She didn’t appear to be working, just taking in the beautiful sights of Augusta National on this fine Sunday.
I had to make a move. I had to at least talk to her. I mean, Natasha is numero uno on “my list” at home. It’s not laminated, but I’ve argued with my wife it’s still official regardless.
Ok, here we go.
Performing my best confident walk, I sauntered up next to the TSN host and croaked out,
“Excuse me, Natasha?”
Holy crap, she’s looking at me now.
“Oh hi,” she says in a gorgeously bubbly voice as if we’re old friends.
“Oh hey, sorry, but, hey, I just wanted to say I’m a huge fan,” and posted up a high-five.
She laughed, said thanks, and gave the softest yet deadliest of accurate high fives that’s ever been delivered in the history of high-fives.
Augusta National was delivering on every level.
Once my heart rate subsided and I could see straight, it felt like a good time to head over to the front of the clubhouse for an iconic picture standing next to the patented yellow Augusta flowerbed on the front lawn. We found out shortly after lining up Augusta National actually provides this service to its patrons free of charge. Yet another home run by the boys in green. The line was long but wasn’t more than 30 minutes of waiting. It was well worth it as Sheldon and I got a picture together and also one individually. It’s probably something I will show my grandchildren whether they care or not.
Red Pants & Me
We returned from our photo session and grabbed a quick snack. Lemonade, sandwich and ice cream bar for what felt like 38 cents. Boom.
What next? Wait, what hole is Tiger on? Oh snap! He’s walking up 18! How did I manage to forget about my best friend? El Beardo and I hustle to our seats on 18 – which may I add appear much, much closer now that 20 rows have been added behind us.
I quickly glance at the leaderboard and notice Tiger is sitting at even for the day.
Can that be right? I knew he’d shot an even front 9, including pars on 10 , 11 and 12. However, he had started the day at +4 meaning Tiger had just gone deep on a short stretch of holes. Which I missed.
Immediately I think it was because I was not there to jinx him, but brushed that idea away as Tiger hit his approach to the middle of the 18th green. His ball failed to spin backward enough and remained atop a sharp ridge. He won’t be the last.
Tiger was left with a touchy 25-footer which he was forced to aim 90 degrees right. His putt caught the slope but was a touch too hard and left him with a tricky four feet for par.
“No way he misses this,” I convince myself.
Welp, the Heavenor curse remains intact as he slid his par putt past on the low side and ended the week +1 with a final round 69. All in all great week considering, but it would’ve been sweet to see him convert and post 68.
Watching Tiger walk off the 18th was surreal. Not close to winning, yet still making the cut and receiving a standing ovation in the process. If you look close enough, ol’ Sheldon and I can be spotted supporting Big Cat as he walks off the green. Someone tell those lame wads in the front row to stand up, dammit.
Tiger & I … (and Sheldon)
Back to the 10th, we watched one of my favorite players on tour Louis Oosthuizen tee off. Louis hit the smallest of fades with his 3-wood, which I would have been ecstatic with, but not he. The 10th demands a draw, and Louis dropped his shoulders into a slouch and shuffled off the tee. Man, their bar is so high.
Next up is 2013 US Open champ Justin Rose. I feel Justin doesn’t get the credit he deserves on tour. He’s a major winner with a very simple and effective swing but for some reason it gets lost in the mix a bit. There’s nothing wasted with Justin’s swing. It’s so damn efficient. I love it.
Sheldon and I stood behind the tee box this time as opposed to its right where we watched Scott and Berger, and observed Justin annihilate a perfect 3-wood draw for what seemed like miles down the fairway.
Honestly, if I told you to draw the perfect tee shot for the 10th hole, you would undoubtedly trace Justin’s shot. It was that good.
So good in fact we followed that group down to the green. The sun was out in full force now. Sunny day, Augusta National, Sunday at the Masters. Time for a cigar.
We puffed our way to the green in time to see both Oosthuizen and Rose’s approach.
The next grouping of world number one Dustin Johnson and young gun Cameron Smith made great birdies as Dustin rolled in a slippery 20-footer from just off the left side, while Smith rolled in a shorter putt from about ten feet.
One of the hardest holes on the course and these two just walked away with a combined score of six. Yeah, that’ll do.
Next to hit their approaches was 2015 Masters and US Open Champion Jordan Spieth and his fellow pastel pant wearing buddy Justin Thomas.
Thomas took a page out of Sheldon’s book today and was sporting a nice pair of pastel yellow pants. I thought of making the connection, but Sheldon was busy pointing out actual facts.
Jordan had a round going. He was catching fire posting a bogey-free 31 on the front nine. That’s five under par for those keeping score. People were starting to talk.
As many know, he was nine shots back to start the day but was gaining ground quickly as Patrick and Rory were not making much noise at all.
Spieth hit his approach on line but unfortunately left it 25 feet short of the pin. It was however relatively straight and all uphill. I would never count Jordan out when the flat stick was involved.
Lining up his putt I was convinced this putt was going to drop. It had the line but the pace wore off a hair early and broke to the side narrowly missing the cup. A loud “ohhhhhhhhhhhhh” groaned the crowd. So close.
We continued walking assuming Jordan had done his damage for the day. We wanted to check out the action on the par-3 16th.
As we marched onward, I noticed a slender female in extremely tight white jeans. The sights at Augusta continue to impress. As we strolled by, the young lady in question turned around and lo and behold it’s Paulina Gretzky – wife of Dustin Johnson and daughter hockey’s Great One. Cool.
Amen Corner and the following three holes are in a sort of large valley. The holes are surrounded by dense trees and grandstands which work as soundboards when the patrons erupt in cheers. It’s very similar to a stadium.
We would become familiar with the sound because once we arrived at the 16th hole, Tony Finau, who had ceremoniously popped his dislocated left ankle back into place on Wednesday during a practice round after a hole-in-one, stuffed his tee shot to four feet. Wow. These guys are so good.
Next up is good-guy Charley Hoffman. He had large shoes to fill given the precision of Finau’s shot.
Hoffman blasted out a shot a tad left of the pin, and as it headed for what appeared to be the left greenside bunker, it caught a piece of the green, kicked right and rolled straight into the cup. Ace.
You wanna see a crowd go nuts? An ace on 16 at the Masters on a Sunday will get the people rowdy. Charley’s busy running around in circles fist pumping as Sheldon and I fail miserably at a high five attempt. Complete whiff. Maybe clipped a thumb, but that’s it. For once I was hoping we didn’t get caught on TV because my girl Natasha would be none too impressed with that effort.
The 16th hole was proving to be one helluva place to post up. So that’s what we did. Sheldon and I found a spot to stand directly left of the green, but it wasn’t long before the previous few holes lured me away.
I began to wander Amen Corner again catching Rickie Fowler as he made a great putt on 12 for birdie and then birdied the following hole as well. Rickie was surging alongside Jordan and doing their ultimate best to make this finish interesting.
As Jordan and Rickie, both in different groupings, made their ways thru the back nine, it was like a ticking time bomb of cheers. Thunderous roars would erupt as either Jordan or Rickie made birdie, which at the time felt like every 30 seconds.
I was walking to 13 from 16 when Jordan laced a hybrid to ten feet for eagle on 13. The patrons went ballistic. He unfortunately missed the putt, but the crowd roared just as loud when he sunk a tap-in birdie.
Once at 12, I watched the final group pass by. Both Rory McIlroy and leader Patrick Reed weren’t putting together light shows like Jordan and Rickie, but the possibility of Rory going off in the next five holes was too tempting to pass up.
Almost immediately I noticed how friendly the American patrons were to Northern Irishman Rory McIlroy. Numerous cheers along the lines of “C’mon Rory! You can do it!” could be heard throughout the next three holes. This doesn’t sound like anything interesting, but I have recognized from a past US Open how innately supportive Americans are towards their own.
In 2015 at the US Open at Chambers Bay, galleries could be heard chanting “USA! USA!” as international players approached the greens. Or in a specific case, a loud chorus of boos rained down on Sergio Garcia as he walked nearer the green.
Moreover, for patrons to be openly rooting for a non-American while an American is leading the tournament in the same group rang some alarms. Was it because Rory was such a star? Or was it in hopes of getting Rory’s round jump-started? At that point Rory was five shots back and it didn’t appear promising.
The scope of cheering directly against a player is far, far less pronounced at Augusta National, but there was quite a difference and I couldn’t quite determine why. Then it struck me. It’s Patrick Reed, not McIlroy.
Patrick hit a solid shot on 12 leaving him about 15 feet for birdie. When he sank it, which was momentous for his round and his chances at winning, the patrons barely acknowledged the feat. Compare this to 15 minutes prior when Rickie Fowler accomplished the same task, the patrons exploded in roars. Once I’d figured it out, it became increasingly awkward.
Suddenly, as if standing in No Man’s Land, another eruption of cheers exploded and ripped towards me like a wave of excitement. Jordan had just birdied the 16th. Holy, could this be happening?
The birdie goes up on the leaderboard and it’s matched with an equally loud booming cheer around the course.
He was tied for the lead at -14 with Patrick Reed. Whoa.
I needed to get back to 16. Quickly. As I hurried back to meet up with Fancy Pants, I noticed I was walking alongside Mad Men star Jon Hamm. Turns out he’s a big Rory guy, although he had switched his allegiance to Spieth considering Rory’s Sunday struggles. Two things were clear – he wasn’t pulling for Reed and he looks great in Ray Bans.
“We should head up to our seats on 18 and watch everyone come in,” urged Sheldon as I made him out in the dense crowd at 16.
I knew I brought this guy for a reason.
I had almost forgotten about our sweet perch atop the 18th.
Out of breath from briskly walking directly uphill from 16 to 18, we quickly maneuver through what looks like 5,000 identical green foldout chairs. Luckily I had initially bought a hot pink children’s chair to place down before we bought Masters’ chairs, so our spot was relatively easy to pick out. Don’t judge me, it was $8.97 at Wal-Mart.
Once seated we watched a few of the groups finish. Then we waited to see what Jordan Spieth had in store for us.
It took a while, but we finally noticed his tee shot in the fairway and holy moly he was deep. Spieth only had a wedge into 18. That can’t be right. Something happened. The patrons discussed.
Guy to my left knew his golf. He theorized Jordan had to pitch out from a bad tee shot and was absolutely correct. Unfortunately, Spieth’s drive clipped a tiny branch and dropped right down approximately 175 yards off the tee. This forced him to play a long second shot which was where we saw him land.
To Jordan’s credit he hit a fabulous third shot to five feet. But he needed birdie and he knew it. Reed had birdied the 14th and moved one shot ahead to -15.
So, with all that, Jordan’s par putt was essentially just to tie the course record 63, unless Reed faltered coming home. He missed. His heroic comeback a hair short of epic proportions. You could feel the life drain out of the crowd.
The way in which the crowd turned their attention and hopes on Rickie only solidified my theory that Reed was not a fan favorite.
Rickie was two shots back of Reed at -13 and roped a dagger to four feet for birdie on 18. The patrons were going bananas.
His entire walk up the 18th fairway after hitting such a beautiful approach was serenaded by an intense chorus of “RICKIE! RICKIE! RICKIE!”
As causal as ever, Fowler surveyed his putt and promptly pounded it in. More deafening cries celebrating a phenomenal performance.
Now we wait.
Bogey for Reed on 18 gives us playoff action. Sheldon and I had zero strategy should this occur. I’d likely just have to ditch him again. Every man for himself.
Par is posted on 17 for Reed to a mix of weak cheers and emphatic groans. It’s clear now. Few people on the 18th hole wanted Patrick Reed to win. Very few.
Reed then struck a drive nearly perfectly up 18 and we all waited patiently for his approach. This will likely be the determining factor if there is a playoff or not. Anything other than middle of the green and there’s a good possibility Reed leaves with bogey.
It’s up. Reed’s approach flies thru the late afternoon sky and bounds once and stops atop the same ridge Tiger was left on. Inches from exemplary, but now somewhat questionable.
Have you ever seen a movie where someone on stage botches a performance so terribly that there are only a handful of faint claps among the audience? That’s how the 18th hole sounded when Patrick Reed hit his approach.
Reed was then left with a very fast downhill putt, where if he isn’t extremely precise with his speed, the ball could run out five, six or even seven feet. Not exactly what you want with a Masters’ title on the line.
A great first putt left Patrick with only two and a half feet which he wasted no time pouring in. The obligatory standing ovation for the new winner, but nothing more.
Sheldon & I looking on as Reed pumps a Masters winning fist.
As patrons folded up their chairs and prepared to fight each other back to their vehicles, Red Pants and I stuck around. Not exactly with any purpose. It definitely wasn’t to examine Todd Lewis’s oversized plaid suit. (Get that thing fitted, man.) We just kind of took in all the behind the scene sights after someone wins a Masters’ championship.
30 minutes had gone by as we stood under the big Oak tree directly behind the clubhouse. As we finally made for the exit, I turned to take one last look at the cherished grounds it took me 35 years to visit. I hoped the image would somehow burn into my long term memory providing access at all hours of any day in the future.
It was exactly what you’d imagine. The setting sun provided a orange, fiery tint on the course below us. The darkened blue sky sat above igniting the few clouds with various soft pink hues. Heaven on earth for any golfer; heck, for anyone in general. Simply perfect. What a time.
Written by Chris Heavenor of Coach Blogbay
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