Memories of Augusta (Page 3)
(Con’t)
Sixteen is where all the players partake in the unusual activity of try to skip balls off the water and onto green. They step up to the edge of the pond, punch an iron, hoping to get two, maybe three touches of the water before miraculously reaching the other side. No easy task, even for this band of professionals. Sixteen is not only the most populated hole, it’s also the most raucous. Behind the sixteenth green is the sixth hole, a short par 3. The elevated area between tee and green is where the smart people congregate. They not only get a full view of 6 and 16, they see the fifteenth green, which is where so many moves are made. This is the best seat in the game. Seventeen looks bigger on television than it really is, while 18 is essentially climbing a mountain with a green stuck on top. That approach is so demanding it’s no wonder seasoned pro’s botch it in the heat of battle.
Something is slightly off though. It’s about 1.30 in the afternoon, and the sun is beating down. That’s the thing. All these memories of late Sunday afternoon heroics involved a watery sun being filtered out by the shadows. That unique Georgia light. The late afternoon would wait until tournament Thursday. It would be worth it.
The course may have been walked but that first day experience is a long way from complete. The practice green is fascinating viewing. Different players with their different methods. Vijay Singh must have put in fifty straight putts in from two feet out, as if to convince himself he can hole everything, while Phil Mickelson would take ten balls, create an eight foot circle around a hole, quickly knocking them all in. Gee, he looks the goods, maybe I should back him. History shows I did not. From there it was into the conference room, where Arnold Palmer held court for what must have been an hour. He talked gregariously about the future of golf, memories of the tournament, his life in the sport, his life in general. Sitting there, without a hint of a question to ask, this was the ultimate fan experience. Some of the crusty old reporters didn’t have questions either. Then Arnie excused himself and left. Well, if Arnie was going, I was going too. So much excitement in one day. From there came the trek to Columbia, South Carolina, where the closest accommodation could be found on short notice. It was 80 miles away. That cut price motel had two televisions in the small foyer. One was tuned into the Golf Channel, the other the Weather Channel. In the second week of April, nothing else matters.
Driving to the course each morning was the shortest hour and half one could have.
This was just the Tuesday. Wednesday was par 3 day, set in a majestic stadium style scene, with the holes creating its own amphitheatre around a big pond. It should have its own TV slot. Thursday was wet. Didn’t matter. Seeing Peter Lonard bogey three of my first four Masters holes hardly a deterrent. Friday was Arnie’s day. Saturday was a blur, as this still wide eyed writer collected pine needles, cones and grass to take home as atypical gifts.
Then came Sunday.
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