Memories of the Masters
Masters week is like no other. The glorious colours. The dignity. The unforgiving layout, surreptitiously belying its beauty. It is an event which transcends sport. Where else would you hear grown men openly marvel at a garden bed? Three years ago this writer was gifted an opportunity to attend the most unique event in sport. The term ‘gifted’ simply translating into a Masters media pass and nothing else. Plane tickets, hotels and all the other peripheries were not included.
The gift was accepted in a heartbeat.
The journey started at Atlanta airport. One of the biggest and most vacuous airports in the land, it seems a world away from what lies ahead. Geography tells us the Olympic city is roughly 150 miles east of Augusta, which is smack bang on the Georgia/South Carolina border. It’s a sunny day in the south, but the mid-morning drive out of Atlanta traffic onto the lonely grey Interstate-20 does not inspire. Augusta is getting closer in numbers only, until this: From a distance a man appears stranded at the side of the road. Did his car break down? Is he lost? Hmmm, he’s holding a sign. Is he a bum? No, no and no. The sign was short and to the point: ‘Masters tickets please’. This is fifty miles away from town. Fifty. He is the first of many.
A pitstop shortly after would add to the mystique. Waffle House was packed with paunchy middle aged men, wearing bad polo shirts and brim hats. Aah, now this was a golf audience. A restaurant buzzing with golf talk. I couldn’t help thinking that to this cluster of folk, this was the pilgrimage to their Holy Grail. Maybe that’s what Hunters and Collectors were talking about. Except perhaps for the grilled Texas bacon cheesesteak.
Back to the journey and we leave I-20 behind around ten miles short of our destiny, turning right onto Washington Road. With a name like that and Augusta so close, this has to be a majestic, tree lined, sweeping boulevard, right? Wrong. We are met with wall to wall petrol stations, fast food chains and other nondescript vagaries. This could be any road in America. Occasionally the monotony is broken by demountable mini-offices, brimming with signs eluding to Masters tickets for sale. Seems strange that people could simply walk up and buy their way into the most exclusive event in the world, however the large demand suggests they can. While the decor doesn’t exactly scream golf, the local businesses certainly get in the spirit. Large removable lettering normally reserved for meal deal specials and room rates is now all about the golf. Taco Bell ‘welcomes Masters fans’, Motel 6 wished the ‘Best of luck to Masters players’, while Hooters message was simple:
‘Good luck John Daly’.
Finally we are here. A large silo with a Masters logo on the left side of the road tells us so. Now to find a parking spot. On the right side there is an enormous department store with an even bigger car park. Hang on, on closer inspection it isn’t a department store at all. It’s a religious merchandise outlet. Oh yeah, this is the most pious region in the nation. Must have been five hundred car spaces in the lot, going for ten bucks a piece. When the tournament begins they’ll charge twenty, while Sunday, the most sacred day of the week, will set you back twenty-five.
I certainly believe.
By the middle of this warm Tuesday all slots are filled, so we continue down Azalea Drive. Each house enormous, yet charming. They are uniformally white and wooden, yet each unique. Their perfectly manicured lawns a paradox to a member of the family standing out the front, inviting - almost demanding - drivers in. They are a proud people, but nobody is above making a buck here in Augusta. Third house in and fifteen dollars later, we are ready.
The walk back up Azalea Drive is a further display of capitalism at its finest. Memorabilia tents cover the footpaths. If you’re searching for a bargain, you are in the wrong place. A framed photo of Jack Nicklaus at the 86 Masters, knees bent and left arm raised, perhaps the most famous shot in golf, would set you back 600 big boys. No signature mind you, just a photo behind a bit of glass. An obvious attempt to prey on the boyish overexcitement that sweeps among this middle aged throng.
That piece would be sold by the end of the day.
Entering the grounds is a slightly nerve-wracking experience. What if the bar code on my media pass doesn�t work? What if they look at me and decide I’m not worthy for this place? What if I have to turn around and go home to Australia before seeing a single shot? The first scan didn’t take. Heart racing. The second more deliberate attempt draws an electronic tick, plus a genuine ‘have a nice day’ from the warm attendant. We can breathe. We are in.
Now I’m getting particularly nervous. I’ve travelled all this way, about to fulfill this dream that had been so unattainable, but what if the Masters is really just a regular tournament, that just happens to look nice on TV?
First impressions were good. Very good. A very green setting. A path to the clubhouse on the left, a merchandise store on the right, a couple of buildings straight ahead. All green and all surrounded by the greenest of trees. Green, green, green. There’s a gentle breeze and leaves falling on the path. Even the bitumen somehow looks enticing. The centrepiece is a giant tree. Like the majority of the patronage, the type of tree is unclear to this golf fan, so we’ll say it’s oak. This oak tree circled by little wooden benches.
It’s the botanical gardens for sports fans.
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