“Oh, the places you’ll go.” – Dr. Seuss
Golf. The mere mention of the word can cause open eye coma in many. It bores many people senseless. It can cause others to run out of the room, suddenly remembering that they forgot to fold their laundry. Some people just hate it, often with an accompanying diatribe about effects on the environment. Well, this story is not about golf. It is about travel, fine dining, friendship, and the great outdoors. Golf just happened to be the motivation, and this is the last time you will see the word, golf
First, to set the stage. In the world of competitive g--f there are four “major” tournaments. Since they are called “major”, they must be very important in some circles. The four are: the Professional G--fers Association (PGA) tournament, the United States Open (tournament), the British Open (tournament), and the Masters. The first three are very significant in the world of competitive g--f but the Masters is probably the most prestigious. The other three are played at a different g--f course every year. The Masters is played at the Augusta National G--f Club in Augusta, Georgia every year. You just can’t show up and buy tickets. No, no, no. The demand is so great that the opportunity to purchase a ticket at $100 a pop is conducted via a lottery which you have.05% chance of winning after all the “special” people (and there are a lot of them), get their tickets because of their special privileges and because they’re just so special. The great unwashed, that’s us, must enter the lottery along with hundreds of thousands of others. Then you wait for the results and every year you get the “sorry, maybe next year but please try again” email. Every year, friends Jerry, Todd et moi enter the lottery. Every year we get sorry…………..
Last June, 9 months before the most recent Masters Tournament would be held, the lottery result emails arrived. Todd got “sorry…….” I got “sorry”. Jerry got congratulations! Jerry won the lottery! If you “win” the lottery you may purchase up to four tickets. Evidently, there is a lottery within the lottery to decide on which day you win. There are three practice days before the tournament during which you may watch the Masters entrants practice. They are included in the ticket lottery allocations. The tournament itself is four days, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. So, the practice days are the other three. When you “win” you win the opportunity to buy your ticket(s). You are assigned a day. You cannot choose the day in which you wish to attend the tournament. Whatever day you get, you get. There are no options. Take it or leave it. Monday is the worst day as many golfers have not even arrived. Tuesday is a bit better as most tournament entrants are out practicing. Very informal. Wednesday is better still as all the g--fers are out practicing. They also feature a “Par Three” mini tournament with quite a few g--fers and their children playing for fun. Some find it cute. Jerry “won” Wednesday. It was go Wednesday or don’t go at all and you may never get another .05% opportunity. We took Wednesday. Our friend and fellow golfer, Bill, would join us. So, Jerry purchased the tickets. The four of us, Jerry, Todd, Bill and were going to the Masters. Actually, being guys, we have all acquired nicknames through the years so Gben, Coach, Little Bill (now abbreviated to L.B), and the Blade were going to the Masters.
A week later, it was still June, we decided that we should find a place to stay in Augusta the following April. Fat chance. Not only is every place booked within a 50-mile radius but everyone in Georgia and western South Carolina sees this as an opportunity to get rich. Prices for hotels were breathtaking. Prices for Airbnb’s were stunning. We (I) were not going to share bathrooms or bedroom. Hotels were out. Jerry and I spent days exploring and pricing and looking at Google driving directions for travel times in an ever-expanding radius of Airbnb’s. Four bedrooms and four bathrooms made it challenging at a price that did not involve taking out a home equity loan. Many places wanted immediate, nonrefundable, down payments. There were reasonably priced Airbnb’s in Oklahoma but that would be a bit of a drive. We finally found lodgings that met our requirements in Prosperity, South Carolina on Lake Murray, a mere 69 miles or an hour and 15 minutes from Augusta. We took it. We would have a 2+ hour flight from Scranton Pa. to Charlotte NC. Then a 2+hour drive from Charlotte to Prosperity which is a very appropriately named place as all the people providing at extraordinary prices, places to stay for Masters attendees will prosper. So now we had our $100 tickets and our multi hundred dollars Airbnb costs. All we needed was airfare and a rental car but that could wait a few months.
Why the fuss? Its website informs us that Augusta National is famous for its “immaculate conditioning, presenting impeccably manicured playing corridors, pine straw-lined fairways, flower beds dotted throughout, beautifully tended ponds – and wildly sloping putting surfaces.” The sand traps are not even sand. They are white granulated quartz. If you are caught purloining a handful of sand (white granulated quartz) from a white granulated quartz (sand) trap they will arrest you. Really. Todd attended a few years ago and was able to sneak out some blades of grass which he framed and presented to me as a souvenir. Really. Since the course was once a plant nursery, every hole on the scorecard is named after a flower, shrub or tree that can be found across the property. For example, we have Flowering Crab Apple, Magnolia, Camellia, Azalea…….There is one named Pampas but I don’t think that has anything to do with Argentina. There are no holes named Pimento, but pimento is very popular on t shirts, hats and cheese sandwiches.
Having secured the necessary airfare – Unfortunately, American is the only airline that flies non-stop from Scranton to Charlotte – and a rental car for the Charlotte to Prosperity to Augusta, back to Prosperity and returning to Charlotte travel, we were ready to go. It was January. When April 8 came around, we were off to Scranton Airport at 8 for our noon flight, then to Charlotte Airport by 2:00ish where we met Todd who had flown up from Bandera, Texas. There was a long line at the Budget Rental Car desk. Keep that “long line” in mind. It will come up again. Often. We were Prosperity bound, and we got to sample lots of nice North and South Carolina back country roads enroute. Driving directions featured a plethora of “5 miles and left at the stop sign”, “7 miles and right at Earl’s barn”, “3 miles and left just past the railroad crossing”………you get the idea. We were singing the Banjo music from the movie Deliverance. After the eighth, or was it ninth “right”, we decided that liquid refreshments for the evening would be in order for some relaxation after our Haj. The search was on for an “ABC Store” (named after the state Alcoholic Beverage Control commission that operates them), while in South Carolina they often say, “red dot stores,” because most liquor stores in the Palmetto State display three red dots on their signs. Finding one of them was easier than finding a breakfast on Thursday morning as we shall see. We were now supplied for the evenings to come. The Airbnb in Prosperity was beautiful. Huge house right on the lake, contemporary open concept, ensuite bathrooms, gourmet kitchen, and a lanai….. on the lake. Could have been on HGTV. After unpacking, we walked down to the dock to admire the lake, and to sample the beautiful South Carolina evening. The decking of the dock seemed to be vibrating. Ten million insects, maybe more, traveling in clouds, were waiting for us. The insects attacked. We beat a hasty rather undignified retreat. Well, Bill and Jerry ran back to the house and the safety of the Lanai. I did, too, but only after taking pictures of them running and waving their arms to ward off the attacking hordes. It was quite a sight.
Safe and unbitten, the insects looked like mosquitoes but evidently weren’t, we now sat on the lanai, enjoyed the sunset and had a libation. Then we were hungry. Very hungry. This was another recurring theme of our expedition. After the long day of travel, we wanted somewhere close by to eat. “San Jose on the Marina and Dock”, 10 minutes away, sounded good. Off we went. It was your typical small restaurant on a lake establishment. This one was Mexican. We discovered that the restaurant serving procedure was to enter and go directly to a counter, get a menu, take the menu to a table (you find the table), pick out your meal, go back to the counter, tell them what you want and get a beer. We did. Then we went back to our table. Then we sat down. Then Bill’s meal appeared. Talk about fast food! Within minutes, Jerry and Todd’s meals appeared. Mine took another 5 minutes. I felt neglected. Trust me, this was the fastest service you will ever have in a restaurant. No “fast food” restaurant could ever beat it. The surprising thing was that the food was quite good plus we were quite hungry. We chatted, ate our food, wondered at the speed of light with which the food was delivered, and watched the activity on the lake. It must be a deep lake as some guy was scuba diving. I wanted to return to San Jose for dinner the following evening to see if we this time we would get our meals before we ordered them.
Augusta National G__F course and the Masters have very strict rules of behavior for the Patrons. Note, at Augusta, you are not a spectator, you are a “patron”. No cell phones, (there are courtesy phones). You can wear smart watches and fitness trackers but you cannot use them for phone calls, emails, text messaging, or to record and/or transmit voice, video or data. No selfie sticks. No periscopes. No Monoscopes. No tripods. No cephalopods. No arthropods. No running. No cameras, although cameras but not cell phones are allowed on the Practice Days. Patrons can bring chairs or stools inside the grounds but must be collapsible with no arms. Most people find it easier to just buy a chair at the G--f Store. Jerry and Todd brought their chairs from a from previous Masters adventure. They were Masters’ veterans and were familiar with the course and usually helpful, guides. They were quite a sight with their bags and chairs boarding the flight to Charlotte. Evidently the Masters chair is recognized as a badge of honor by many g—fers and Jerry received several greetings from guys both going and coming…..even in a men’s room on one occasion. “You going to the Masters?” Anyway, back to the rules. No backwards ball caps. We saw security politely ask two geniuses to turn their caps around. No yelling. No souvenirs including g--f balls, flags, trees, flowers. That includes the granulated quartz (sand). In 2012, some worthy was arrested for trying to fill his cup with “sand” from the course. The ensuing tribulations cost him an estimated $20,000 between lawyer fees and a non-refundable Masters badge. Attendees are expected to dress in business casual or "g--f casual" attire. No tank tops, flip flops, spaghetti straps or ragged jeans. No g--f shoes with metal spikes. Backpacks, bags or purses must be no larger than 10”x10”x12”. You get the idea. On the other hand, all, and there are a lot of them, the volunteers, security, and employees are exceedingly polite, helpful, and efficient and contribute to a delightful day in the great outdoors.
The Augusta National grounds open at 7:00 and course opens at 7:30. We decided to leave at 6 a.m. which would get us there at 7:15 and we would stroll right in and go to the G--f store first, get that out of the way and enjoy the rest of the day at our leisure. That morning featured the unpleasant discovery that as beautiful as the house was, the plumbing left a lot to desired. One toilet tank had no water. This was after a toilet use that required it to fill with water on flushing. A water bottle filled multiple times at the sink and emptied into the tank solved the problem. Water pressure in the showers was just about the same as a wateringcan nozzle. One (extra bathroom) had no water at all and there was no mirror above the sink in my bathroom. This was to confuse me several times during as our stay. Think of how often you look in your bathroom mirror.
So, by 6:00 we were off to Augusta. Unfortunately, a few thousand other people in the surrounding areas had similar ideas about arriving at 7:15. We all arrived at the same time. The roads on last 2 miles to the course took 20 minutes or so to navigate but at least as we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic, we got to see a few dozen large tents and stands offering “Masters Tickets”. I have no idea as to price or legitimacy, but I wouldn’t buy a ticket there if I were you. The entire parking experience, when we finally arrived at the “promised land”, like the rest of the day was very well organized. We were directed to a parking spot. I noted the spot on my small leather covered notebook that is inscribed “Secret Plan for World Domination (I take it on for every tour) so we could find the spot later. We were ready to go. So was everyone else. We were at the South Gate. There is also a North Gate. The line for the South Gate was 100 yards long and 4/5 people wide. From afar, it looked like the migration of the wildebeest on the Serengeti Plain. We moved, but slowly. It was 47°. I was in shorts. The guys were dressed for the colder weather. The people in line seemed to be evenly divided between “I’m in Georgia in April for the Masters and I’m going to wear g--f attire no matter what” and “it’s cold! I don’t want to be cold. Multiple layers are called for”. Being surrounded by a sea of humanity helped us g--f attire gang stay warm. As we slowly moved towards the entry gate, we noted the sniffing dogs in and out of the crowd, heavily armed swat teams (only then, did we think of terrorists), and helpful volunteers reminding us that our tickets had to be displayed hanging from a button on a shirt, lanyard, or shoulder strap for some ladies but NOT on a hat or belt. Adjustments were quickly made. The entry itself was like a toll booth on a highway with several available lines. At the edges were special lines for those special people. Naturally, they moved quickly. As for the rest of us, friends were made. “Where are you from?” “England” and then forgotten. That’s the thing about lines. In many ways they are like sitting next to a stranger on a plane flight but in digest version. People become acquainted they talk. Then when you are in or landed and off you go. That’s except for when they meet and then get married but that’s another essay involving the Hallmark Channel. However, we digress. Here at Augusta National, there are lots of special lines and places on the course for special people and everyone’s ticket has little rectangles of different colors so security knows who belongs where and who can go where. Most of us were among the riff raff with just 4 different colors. I noted later that some special people had as many as 8.
So, at last, our tickets were scanned. We were in! We now officially “patrons”. Why patrons? If I go to any other sporting event, I’m a spectator. Clifford Roberts, and Bobby Jones, founders of the Masters Tournament believed that the attendees were not mere spectators but consumers of an experience, much like restaurant or opera patrons. Attending was an experience. I felt a special glow now that I was officially a patron. In fact, after we returned home, I had “Masters Patron” t shirts printed up for the boys. Why printed? Why not at the actual course? I’ll tell you about the on-site g--f store in a little while.
What to do next? Naturally, after one leaves the entry area one is funneled through a shady (and chilly) path bordered by azaleas and magnolias towards the Masters G--f Shop. There are two large ones. One is at the South Gate and the other at, yes, the North Gate. You have to pass by them to get to the rest of the course. There are several smaller stands on the course but only at the “G--f Shop” can one get items such a Masters Gnomes, Masters ties, or Masters folding chairs. The g--f shop was my main target. “Let’s buy our stuff” and then enjoy the day. We encountered a gentleman in front of a large group of people forming a rather long zig zag line holding a sign, “Wait time for g--f store 45 minutes.” Well, that was out. Conveniently there were rest rooms nearby. The line for the men’ side was as long as the line for the women’s side and extended out of the restroom and about 10 yards down the path. No one was holding up a sign that indicated wait time for urinal 45 minutes. There was also a Concession Area. That meant food. There was a line for the Concession Area. No “restaurants” or “cafeterias” at Augusta National, just Concession Areas. No sign for wait time. We were hungry, again. Leaving at 6 a.m. meant no breakfast. The line seemed to be moving quickly. We joined it. The Masters is famous for low priced, but good food. Sandwiches, $3.00 or less. Beverages 1.50. Beer, $5.00 but it was a bit early for beer. The food is served cafeteria style. Sandwiches are wrapped and you grab what you want as you move along the counters. Quick and painless. After you get your food, there are metal high-top tables for you to stand and consume your food. I got a “breakfast sandwich” which I found when I opened the bag to be a sausage patty, egg, and cheese on a bun. I was hungry. It was tasty. So was the coffee. The high-top tables even had little Masters logos - a map of the U.S with a Masters flag plonked on to northeast Georgia in case you forgot where you were. Beverages were served in plastic tumblers with the Masters logo. We later noted that people were collecting them, walking around with stack of seven or eight. Some were actually dumpster diving, looking for them in trash bins. Bill mentioned herpes.
By now we were well fed and the sun was up and so was the temperature. Even though we were still in the shade of the magnolias and azaleas, and temporary bleachers we g--f attire patrons, having endured an hour or so of chilly weather, were now properly attired. As Bill said, later in the morning, “I never thought I’d be sweating today.”
When I was 7, my father took me to my first baseball game at Yankee Stadium. One of my principal memories of that day is walking up a covered ramp towards the field and suddenly, then there it was, a beautiful green sunlit baseball field spread out before me. It was magical. It don’t remember much about the game (the Yankees lost) but I’ll always remember my first site of the field. And so, as we walked out of the shade of the bleachers there, bathed in bright sunlight, was the Augusta course spread out before us in all directions. It was warm. It was magical. I’ve read that there are as many as 300 shades of green. I think they were all there. What wasn’t green was the white to purple, pink, red, orange and yellow of azaleas. They are always in full bloom at the Masters. They wouldn’t have the nerve not to be.
This was when I was almost brained by a g--f ball. As I was to learn, patrons may walk across the fairways. They may not walk across a fairway when the volunteers put up temporary rope barriers while the g—fers are hitting. There I was, admiring the course and thoughtfully, all the people around me moved out of the way so I could get a better photo of the 13th g—-f green. A volunteer asked me to move. I looked around. I was the only one there. I apologized profusely and moved to safety. Shortly afterwards a g—f ball flew by.
We were in a section of the g—f course called ‘Amen Corner’. Amen Corner is the most famous section of the course and consists of the 11th, 12th, and 13th holes. They are very challenging. It received its name from a sports journalist, Herbert Warren Wind, in a 1958 article for Sports Illustrated titled “The Fateful Corner.” Wind got the name from a jazz song by Mildred Bailey titled Shouting in that Amen Corner. How strange to see the area that we had seen for years on TV in person. Oh, and there were g--fers out there practicing. It was difficult to identify them until they got close enough for us to read the name on the back of caddy’s uniform. Rory McElroy was easy to identify but not easy to see since he drew the largest crowds. However, for us, seeing the golfers took a back seat to seeing and being on and walking the course. It was perfect weather on what is surely the most beautiful g—f course in the world. The practice days are for the entire course experience as much as to see g--f. Perhaps more as the crowds are much smaller and spread out. It is a beautiful day in the country. Sometimes we would stop and watch the g—fers. We were about five feet behind one named Brian Harman at “Juniper” (hole #6). He swung. He hit the ball. It landed 165 yards away just inches from the hole. He turned towards us, held out his arms, and said “nothing to it”.
There were still sites to see. Among them was Founders Circle. One must have one’s picture taken at Founders Circle at the end of Magnolia Drive in front of the Clubhouse. At the time we had no idea what Founders Circle is but the guidebook insisted that we have our photos taken there. We later learned that it is a plaque on a flagpole at the end of the main entrance, in front of the Clubhouse. We wended our way at a leisurely pace, stopping occasionally to watch g—f and to take pictures, towards the first hole, the clubhouse and Founders Circle. At the first hole, we saw the top of Rory McElroy’s head as he hit his first shot. Founders Circle photo ops ended at 10:30. It was 10:15. We asked a security guard where Founders Circle was. She was the only nasty person we met all day as she informed us that we were too late. The “line is closed”. Discouraged, we ambled towards the clubhouse where we met another security guard. Feigning ignorance, we asked him where Founders Circle was and he pointed and said you we should get in line right away as it was “closing soon”. We didn’t have far to go to get in line since it was a 50-yard long line and it ended right in front of us. We got in line. Twenty minutes later, having made friends with people from New Jersey, we had our photo taken at Founders Circle. Photo process took 30 seconds, tops. Saw the flagpole, never saw the plaque. You pose, someone takes the photo, there were five such group poses simultaneous going on left to right in front of the flap pole. Assembly line photo ops. Then they give you a card with a QR code and you can download the picture. It is free. If you go to the Masters, skip it. It’s not worth the wait unless you like long lines.
Having wasted 20 or more minutes standing on another line, we resumed our tour. Photos were taken. After a while, Jerry and Todd’s chairs came into use for the first (and only) time. A bad back and a bad foot required a bit of a rest for Bill and Todd. They sat alongside a fairway and enjoyed the golf. Jerry and I set off in search of some bleachers so we could all sit. The bleachers were fairly close by and empty, (they would not be empty during the actual tournament), and we all sat and watched g—fers practicing their putting at the green below us. There was a touch of irony with Jerry and Todd bringing their chairs to sit on the bleacher bench. I had my Secret Plan for World Domination notebook out and was making notes on our adventures thus far. A security guard joined us. Having seen my notebook, he took out his own notebook and showed me some of the notes he had made over his 9 years of security guarding at Augusta. He was quite informative, and we had a pleasant chat. He told us that the average patron spends $1,000 at the G—F Shop. Some spend $2,500. Later in the day we would see how this can happen. We learned that each Concession Area averages 56 kegs of beer a day at 16 gallons per keg. Unlike coffee, which they stop serving at 10 a.m., they never turn the taps off. He told us more tales of g--fers and g--f, notably the location of the secret g--fers only Portosans. I was determined to find one and take a picture. We had a great conversation and eventually he decided he should get back to work defending the empty bleachers. He left us with a g—f joke (there are too many to count). It was a bit off color and does not warrant repeating. I, being me, decided to leave him with a g—f joke. It is a bit off color and does not bear repeating. He laughed heartily and we all said goodbye. Perhaps he would return to the bleachers when he saw someone else with a notebook. After the bleachers, I had three goals: a savory tomato sandwich, the G—f Shop and seeing the Players Portosan. Off we went but first, Bill and Todd would require some Motrin for pain relief. We were probably on our feet for 95% of the time we were there. Thus began the Great Motrin Quest. We asked a security guard where we could obtain some. As Bill asked the guard, he was overheard by another patron. The man turned around and kindly gave Bill a small, sealed packet of Motrin. Meanwhile, the security guard, having carried out his Motrin Location duties began talking to us. Within the next few minutes, we learned that he was an ex-marine and his son ex-army and his son (there was more) had become acquainted with former Masters Champion, Sandy Lyle, a Scotsman. When his son went to Scotland on his honeymoon, he met up with Sandy Lyle again and they all went to lunch. His son e-mailed him that he was having lunch with Sandy Lyle and he was sorry dad couldn’t be there……..But he could have been there if his son had told him about the plans. We were now getting hungry again and we still needed more Motrin and the Concession Area was just ahead. We bid farewell to Sandy Lyle’s friend in law, and we thanked him for his service and got in line for lunch. I was looking forward to a “Savory Tomato Sandwich”. Everyone got sandwiches and a beer except for me. There were no “savory tomato sandwiches” to be seen. One had to keep moving in line and before I knew it, I was at the check-out. That’s where they keep the Motrin. They now had lunch and Motrin. There was just one problem. We could not open the little packet of Motrin. The tear off did not work. No tearing anywhere would work. The four of us took turns and spent quite a bit of time at this. Nothing. Everyone ate their lunch, and I repaired to the utensil area to continue attempts at Motrin liberation. Plastic knives, forks and straws do not work. Finally, Bill, having finished his lunch, suggested stabbing it with a pen tip. It worked. Everyone got their Motrin and off we went.
It occurred to us that with people being at lunch and the popular Par Three Tournament now taking place, that it might be a good time to visit the G—f Shop. There was just one minor problem. We were somewhere in the middle of the course. Where was the G—f Shop? A volunteer pointed us back to the Clubhouse. It seemed to be pretty far away. There were people carrying see-through shopping bags from the G—f Shop. I asked two of them. Simultaneously, each pointed in a different direction. However, most people with the see-through bags were coming from the same direction. It was towards the South Gate where we had first entered. That’s where we went. Finally, after asking at least four more people where the G—f Shop was, we found it! The wait time was 15 minutes according to the volunteer at the end of the zig zag line with ropes and stanchions outside the G.S. 15 minutes was a mere pittance. On arriving at the course so many hours ago, I was looking forward to the G—f shop, mainly for souvenirs and mainly because I thought the prices would be like the food…….bargains. When I mentioned this to Masters Veteran, Jerry, he quickly disabused me of that foolish notion. No, prices at the G—f Shop were on a “par” with pro shops at any expensive g—f course. On entering, we quickly saw how people could drop a grand there and drop it quickly. One buys items for oneself, one’s family, and one’s friends. “Going to the Masters? Can you get me a…………” You name it, they had it. During our mission to find the shop, we observed what people were buying by looking at the see-through shopping bags. Masters Gnomes? Really? Inside the shop they were $50 each. People had multiple gnomes. There was apparel galore. Equipment galore, glassware galore. Bargains galore? Not so much. There were at least 3 counters for hats alone. Along with the crowd and the cacophony of sounds, “I got five sweaters” (note – sweaters were $249 plus tax each and there goes a grand) said a woman in line behind me. It was almost overwhelming. Service was quick and easy. I left with one hat $34 one shirt, $89, one Masters refrigerator magnet for myself and gifts for friends and family, Masters G—f towels and Masters ball markers, and $174 less on the debit card. Note, everything at the Masters is cashless so bring cards. We all met outside, partially stunned at the amount of money we had just spent. We did get the see-through plastic Masters shopping bags for free and there was no line for the Men’s Room.
Exhausted from our search and shopping spree, we found another Concession Area and bleacher at the 16th hole. No “savory tomato sandwiches”. I was concerned that my “savory tomato sandwich” pursuit was doomed to failure. They didn’t even have any Pimento and Cheese sandwiches left as a consolation prize. Coffee, as we have mentioned was no longer available. We watched some patrons dumpster diving for beverage containers. There was plenty of beer though. On our way to the bleachers, I spotted it. It was The Players Portosan! It’s not actually a Portosan, it is a small shack located in a shady spot built of dark wood with a wooden plaque on the door saying, “Players Only”. There is a stool outside where I presume a volunteer guards the premises against non-player would be bladder emptiers, or worse. I thought the stool sample outside was a poetic touch. I took a picture. We could do anything. Go anywhere. We decided to sit in the bleachers again. This time we sat at the tee box at the 16th hole (Redbud Tree). Indulge me, non g—fers and g—f haters. The tee is where g—fers hit their first shot. The 16th hole is a par 3 meaning it should take the g—fer three shots to get the ball in the hole. For the first shot on this hole, they must hit over a long pond. But this was a practice day so there was fun involved. There were three g—fers. They hit their initial shots but then came the treat for the crowd. With all of us in the crowd cheering them on, the three lined up side by side and in tandem they hit shots designed to skim across the water the way one would skim a stone on multiple bounces on water. All swung at once. All hit the ball simultaneously. All had multiple bounces across the water. All failed to get their shots across the water onto dry land. The crowd groaned and then the crowd cheered again. A light human moment shared by competitors and spectators patrons. They acknowledged our cheers.
These were about the last g—fers we would see today as by this time almost all the g—fers had finished practicing. We then watched patrons taking pictures of each other down at the tee box. Eventually, we did too.
Close by was the beautiful 15th hole (Firethorn Flower) surrounded on three sides by Firethorn flowers and the de rigueur azaleas. There was a bleacher for us to sit in (on?) and we watched g--ferless caddies walking around with g—f GPS thingies taking measurements of distances and slopes for the worthies who were now resting somewhere in anticipation of tomorrow’s opening round. We took more pictures. Bill said, “what do you want to do now”?. I said, “let’s go stand in a line.” A lone g—fer approached. He must have not gotten the memo about finishing practice by 1:00. We would watch him putt. Two men approached him. They must have been officials. They chatted. We waited. They chatted. We took more pictures. They chatted. We waited. The g—fer finished chatting. He picked up the ball and walked away. Never did putt. We decided, in Jerry’s words, to “just walk around and enjoy the Masters experience.” That included another Concession Area. No “savory tomato sandwiches”. In fact, by 2:30 there was no savory anything except beer and a bag of sliced apples. We wandered a bit but we stayed close to the “back nine” rather than walk a mile back to the environs of the Clubhouse. By 3:00 we were just about done and it was time to trek to the parking lot and attempt to find our car. Everyone else had the same idea. As we left, there was a caravan of grounds crew in carts loaded with gardening tools headed for the course in the opposite direction to prepare it for tomorrow. Surprisingly, as we left, there was still a trickle of people entering. I suppose it was because the line for the G—f Shop was very short. Beer could not be taken past the exit and a security guard stood there exhorting people to “don’t guzzle” as they tried to finish their beer before the exit.
Now, to find the car. There was a sea of metal as far as the eye could see. We had written the location. We walked. It seemed to be further away than this morning. We walked some more. We followed the letter/numbers looking for E 14. We finally arrived at E 14. The car wasn’t there. We were all agreed it was E 14. We had a white car. There were a few white cars. None of them was ours. It was time to push the key ring, wave it around and follow the beep. Standard procedure for when you can’t find your car. No beep. We were at the correct location but wait……there seemed to be a location annex. Our location resumed on the other side of a wide aisle and there was our white car, a Chevy Impala ……. didn’t know they still make them. We joined the slowly moving conga lines of cars exiting as all merged onto a single lane road. Then, a left turn, past the Masters Tickets tents, a right turn and we were on the highway headed back to Prosperity. This was when Todd decided to channel his inner Forest Gump and our return trip featured a litany of Forest Gump quotes complete with Todd’s very accurate accent. "Stupid is as stupid does."….. "Momma always had a way of explaining things so I could understand them."…….”I may not be a smart man but I know what love is”…, the inevitable, “Mama always says life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you may get”. He is quite good. Take a ride with him someday.
Back at the Airbnb, we were thirsty and hungry. The insects hovered in clouds outside the lanai daring us to go outside. Thirst came first. Again, we did not wish to travel far for our dinner. Perhaps the San Jose at the Marina and Dock already had our meal ready for us? We decided on The Steel Horse Smokehouse. It was reasonably close and, in the event, turned out to be a small, and typical BBQ restaurant with the typical BBQ restaurant ambiance, or lack of, and seating. The front room was dominated by a huge Harley Davidson parked against one wall. It was a display. There were no customers in the front room. Probably too intimidating. A waitress welcomed us, showed us to our table in the middle of the main room. I asked for separate checks. Apparently, this stunned her. Had she never had that request before? “Four tickets? You want FOUR tickets?” She was a rather large woman and for a moment we were afraid she was going to hit me over the head with a chair, but she quickly calmed down, gave us our menus, and disappeared into the kitchen muttering “four tickets”. When she reappeared, she had decided to be our friend. We placed our orders, mostly. I asked for Blue Moon beer. “We ran out of it Saturday”. Jerry asked about an entrée. “We ran out of it Saturday”. Todd asked about a dessert. She said, “we have a bakery”. “Really?” Said we? “You have a bakery?” She responded, “This is a BBQ place honey. Does it look like we have a bakery?” We chuckled at her joke. We think it was a joke. Todd asked about cheesecake. “We ran out of it Saturday”. My advice to you if you go to the Steel Horse Smokehouse, go on a Friday. Jerry ordered a pulled pork dinner with two sides, green beans and baked beans. She said “two sides of beans? I sure don’t want to be in the car with you going home sugar. You’ll be toot tooting all the way.” Off she went. A while later, after normal restaurant wait time, not San Jose at the Marina and Dock wait time, the door to the kitchen opened and a robot came silently rolling out with our food. It looked just like R2 D2 from Star Wars (back when the Star Wars franchise was quality entertainment) but with two big round eyes in the front of its blue “head” blinking lights running up and down the sides with four shelves in the white torso/body containing our entrees under heating lamps. Oh yes, with Easter not far away, it also had giant pink bunny ears attached to its head. It was quite a show. None of us had ever been served by a robot in a restaurant. Subsequent research indicated that this is rare but not uncommon but having this thing come at us with flashing lights in a rather lackluster BBQ place in the backwoods of South Carolina rendered us temporarily speechless. I even forgot to take its picture. Our waitress accompanied the machine, and she placed our plates on the table. Since she was now our friend, she also placed herself on the table, resting a rather large hip on one edge as she chatted about the robot as if we were old friends. We answered in monosyllables because we had our food and were ready to eat and the robot looked threatening. Eventually, she and the robot went back in the kitchen. As the robot was entering the kitchen, another waitress emerged. The robot swerved around the heavily tattooed server, narrowly missing her. I said, “it almost got you.” She, looked at me and said, “it don’t mess with me sugar.” Dinner was anticlimactic. After Todd’s dessert, served by a human, it ended up being key lime pie, which had evidently survived Saturday. We had another brief chat with our waitress as we received our individual “tickets”, and we were done. As we departed, we waved goodbye to the giant motorcycle taking up 1/3 of the front room and it was back to the Airbnb for some libations at the end of a very long, tiring, and just about perfect day. It was everything we could hope for and more. Perfect weather. Have I mentioned that? We saw Augusta National up close and personal, we saw g—fers, we visited the G—f Shop, spent a bit of money, ate well, although I didn’t get my “savory” tomato sandwich, stood in quite a few lines, and even met a robot.
Our flights on Thursday were around 2 p.m. so we decided that we would leave early and stop on the way for breakfast. Surely there would be a place to stop for breakfast between Prosperity and Charleston Airport. The first hour of our 2 + hour drive to Charleston was a repeat of Tuesday’s 3 miles and left at the stop sign, 5 miles and right after the railroad tracks…….we would be passing through several towns. There was not a single diner, café, breakfast place, restaurant, food truck on the entire route. None. Nada. Zilch. And we looked. Where do these people dine out? Do they dine out? Each time we approached what looked like civilization, conversation stopped, and four sets of eyes scanned the area for anything resembling a dining establishment. Alas, as Dorothy Parker said of Oakland, there was no there there. There were many more lefts and rights and small towns, and we were getting hungrier and as we passed a school we wondered if perhaps they had some breakfasts left. We were very hungry. Did I mention that? We traveled for 90 minutes past garage mechanics, cemeteries, a Chevrolet dealership, lawn and gardening centers, vape shops, more schools, churches, pet groomers, thrift shops, and the occasional gas station. Finally, on the highway, there was usual assortment of fast-food outlets but nowhere for four very hungry boys to sit down and have the breakfast we deserved. At last, we finally found a Cracker Barrel. It was our last, best hope. We were 30 minutes from the airport. We were weak from hunger and barely had enough strength to exit the car, walk across the parking lot, navigate the usual chorus line of rocking chairs on the front porch, go through the usual “store” overflowing with apparel, furniture, and the customary vast assortment of tchotchkes, entered the restaurant and were shown to a table. Our server’s name was Tabitha. We refrained from making any Bewitched comments as Bill reminded us, she had probably heard them all of her life. Besides, we were hungry. Ordering the food took quite a while as there was lots of food to order. Tabitha and the food arrived as we were getting weaker from hunger. It looked like we might need a bigger table for the breakfast. There were a lot of victuals. Too many for the table. We had to do some stacking and plate combining. Then, seemingly in the blink of an eye, it was gone. Those boys can eat.
Sated, we lumbered out of Cracker Barrel and resumed our ride to the airport. The rest was the usual airport challenges and hurdles. Charlotte’s security lines were manageable. There was a minor crisis as Jerry noted that the bottom was falling out of the cover for his Masters Chair that he had brought, carried all over the g—f course but never used. To protect the chair that he never used, he decided to bring it on the plane and stow it in the overhead compartment where he would again not use it, and gate check his rolling bag instead. Naturally, our flight was delayed 30 minutes but at least we weren’t hungry.
Todd left for Texas, and we arrived at Scranton around 5:30. Jerry’s chair didn’t fall out of his case. South and North Carolina were sunny, green and lush and mostly warm. It was the way weather should be. Pennsylvania, welcomed us with cloudy, cold, windy, raw and miserable with the bonus of imminent snow. We had tales to tell and gifts to give. After a minor glitch exiting the parking lot, I kept trying to put my parking ticket card in the credit card slot, several times, much to the chagrin of the people lined up in cars behind us, we were home by 6:30ish since we no longer had to look for somewhere to eat breakfast. The snow came at 8. On Friday there was 3” of snow. It was sunny and warm in Augusta.
Two days of flying and driving, bookending nine hours of walking (and standing in line) on the most beautiful g--f course/former plant nursery in the world. A once in a lifetime experience and we enjoyed all of it, although about those savory tomato sandwiches…………
