The Best Masters Ever

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Your great granddaddy Cot loved to play golf. While still working, he used the game for business development. He enjoyed it for pleasure as well with a regular foursome every Saturday morning for years at San Jose Country Club in Jacksonville. After he and Mamaw Kat built their mountain house at High Hampton in Cashiers, NC, one of the first purchases was his very own cart. He and nearby neighbor Dick Barnes tackled the undulations and elevations of that beautiful course three days a week. (Both of them were hard of hearing, but that didn't stop them. Granddaddy always drove the cart because his "good" ear was on the right side and Dick's on the left, giving them the best chance to understand each other.)

When Granddaddy was put on oxygen and told he had six months to live, he proved everybody wrong and, for the next eleven years, continued to play golf. He would take his little portable tank with him and about fifteen feet of hose. When it was his turn to hit, he'd put the tank behind him and straddle the hose and proceed to knock the tar out of the ball.

After I took up the game, we became cart mates and spent many hours, just the two of us, swinging the club, telling jokes and relishing in each others' company.

Given his history, it was surprising to me that he had never been to The Masters.

By the time Granddaddy turned 87, he was what Captain called "sidelined." No longer able to live at home or drive, he took up residence in Vicar's Landing, a senior care facility in Ponte Vedra Beach, FL. Periodically, Captain and I would drive down, pick him up and bring him to our house in Columbia, SC, for an extended visit. It took some logistics. We had to bring his Lincoln towncar because it had two 75 gallon tanks of liquid oxygen secured in the back seat which he used to refill his portable tank. We rented a hospital bed for him and contacted the Apria Company to set up an oxygen compressor in the living room along with 75 feet of hose.  That way, Granddaddy could walk anywhere he wanted to in the house. Our goal was to make him as comfortable as possible.

One of these visits occurred in April and, as luck would have it, Captain was given two complimentary passes to the Wednesday practice round of The Masters. His schedule prohibited him from going and he suggested that I take Granddaddy. When we told Cot, he was as excited as a kid at Christmas.

The morning came. Captain put Granddaddy's wheelchair in the trunk of the towncar. The oxygen tanks had been topped off by Apria the day before, so we were free to stay as long as he wanted. We struck out for Augusta before 9:00 AM.

It was a beautiful, cool day and the trip went by quickly as Granddaddy and I chatted away about the tournament, its history and former winners and the current crop of contenders. He was eager to see Augusta National Golf Course in person and to sample one of the world-famous pimiento cheese sandwiches sold at concession.

As we came into the Augusta area, I began to see directional signs on the Interstate for Masters traffic. I followed them until we came within close enough proximity to the club to see parking options. Many of the residents adjacent to Augusta National offer their yards for parking. I decided to find a house close to one of the back gates into the club so that we wouldn't have to navigate Granddaddy through the throngs of people coming through the main entrance.

I found the perfect spot off of a road that ultimately paralleled the Number 5 hole. For $10, we pulled into a select space right across from a gate. All I had to do was load Granddaddy into his wheelchair and cross the street. He filled his portable tank to the brim with oxygen and plopped into the wheelchair. I took a blanket from the backseat just in case it might be chilly. After locking the car, off we went.

Although it was barely 10:30, Granddaddy insisted that the first thing we do was get a sandwich. I wasn't particularly hungry, but at that hour there were no lines and we could find a comfortable place to sit and eat. We quickly found a concession stand and I ordered two pimiento cheese sandwiches and a couple of lemonades. The total cost was less than $10 - one of the beauties of The Masters - all of the sandwiches being made by volunteers.

We found a cozy place to eat, which he could hardly do for watching all of the people milling around and listening to the sounds of crowds yelling from far-away holes as players practiced their craft. When we finished, I wheeled him over to the rope alongside Number 5 (a 455-yard par 4 dubbed "Magnolia") about mid-way down the fairway. It wasn't a particularly advantageous point for viewing because we couldn't see the tee-box nor the green. After a few groups passed by, I decided to make a move. When the signal came for all-clear, I wheeled Granddaddy over to the tee-box of Number 6 (a 180-yard par 3 named "Juniper").

This proved to be much more fun because "Juniper" has an elevated green from the tee, but in between is a deep valley. The hole is famous for the fact that patrons sit on and cover up the down slope just under the tee box. As balls fly over their heads on the way to the green, either roars or groans can erupt depending on the trajectory.

People around the tee-box were very gracious and let me scoot Granddaddy up to the very front. Our vantage was perfect. From the high elevation, we could see a vista to the right looking beyond the green of Number 16, across the small lake to its tee box. Georgia pines extended like sentinels back further separating the fairways of Numbers 15 and 17. Azaleas and dogwoods surrounded us and saturated the landscape in every direction.

After a few minutes, the first group of players came to the tee-box. We were within only a few feet as they took their positions and swung their clubs - the sounds, the energy, the wind generated by their efforts - we felt it all.

Granddaddy was stunned at the proximity of the people below sitting on the bank and he fretted that even pros can shank a ball every now and then. But his concern for the well-being of the fans didn't diminish his enthusiasm for everything going on around him.

We were there for about forty-five minutes when Granddaddy checked the oxygen level on his tank and decided we needed to head back to the car. I wheeled him back across Number 5 and out of the gate. My thought was that we would go right back in, but when we got there, he told me he was really tired and didn't feel like he could do any more. After he filled his tank, I helped him into the car, folded up the wheelchair and put it in the trunk. We pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.

As we drove down the Interstate, it didn't take long before Granddaddy fell sound asleep. I observed him, his eyelids fluttering slightly, the faint steady rhythm of the oxygen flowing from the tube into his nostrils. And I thought - what a wonderful thing we had done together that day - just the two of us. We had gone to Augusta National, had eaten pimiento cheese sandwiches, had perched ourselves on the tee box of "Juniper" and shouted with the crowd as shots were hit, had see the beauty of the place and been within a whisper of some of the most famous golfers in the world.

Yes.......we were only there for two hours......but it was the best Masters ever!