Dear Boo and Bubble,
It’s been a bit since I last wrote to you. Much of the time
was consumed with a wonderful visit with you at Easter - which is certainly
more satisfying than blogging or FaceTiming. I’ve finally vacuumed up the last
piece of Easter grass from the carpet and found what I think to be the last
surreptitious plastic egg under the couch in the living room. With the aftermath tucked away, I can now sit
in my recliner and catch up on things.
Ahhhhhhhh……..The Masters.
What a great way to unwind.
You boys are probably too young right now to understand the
significance of The Masters golf tournament, but if you stick around with me
long enough, you will. It’s the first of
four major tournaments in every year.
What makes a major? Several things
– the history, the prestige, the prize money – oh, and, especially in the case
of The Masters – the difficulty in getting tickets.
Augusta National Golf Club hosts the tournament, which makes
it unique in the majors, being the only one played each year on the same course. The hallowed grounds were designed by
legendary golfer Bobby Jones and Alister MacKenzie and opened for play in
January 1933. The Masters began the following year.
As one of the most famous golf clubs in the world, Augusta
National’s membership policies are very exclusive and private – sometimes
landing them in the crosshairs of societal progress – but, that’s a topic for
another time. Of all the policies,
however, the one that both fascinates and frustrates most is the dispensation
of Masters tickets. Some are lucky enough to have earned legacy tickets long
ago, before access to the tournament became such a feeding frenzy for
spectators hoping to get inside the gates. For the most part, the general public is
relegated to the luck of a lottery system or the whim of a scalper. It is quite remarkable what some will pay and
the extremes to which they will go to obtain tickets.
Even within the club itself, the rules can wreak havoc. Apparently, tickets come with a membership,
but when the member dies, the membership (and the access to tickets) reverts
back to the club. It can not be
inherited. The first time I was
fortunate to go to The Masters, I witnessed firsthand both the dilemma and the
desperation this policy can cause.
I don’t remember the year, but a co-worker of mine had two
tickets for the Friday round and she couldn’t go. When she offered them to me for free, I
thought I had died and gone to heaven.
It didn’t matter if I had to take a sick day or, better yet, get fired……I
was headed to The Masters.
Captain and I struck out early on that morning for the
hour’s drive from Columbia, SC, to Augusta, GA.
The tournament is always held the second weekend of April, a time when
the azaleas and dogwoods are usually in full bloom. This time was no different. We walked through the gate into a wonderland
of pristinely groomed fairways and greens encompassed by tall Georgia pines
hovering over ancient beds of lush Formosa azaleas, their deep fuchsia blossoms
in full array. The white cross petals of
the dogwoods dotted the landscape. Above, a luminous blue, cloudless sky framed
the whole scene.
We decided to take our folding chairs and set up near the
green of the 15th hole, a 530 yard, par-5 known as Firethorn, that sweeps from the tee into
a dogleg left, down an incline to the green guarded by water all along the
front. It’s a good vantage spectator
vantage point, because you can see the players’ shots into the green. Many of them try to make it there in two
strokes to position themselves for an eagle.
In doing so, however, they run the risk of landing in the water. There’s also the added benefit that you can
see the tee box for number 16, the 170 yard, par-3 hole named Redbud.
As the day unfolded, the crowd around us grew. Two ladies set up chairs directly behind us
and it wasn’t long after they settled themselves that they began discussing an
apparent imminent family crisis over the subject of future Masters tickets. (I swear this is exactly how it went.)
“You know, mom turns
85 her next birthday.”
“I KNOW……..we’re going
to have to figure something out soon.
This is always the one time every year we can all get together and when
mom goes, we won’t be able to do that anymore.”
“Well, have you come
up with any ideas?”
“I’ve certainly been
thinking about it….and this may sound a little far-fetched, but what if, when
mom dies, we don’t tell anybody. Then, we have her body taxidermied and hire
somebody to drive her around Augusta every now and then so people will see
her.”
“Geez…..I don’t
know…..if we were ever found out, we could be in real trouble.”
“Do you have a better
idea?”
“Well……..do you know
that friend of mom’s, John Traxler, the old bachelor who’s been a member at
Augusta National about as long as our folks?”
“Yes.”
“I was thinking…..what
if we get him to marry my two-year-old granddaughter Macie. Then she would technically become a member as
his wife and when he died, she would still be a member and have access to the
tickets. Which means we would be set for
life.”
I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation, so I turned
around and asked them if they were joking.
They both looked at me straight in the eye, not a hint of a smile on
their lips, like I was the crazed one.
“We’re dead serious.”
I’ve always feared for little Macie and hoped that Mr.
Traxler refused the offer. But, then
again, he might have seen the rationale.
It was, after all, Masters tickets they were talking about.
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