Not tossing batting practice today…

Instead we’re Taking a Mulligan…..reporting live from Augusta National…because quite frankly I needed a break from Jim Nantz and I wasn’t going to give up The Masters to make it happen…

Being stuck in rural Georgia for the last few months has been a tough life adjustment, but from the moment I accepted my new job, I had secretly hoped I could go see the Masters.
The schedule broke right for me, and the usually exorbitant prices started heading south this week, so the only thing standing in my way were studying for grad school exams I have this week.
I’ve never been the most judicious of students, so of course I chose to roll the dice and take a trip to Augusta.
I left the house at 7:30 and cruised in just under three hours. When you get off the highway I expected a pristine country club setting kind of road, like we have at Brookline.
Instead I found route 1 equivalent complete with a Waffle House and a Hooters. After making a right at the TGI Fridays, I pull onto this quiet tree lined lane with a couple houses and vast gravel parking lots.
Despite the fact the Members of Augusta National are generally rich Captains of Industry, I have to admire their disregard for Capitalism as they offer free parking for everyone.
I get out of my car and look for tickets, a half a mile back towards the highway later I procure one at a reasonable price (i.e. I’m able to keep my first born, and both legs), and now I’m headed back to the course.

Walking in the first thing that strikes you is how peaceful it is, almost no sound except for a few lone birds chirping, almost politely. The trees are towering high, and full of growth, something a hardended New Englander is not used to seeing in early April.
As the temperature warms, I am left with a tough decision about what to do with my long sleeve shirt. As I look around at some of the questionable fashion choices, I determine that I can in fact tie it around my waist, and not look like the biggest snob here.
The British guy in the bright purple and yellow Payne Stewart outfit I cam across later clearly had that honor.

I peruse the pro shop, where I too could own a goofy looking golf hat for a mere $50, or an $80 collared shirt. On the flip side the concession stand again seems to defy Capitalist values, as sandwiches go for a buck and a half, and soda and candy are a dollar. Beers are under three bucks, but I question the point of getting drunk at a golf tournament unless your buddies have raised enough bail money.
Cell phones and cameras aren’t allowed on the premises for obvious reasons, but they treat it like bringing a loaded gun into the club.
If you do need to make a phone call there is a bank of phones in random places that offer free long distance anywhere in the country. Sadly the advent of cell phones has rendered me unable to remember anyone’s number.

After walking through concessions and the pro shop, I see the course itself. It’s kind of like walking through all those shops at Disneyworld. The Magic Kingdom is off in the distance, in this case the leaderboard, and as soon as you get out into the clearing its sort of overwhelming which way to go because people are walking everywhere.

I choose to wander aimlessly and look at some holes as people who have no hope of winning are playing out the string. The first thing that strikes me is that golfers aren’t all that big, I know that’s not shocking news, but even folks who are supposed to be big like Cabrera aren’t.
As I survey the course, the color of green is striking, nothing faded (even the gravel cart path is dyed green) and the grass looks perfect (though trampled after seven days of public access). The azaleas are blooming, and the sand traps are whiter than any Caribbean Beach.
As I see some guys tee off and shoot irons, I’m struck by the fact the sound off the club is not the booming blast it sounds on tv, it’s a simple sound any average guy who hits the ball square can make. However as it whizzes by your head it’s a little unnerving, even though you know its not hitting you.

I head over to the 10th hole and watch a couple groups including Bubba Watson, who is clad in a teal shirt and plaid pants, while sporting a driver that has a hot pink shaft. I have no joke here, I think it speaks for itself.

D.J. Trahan (didn’t know who he was before today either) has a caddy who was sporting a Green Monster sox shirt under the painters coveralls caddies wear. Now one would think this would make him a reasonably friendly or affable man at least to a fellow Sox fan, one would be wrong.

The prevalence of Sox hats throughout the golf course was incredible. I think only Georgia hats were more common (aside from Masters and golf company hats) and not by much. I saw Sox hats of all types, including a Titleist hat with a Sox logo, truly a nation we have on our hands perhaps we can talk to Jerry Remy about a possible secession.
Viva La Revolucion!!!!


I briefly watch Tiger on the practice green. He drills five quick short putts, which only frustrates me more about my short game. However, those are the last five good putts he hits all day.

Had I been made aware of the amount of attractive women who inhabit golf tournaments, I might have applied myself earlier in life. At the very least I think these are things parents should be doing, that’s why Earl Woods superglued clubs to Tiger’s hands. He saw a future Swedish model daughter in law, fame and fortune were secondary. Further proof I was shortchanged growing up.

I choose to follow the group of Tiger and Phil Mickelson, and if they fall out of contention I’ll veer back and check out the final group. But also because nobody pays the big bucks to see Kenny Perry or Angel Cabrera do anything
Tiger opens his round in much the same way I probably would have, by carrying it over the gallery somewhere. Unlike me his second shot carries a tree and lands near the pin to save par.

My first sight of Phil Mickelson, all I could think of as the line in Tommy Boy, “the camera adds a couple of…hundred pounds.”
He’s not all that big, and certainly not pudgy at least not in person. However the pinstriped pants have him looking like a goofy European.
I’m not a fashion cop by any means, but between the fans and golfers, who thinks some of these look good? I saw a guy with gold sneakers, and a magenta collared shirt (collar up), really I demand an investigation.
Mickelson starts a birdie barrage on two, three, five and six and is walking like he knows he’s in a zone.
His par three tee shot on six that sailed over my head and onto the green next to the pin was amazing to see. The crowd is now cheering everything Phil does, including successfully walking from shot to shot.

He’s at seven under and making a real charge, I’m morally obligated to root for any lefty golfer, and this group has gotten interesting and into contention.

In the least improper golf attire for a fan contest, the tattooed white guy in the KG Celtics jersey seems a little out of place, a close second is the bandwagon fan in the Rays jersey.

That strut of Phil’s stopped briefly when he Winged Foot (yes it’s a verb meaning to find the woods with your drive in a major championship while in contention, hey my blog, my rules of grammar). However he hits an incredible iron that drops within two feet of the pin in front of me.

The fact I recognize Jim Furyk by sight from 75 yards away, just proves I watch too much Sportscenter.

Tiger is struggling and jokes are flying in the gallery as Phil has upstaged him, and is smiling ear to ear. I can’t help but wonder when the collapse will come. Tiger flips his putter in frustration after missing a putt on seven. I don’t know by how much because once the pin is gone, I can’t ever find the hole.
Through seven holes, I have yet to perfect the somber golf clap, which is sort of the obligatory applaud after making an easy tap in after failing to make the important putt. Veteran golf fans seem project a monotone boom after a disappointing hole.
I have however perfected the boisterous shriek after Mickelson does something well. His following is getting a little Happy Gilmore-esque.

I elect to get a drink and not follow the duo to eight, like Ron Burgundy I regret this immediately as I see Tiger nail a long eagle putt from the ninth green roughly 700 yards away kinda like being in the opposite endzone at Gillette.

Mickelson again Winged Foots a tee shot seeming a little rattled after Tiger’s eagle. He follows that by finding the bunker from the woods, however he saves par.

While I applaud excellent play, I have to say I enjoy the sufferings of professional golfers and in particular I love seeing a shot that rolls all the way down a steep slope, or a putt that rolls all the way off the green. I get to see Heidi Watney’s anorexic gangly cousin Watney putt one off the ninth, and Mickelson come up short on an approach. I’m sadistic I know, but I feel as though others should feel my pain sometime.

I jump all the way to Amen Corner which is an absolute mob scene, albeit the most polite mob on earth, as everyone says excuse me and genuinely cares about other’s sightlines (this will change later)
Despite the oversized gallery nobody is watching Watney or Stephen Ames play the par 3 12th.


The sightlines at 11 and 12 are among the best in all of the golf world, absolutely the perfect place to play golf. I’m simply not a good enough writer to adequately describe it.

Mickelson has now added a new shot to future Major blog verbiage, as he Augusta’s his tee shot on the 12th rolling it into the water for a double bogey.
At the same time someone nearly kills the gallery with an approach onto 11, and nobody even turns their head to look.

Leaderboard watching is now a common pastime, and the anticipation as the hand operated scoreboards are updated is exciting, this time the crowd roars as Cabrera bogeys

All over the course are club officials who also wear green jackets. Nevermind that it’s 70 degrees, and they’re clearly wearing them to show the world they’re important. I briefly ponder whether I could accost one, steal his jacket and make it out of there.
After wondering how the cops will react, I decide that given the medieval ways Georgia cops enforce traffic laws, stealing an green jacket is likely a death penalty offense here.

After 12 holes I decide golf is far more suited for television. The interminable length with which people take to line up putts is annoying enough, but Tiger just stared at the pin on 12 as if he could telepathically move it if he stared hard enough.
The fact all that dogwood didn't make me sneeze once during a putting sequence is a minor miracle.

The Mickelson brigade has hit the skids following the double bogey, but Tiger is making a push. From my vantage point on 14 I find myself standing next to his old swing coach, the legendary Butch Harmon.
He can barely watch as Tiger drills an approach, and again he looks away as his former pupil just misses a putt.
After both finish 14, someone near me asks “is anyone following the leaders?”
Harmon quickly provides the line of the day as he deadpanned “only their wives.”

I can’t help but wonder if Perry is playing so mistake free because there’s no pressure on him, since virtually everyone is following Phil and Tiger. Soon thereafter I had my answer.

Both Phil and Tiger miss golden eagle opportunities on 15 and Tiger’s birdie on 16 leaves them both one back heading to the final two holes. My adrenaline is racing as people hustle to get a good view of 17. It’s here I discover that running is not allowed at Augusta National. (insert standard Lee Corso “not so fast my friend” joke here _______).
The security guards who bark out "walk please" look like every retired lunchlady hall monitor I ever encountered in junior high. Only at Augusta can senior citizen women be adequate security.

I swear to God I wasn’t the guy who ran onto the course and did a snow angle in the bunker on 17. I did however have to explain to two southerners what a Snow Angel was, and invoking the name of Lonnie Paxton only complicated matters.


Tiger played 18 this week like Roy McAvoy in the movie Tin Cup, the only thing missing today was him asking his Kiwi Caddy (who has a hilarious accent, of which I don’t understand how Tiger can focus when he talks) for another ball. He capped this real life cinematic nightmare by hitting a tree. When the ball made contact with that tree it made a crack I’ve only heard when Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz take batting practice.

It’s apparently contagious as Mickelson finds the bunker on 18. Perhaps his caddy should tell him they play 19 holes on the final day of Major Championships from here on out.

For 16 holes this was an incredible event to watch unfold. Both guys seemed to try to one up each other and made the other step his game up, and usually they did. It was anything you can do I can do better.
Then the final two holes, they played a version of anything you can I can do crappier.

I am dead tired and decide to head toward the exit and beat some traffic. But the fact that I hadn’t actually seen the leader take a shot made me turn around and walk to 17. I can hear the roar of what was Perry’s incredible tee shot on 16, as the scores change I assume its over, but I arrive to 17 in time to see Kenny Perry bogey, as Cabrera saves a par.

Perry bogeys 18 and it’s on to a three way playoff. As the players make their way back up 18 the politeness of earlier has gone completely out the window as the rich folks who have seats in front of the green refuse to sit down sparking a large shouting match, that us plebeians eventually won out.

The views of the playoff I had were great, at least until Perry’s approach on the second playoff sailed deep into the woods. I was pulling for Perry once Phil and Tiger faded but to get to see great golf was a privilege.

I take issue with Masters fans being the best in golf as some have said, as I was floored to the parking lot more than half empty after the playoff was over.

Championship golf is definitely best suited for television and perhaps that's where many fans went to see the final stages unfold, but I’d encourage anyone to go spend a day at Augusta and experience the roar of the crowd as a huge putt goes down, and the cataclysmic groan as a shot falls just short.

It truly is a tradition and a sporting event unlike any other I have attended.