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Behind the scenes of The Masters
By Nikki Lachambre
I’m not a golfer, but I’m married to one, and when he invited me to attend this year’s Masters Tournament with him, I knew enough to feel honored and to accept the invitation in a hurry. He’d attended three of the last four Masters with his dad, another avid golfer, but his father couldn’t make the trip this year, so I was in. My excitement at the opportunity to visit golf’s most beloved course grew with every look of surprise and envy I received when I’d mention my upcoming trip to friends and coworkers. I soon learned, however, that this was not the vacation I’d envisioned---this was nothing less than a pilgrimage, and a pilgrimage is serious business: it requires hard work, sacrifice, and a game plan.
We pulled up to the gates of Augusta National at 5:15 a.m. on Thursday morning, April 10. At this point, I’d already been briefed extensively on our strategy for setting up our seats. “The secret to a successful Masters experience,” my husband, Cory, reminded me, “is all in the seat placement, and the secret to successful seat placement is getting in line by 5:30.” When we joined the others in line at Gate 9 at the back of the course, it was 5:22 a.m., and we were right on schedule. I glanced around in the dark at our fellow patrons and was surprised to find a number of bleary-eyed teenagers in line amidst the other, more typical attendees. “Those are the runners,” Cory whispered. I’d heard about the runners from his other trips to the Masters.
They were kids, in years’ past mostly cross-country athletes from the local high school that older attendees and major companies would hire to wait in line with an armload of folding chairs and sprint to their chosen location as soon as the gates opened, so that they would be the first to set down their chairs. Once the seats were placed, these runners would leave, give back the badges, and the real patrons would saunter in with dignity and take their seats in the first row. This year, the Masters not only banned running, but also restricted spectators to only one seat per person entering the grounds, but the kids were back, ready to speed walk their way past older and slower attendees.
As the first gate opened at 6:00 a.m., and we started filing in, a pickup truck loaded with more teenagers pulled up, and at least thirteen more jumped out and pushed past us in line. By now I had seen firsthand who we were up against, and I was determined not to let any more kids get in front of us in line. There was no way I was going to get out of bed at 4 a.m. just to let some wily professional chair-runners take my prime seat. Everyone else in line must have felt the same way, since they all started running as fast as they could towards the second checkpoint, nearly 450 yards away.
It was at this next line that a guard stood in front and went over the rules: no cell phones or electronic devices of any kind, no cameras, no bags or purses over a certain size, and no running. All around me, the runners in line set up their chairs where they stood and huddled in groups over spread-open maps of the course to discuss in hushed voices their intended routes, as if they were planning a complex military maneuver. “Ryan, Chris, you go to thirteen. Matt, Bryce, you’re 16...”
Even we took advantage of the wait to go over our own plan. Once this gate opened, we would walk, as swiftly as possible, to the main gate, where we would most likely be separated as we went through the metal detectors and the badge scanners. Since my husband knew where he was going, he would get ahead of me, and I’d follow him past the gift shop, down the stone steps, to the final checkpoint. This was the most important line of all, since it was the final stop before the free-for-all. Piece of cake, I told myself.
As the sun started to come up, the birds started singing almost on cue in the trees above us, and the others in line settled into their chairs for the hour wait. The chatter became more relaxed and the runners started making conversation with each other. “Who are y’all running for?” one asked. “Oh, I run chairs for the same old ladies every year,” the other said. Another responded, “I run for Sharpie, but I need to get in with Mercedes next year.” Then they started talking money, and depending on who they worked for, some were bringing in $30 per chair, others $100 per chair, all averaging about ten to twelve chairs for the week.
At 7 a.m., this gate opened, and we all took off for the turnstiles. We went through and everything proceeded as planned. It was at this point that the true magnitude of where I was hit me. It was a foggy morning, and the thick mist floating amongst the towering pines lent the location a magical, fairy tale quality. The masses split up down several different paths, depending on where they were headed. We then waited at the bottom of a flight of massive stone steps until the final starting gates were opened. People were speed walking, then jogging, then walking again, up and down the sloping terrain. The morning dew made the ground quite slippery, and I could immediately see why they banned running this year.
Even walkers were sliding, and I was definitely getting winded. Taking in the breathtaking scenery all around was a luxury I couldn’t yet afford. We finally made it to the appropriately-named Amen Corner, a spectacular section of the course so christened in 1958 due to the concentration of action that occurred there that year. We arrived ahead of the group only to find to our dismay that the first row behind the twelfth tee had been completely taken up by CBS staffers who had been granted early access to the course. We set up our chairs in a second row, and took a moment to catch our breath. We were now able to absorb our glorious surroundings, explore the course, and savor the experience.
It quickly became obvious why nearly every article written about Augusta National uses religious imagery to describe it. In two days alone, I’ve seen it described as “hallowed ground”, “mystical”, “holy”, and “the Vatican of Golf.” The reverence the patrons express on the grounds is contagious, and the beauty of the property is almost indescribable. The azaleas are in full bloom, the majestic pines are awe-inspiring, the oaks and dogwoods are lush, the sand in the bunkers is bright white, and not a blade of grass is out of place. Even the skies seem bluer. The grounds are immaculate, and throughout the day, despite the thousands of attendees, the only litter on the ground was the thick yellow pine pollen that left me regretting that I forgot antihistamines.
The Masters Tournament is steeped in history and tradition, and whether it’s their first time or their twentieth time, attendees are thrilled and grateful to be there. The atmosphere among the patrons is unique among sporting events, as inside the gates civility, etiquette and sanctity are the rule. Chairs stay where they’re placed in the morning. Personal belongings left on the chairs go untouched. Lines move quickly and without complications. People actually nod and smile and say hello as they pass each other. Total strangers become good friends. The rows of pay phones weren’t pay phones at all--- AT &T provided free domestic long distance calls to all.
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This year, the most welcome change to the Tournament was the newly-instituted junior patron program, which allows a registered adult patron to bring one child aged 8-16 in for free. The goal is to promote the game of golf around the world and provide inspiration to a new generation of golfers. It seemed like a success, as I observed a number of young kids taking advantage of this unique opportunity to receive an education in the gold standard of behavior and manners that the Masters is famous for, as well as absorb the passion and love for the sport exhibited by both the athletes and the fans.
As a first-timer, I also received an education in the glory of the game, and the alternate universe that is The Masters. The next day, we did end up getting the first row behind the twelfth tee, and I was able to enjoy the front row vantage point we earned with our morning run, er speed walk. But front row or back row, it didn’t matter in the end. I experienced the excitement of watching the leader board update, the joyous crinkle of the unmistakable green wax paper that wraps the traditional $1.50 Masters Pimento Cheese Sandwiches, the rapture at eavesdropping on Tiger Woods discussing the wind direction with his caddy, and the dead silence when thousands stopped breathing at once when Tiger prepared to swing.
I couldn’t resist slipping my shoes off just for a moment to feel the unimaginable softness of the Augusta grass under my feet. Now that I’m home watching the highlights on television, I miss the Masters roars, the Masters groans, and even the Masters moans when a blessed breeze would provide relief from the hot Georgia sun. My pilgrimage to Augusta involved work and sacrifice. I’m still a bit groggy from the early mornings and the long days, and the shin splints are just starting to fade---but with it, I was left with a true appreciation of the game and a desire to learn more about it that will endure longer than just my two days at The Masters.
Editors Note: Nikki Lachambre’s family is from Regina. Her husband Cory played for the SGA Junior Team and the Sask Men’s Amateur in 1990 and 1991.Her father in law is the head greenskeeper at Riverside in Kamsack.
Of Aces And Cart Girls
There is but one accomplishment in the game that will never – can never! - be bettered.
Save for getting the beer cart girl’s phone number, the hole-in-one is the pinnacle of golfing achievement. It is the mountain top. The ultimate triumph. The crowning glory. Ball in cup with one perfect swat equals unequivocal greatness. And, not solely experienced by the game’s elite, aces come just as readily to the drunken, disheveled weekend warrior as to the the arthritic granny. Basically, anyone who can swing a club can do it! If you can make contact, you can taste glory and take up membership in the hole-in-one club. And, perhaps, you’ll record not just an ordinary everyday ace, but one for the ages.
Of course, just as the quench wench is often quite elusive and plays hard to get (I’ve never actually tried to pick up the cart girl, honest, ok, maybe once, but I kinda knew her and this was long before I was married and she was really nice to me and it was a very, very hot day and she was too and it was painfully slow out there and there was nothing much else to do and later I told my wife and she wasn’t even mad at me! cause I told her I was just being a nice friendly guy and that it would never in a million years happen again like even in the next lifetime when we would both possibly reincarnate as Himalayan yaks or something and I’m not even into Eastern religions, like at all), so the hole-in-one is also a mysterious wonder, a thing to behold.
It is interesting to note, however, that the chances of getting a hole-in-one, 33,000 to 1, are remarkably similar to most golfers’ chances of obtaining the cart girl’s phone number. And, if the golfer happens to be wearing plaid, talks with his gums, has a comb-over, and wears a hearing aid, then the chances become somewhat skewed, however, they’re still semi-accurate, which is good to know. Now, if there happens to be a cart boy on duty (never actually seen one, myself), the chances of an ace, for whatever reason, don’t change much. Where am I going with this? No freakin’ clue.
But this I do know: if you’re a large, steroid-loving type and can beat the ball to Kingdom come, then you probably have a much better chance of getting the longest hole in one in recorded history. For instance, just yesterday – I couldn’t believe it when I got the press release - the longest hole-in-one in history was recorded (I’m serious). It was done by a fellow – yes, a fairly large, burly fellow with no neck and arms the size of Rosie O’Donnell’s legs – named Bret Melson on the 448-yard 18th hole at the Ko’olau Golf Club in Hawaii. To his credit, Bret, a student at the San Diego Golf Academy, is not, to anyone’s knowledge, anyway, a drug user. He just wrestled large cows and ate 14,000 kilos of corn bread everyday while growing up in Nebraska.
But, obviously, Melson’s ace, February 7th, 2007, is just one of many interesting aces that have occurred throughout the years. The very first ace, which occurred long before cart girls shaved their armpits and denied botox injections, was credited to Young Tom Morris on the 8th hole at Prestwick during the 1868 Open Champion- ship. I’m thinking Young Tom, the winner of a number of Open Championships and the game’s first true superstar, likely got more than just the cart girl’s phone number that night.
One of my favourite “ace” accomplishments is actually a back to back job done by a professional golfer by the name of John Hudson during the 1971 Martini International Tournament at The Royal Norwich Golf Club in England. First Hudson jugged it on the 195-yard 12th then, amazingly, followed that up with a 311-yard bomb that found the bottom of the cup on the 13th. Needless to say, because it was indeed the “Martini” tournament, the cart girl was very, very busy for quite some time after the epic accomplishment. And poor John had to give her lots and lots of money.
But perhaps the ultimate “ace” accomplishment belongs to a California doctor by the name of Joe Boydstone. Remarkably, lucky horseshoes-up-his-wazzoo Joe recorded three aces in the same round. The odds of this happening are 4,270,918,224 to 1. Coincidentally, given that Dr. Joe was wearing polyester and doing a poor job of hiding his balding pate, those were virtually the same odds of him getting a date with the cart girl.
Andrew Penner is a Calgary based CPGA Professional & author. He has written for SaskGolfer.com off and on for eight years.
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What's new in 2008
Another golf season in Saskatchewan has brought another number of major changes to golf courses around the province particularly in the Saskatoon and Regina districts. The golf course boom that has characterized the last five years or so has finally ended. Despite the changes, Saskatchewan will still have a couple of national records - more golf courses and more golfers per capita than anywhere. MORE>>
Golf Digest ranks Waskesiu highly
Dakota Dunes is three minutes drive from the major city of Saskatoon. Cooke is five minutes away from Prince Albert. Long Creek is 76 minutes from Regina.
Despite these location goofs and others, Saskatchewan golfers may still want to take a look at what Golf Digest’s Magazine – the largest golf magazine in the world – ranks as the ten must-play courses in the province.
Top ranking goes to Waskesiu golf course that scores four stars out of five, and the North Battleford Golf and Country Club at 3.5 stars. Most of the courses listed scored only 2.5 stars, a list that includes Cooke, Elmwood, Estevan, Mainprize, and Willows (Bridges/Xena). Willows (Lakes/Island) received only two stars, Dakota Dunes and Long Creek are unrated.
The searchable database lists more than 3,000 public and resort courses in the Best Places to Play section with ratings based on readers comments and views of the magazine. www.golfdigest.com/courses/places
Online help for golfers
If you’re a golfer and have health problems or golf-related injuries, take a look at www.golfersmd.com The website’s best feature is its search engine that allows you to track down info and people to help.
Amen Corner
"If that guy ever wins a tournament it will set golf back 100 years."
- PGA champ Chick Harbett, watching Arnold Palmer in the 1954 US Amateur
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