Risked Divorce, Found Salvation: My 36 Hours at The Masters
A day and a half unlike any other.
When I got offered tickets to The Masters—just two weeks before the tournament—I was immediately screwed. With a 3-week-old at home, I had two options:
Go to The Masters, leave my wife with our newborn & 2-year-old, and forever be known as a shit dad to anyone who hears about it and doesn’t understand golf.
Stay home and miss The Masters. Sure, my wife wouldn’t care three months from now that I stayed, but I’d live with the eternal regret of passing up a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
So, being a piece of trash, I abandoned my newborn, my wife, and our 2-year-old, and set sail for Augusta!
The car ride down with the best man from my wedding was delightful—until we saw smoke in the distance. "Must be a hell of a barbecue," I thought. As we got closer, we realized something was on fire. About 50 yards away, it became clear: a car, completely engulfed in flames. I mean completely on fire—we could feel the heat from inside the car. We casually drove past, not the least bit concerned about an explosion, because that sum’bitch had definitely already blown up.
Thankfully, we made it to our Airbnb in Columbia unscathed. Hoping to kick things off with a nice Columbian dinner, we gave our dad—who only leaves the house for Myrtle Beach or the local Mexican joint Guad—two options: hit up a local taco hot spot or grab Chipotle to-go and eat at the Airbnb (lol obviously not straying from Mexican as an option). Out of nowhere, the man hits us with, “Let’s do something different. Let’s go out.”. Holy crap. The energy is just DIFFERENT this trip.
So off we went to downtown Columbia. We had a great taco dinner with our dad, he told us stories about his old trips to Augusta, and we tried to guess how many bands we were about to drop on merch over the weekend.
Thursday — Augusta Day One
The drive to Augusta that morning with my brother (we only had two tickets) was filled with jitters. We’re predisposed to nerves as soi bois, so the car was pure pit sweat. Once we got on the grounds, though, the nerves disappeared, replaced instantly by awe.
We hit the gates, and—within five minutes—one of us had the dreaded tum-tum rum-rums, so our first stop at Augusta National was the bathroom. A spiritual experience.
Next stop: the merch shop. The line was so long it backed up the practice facility—which turned out to be a blessing. We got to watch Charl Schwartzel hitting out of a bunker, and Cam Smith’s luscious locks bounce their way to the putting green. Pretty cool, though Schwartzel, Green Jacket or not, didn’t do much for me. Facilities were immaculate.
Some old Southern man struck up a conversation with us in line, and my anxiety spiked again when he noticed the shopping list my wife had sent and started laughing. I hate shopping—never do it in person. Now I had to buy merch for eight people, including myself, and try not to spend four grand. I somehow ended up buying the same hat twice and forgetting the sick Blue Azalea polo. But other than that, a surprisingly great time getting some sweet Masters merch.
I couldn’t really find anything for my nieces, who are 7 & 8, so my wife made me give them 2 of my Crow’s Nest Lager cups, which I was certain they’d hate and it’d move me down the fun uncle y-axis.
“A cup? Really? That’s lame”
DAMMIT!!!! I knew it!!!
Then came sammie time. I don’t like pimento cheese and don’t care for egg salad—but I went with the egg salad sammie out of the gate. Holy crap, it was good. I’m an egg salad guy now. Washed it down with an ice-cold Georgia Coke, and then got ghosted on three straight calls by my wife from the phone bank. A strong start!
We posted up at 1 tee, and within 60 seconds, my brother whispered, “Dude… holy shit, that’s Josh Allen.” The last celebrity I saw in person was Lori from Shark Tank at LAX a decade ago, so this was thrilling. Other celeb sightings of the day: Dottie Pepper and Sahith Theegala’s dad. What a whirlwind for a Virginia boy.
Next up: 9 green. The first group we see actually finishing a hole? Freddie Couples—my dad’s all-time favorite golfer. Freddie sticks one to 5 feet and rolls in the birdie. An unreal start to the actual golf, roughly 3 hours after driving past the Augusta Hooters.
We began our “walk the course” part of the day next but ended up getting stuck near 1 tee where elite groups were coming in from both 8 and 1. At one point, we had seven major winners within eye-shot at Augusta National. Pretty unbelievable given two weeks ago I was certain I’d be watching on TV like every year. And in the couple hours we spent there, we saw some absolute pros doing classic “them” stuff:
Phil tried and failed a flop shot on 8. Sick.
Spieth hooks a drive left on 9 and gives the classic No Laying Up left club point while Greller yells “Fore!”
Scottie got up and down from way right for birdie (we think) on 8.
JT absolutely chili-chunked a wedge on 8 (not classic JT), then followed it with an insane up-and-down for par.
We followed Rory, Ludvig, and Akshay around Augusta. For me, this was the group on Thursday. Rory had the patrons absolutely buzzing going 4 under through 14—until he hit it into the water on 15 right in front of us. Shit. Then another double on 17. Welp… SHIIIIIT. Guess Rory’s cooked. There goes my $5 winner bet.
After my fourth egg salad and fifth Crow’s Nest Lager* the Augusta magic hit me hard.
The no-phone policy? Incredible. Place feels like a time capsule.
The prices? Can’t be beat. Nobody trying to screw you here.
The staff? Beyond friendly. I don’t come from money nor do I have money so I’m not used to getting treated with so much respect.
*Yes, I know some asshole will say “Broooo Crow’s Nest Lager is just Blue Moon, you idiot.” Maybe. But I don’t care. Crowey Lagey is the greatest beverage on Earth. And there’s no second place. I’m not joking. The best sips I’ve ever had. Not a bit.
We then find our way over to 16 green—my favorite spot on the course. The Thursday pin was in a funnel spot. Absolutely perfect, especially since they biffed the classic Sunday placement.
Theegala came up as the last group. Big fan of the T-man. His family posts up right next to us by the Green as he takes the tee. Then… splash. Rinses one. His family debated for a few minutes whether there was a bunker over there. (There wasn’t.) Then his dad, with a 4/10 understanding of how golf rules work, started arguing about where Sahith should’ve dropped & that he did it wrong. I loved every second of it.
Then came the most memorable moment of the trip. We’re standing on 17 fairway next to a couple of marshals packing up. One of them, an older gentleman, rips an absolutely hellacious fart 10 seconds after we arrive. I turn away, trying to hide my laughter from this poor man. But farts are funny. Especially here at a place where I assumed nobody had ever farted before. Then he does it again. And again. No reaction from him whatsoever. Oh nooooooo. This old guy doesn’t feel OR hear these farts! How?!? He’s going to shit his pants...at Augusta!!!! Please no my guy!
As someone who has pooped their pants on the course before, I knew the complex and wide range of emotions about to flood him. And I only did it at my local muni (while insight of the clubhouse unfortunately). I cannot imagine filling trou at AGNC.
By the fourth gurgly, volcano-sounding rip snorter, we decided to shag-ass out of there and moved up to 17 green. As we walked up 18 behind Theegala, the sun fading on Augusta National, we realized two things:
Family bullcrap aside (births, weddings, etc.), that was the best day of our lives.
Damn, 18 is steep. Like… really steep. Our live, on course analysis:
“My lungs are burning! Don’t be surprised if someone blows a Sunday lead just from getting winded walking up this sum beech! Tough to hit if you can’t breathe.”
Friday — Augusta Day Two with Pops
Back to Augusta, this time with my dad—the man who instilled The Masters love in us early on (I think? Childhood memory is foggy). He’s very nervy about authority. TSA, security, any kind of checkpoint—it rattles him. Hasn’t flown since the 80s. Unrelated to Bin Laden - it’s pure TSA-fueled anxiety.
Even though it was the nicest security experience I’ve ever had, he still got flagged for secondary screening. I was cackling just waiting for the dogs to come hound him. Unfortunately, he gets by the second round of security with no real issues.
We got there earlier today and strolled the grounds before it got busy. Down 5, up 6, across 15—one of my favorite holes. He hadn’t been since the 80s, so it was a cool experience getting to share that time with him and hear him opine about the course & what he remebered from 60 years ago.
We grabbed breakfast sammies, and I could tell he was a little frazzled when he asked, “Should I put mayo on this?” My guy - it’s a bacon egg & cheese…no. But I get it. We aren’t in Dirty Myrtle or at The Guad so certainly out of our comfort zone.
We followed Rory and Ludvig again, then caught Rose, Homa, and Spaun a few holes back. Energy was different today—Rose was in the lead and the place was buzzing noticeably more than yesterday.
On 4, we saw Rose completely lay the sod over one—came up 55 yards short. Woof. A British couple next to us struck up a conversation after hearing us talk about how shitty that shot was. Heavy accents—nowhere near as heavy as my dad’s Southern drawl, which sounds like someone from White Lotus doing an impression of someone from Alabama. But real accents to be sure.
Turns out they’re friends of the Rose family. Came all the way from the UK to see him play. What a tourney to pick—Augusta National, and their guy is leading.
They told us Rosey is a great, down to earth guy off the course. Neat!
Back at 5, I decided to watch Rory’s group finish up before swapping spots with my brother. Rory had a 30-footer for birdie. I thought, “What a way to go out if he drains this. Would be the absolute cherry on top of an incredible experience” He missed. Tap-in par.
I hit concessions one more time, loaded up on egg salad, chicken salad, and Masters chips, then headed to the Carrabba’s parking lot for trading places.
I wanted to meet in the Hooters lot—the most recognizable landmark outside the gates—but my brother said sitting in a car alone in the parking lot might “creep out the workers.” Fair. But also, John Daly was inside pounding Busch Lights and boneless wings, so him waiting quietly in his car would’ve been the least of the Hooters waitresses concerns.
As I climbed into my car for the 6.5-hour solo drive home—4 hours longer than my previous solo record—I cracked open a Georgia Coke, unwrapped my sandwiches, pulled on my new green Masters hoodie, and prayed I’d get the chance to return one day.