Seconds are a funny thing when you have a tee time at Augusta National Golf Club. You constantly look at your watch, the long dial tick, tick, ticking away, one … two … three ...
People notice you looking and ask what time it is. They care just as much as you do.
Every second is precious. You try to slow them down. Time presses onward toward inevitability. Everything is moving too fast.
You forget to put on sunscreen and get burned. You forget to eat enough at the buffet lunch in the grill room and wonder why you’re so hungry an hour later. You spend too much time looking at the memorabilia in the Champions Locker Room and finding Augusta National Golf Club gear for you and your loved ones in the pro shop and wonder why you only have five minutes to hit balls at the range.
"No time to putt? Oh man, I really need to see how fast these greens are."
Time is omnipresent. Time is evaporating. Time is the only thing that matters.
I shot an 85 at Augusta National Golf Club. Two feet from a hole in one on 4, six inches from an eagle on 9, a floating 8-iron on 12 to the back fringe, a curling 35-foot downhill birdie putt on 13. These memories stand out, as do the eight 4- to 8-foot putts made to save par, bogey and double bogey to keep the round going.
As a 10.0 handicap, it was one of the best rounds of my life. That it came at Augusta is surreal.
Yet as I think of the experience of playing a course I’ve dreamed of playing for over two decades, what stands out most is the battle against time. You desire to soak every moment in, but you need to keep walking the fairways. You want to stay there forever, but you can’t overstay your welcome.
One more deep breath of the Augusta air, the pine straw scent tickling in your nose. One more thought of family, closing your eyes and seeing them all, dead and alive, saying I love you and thank you. One last drive down Magnolia Lane, the fading light cutting through the broad green leaves of those magnificent trees and casting a shadow you’ll never forget.
How is this over.
Monday, April 14
10:59:30 a.m ET
“We’re 30 seconds early,” I said to SB Nation’s Jack Milko, who I was playing with and shared my entire day with. “I hope they let us in.”
For media members who win the Masters media lottery and are awarded the privilege of playing Augusta National, you can’t arrive until an hour before your tee time. This message is drilled into you by the other media members who have played and is mentioned in the mandatory meeting where you go over the rules of playing Augusta with several of their staff.
Gate 3 is the entry to Magnolia Lane. When you turn in, two security officers and a barrier of black security bollards await. They reminded me of the pillars you see outside the White House or the Pentagon. Only beyond is that beautiful drive you’ve dreamt about your whole life.
Both security guards examine our IDs and invitations. I wonder if they’ll need Real IDs next year.
The bollards lower into the ground and we’re off. That took about 180 seconds.
11:07:45 a.m. ET
The drive down Magnolia Lane took about two minutes. We were going 3 mph.
“Can we go slower?”
The clubhouse emerges, glorious as any video you’ve seen. Clubs out of the car. The valet whisks it away. Upstairs to the Champions Locker Room. Photos of Jack and Arnie, clubs from Crenshaw and Faldo, a series badge from the 1934 Masters, finding Tiger’s locker.
"I wonder who we are sharing with."
Gene Sarazen and Mark O’Meara.
It takes time to soak in all these memories, but there’s so much more to do. Stomach butterflies. Nervous energy. We must press on.
11:17:27 a.m.
The mahogany walls of the member's pro shop glimmer in the sun. Loved ones have given me a shopping list. I wrote it down. The note was left behind hours ago. Another casualty in the rush against time.
“I totally forgot what size my friend’s waist is.”
The club logo is different than the Masters logo. It’s simply “A.N.G.C.” No yellow continental map of America with a flag planted in Georgia. Just A.N.G.C. with a circle around it.
A tag on a shirt informs us of the following:
The A.N.G.C. patch first appeared in 1937 on the iconic Augusta National Member "green coats." Though the Green Jacket tradition continues today, the original logo was reserved exclusively for members. In 1949, with the presentation of the first Green Jacket to the Masters Champion, the modern-day patch was introduced and lives today.
I only want A.N.G.C.-monogramed items. I already purchased $1,000 worth of Masters gear. The search is on.
Shirts and belts for me and my friends. Monogramed coins. An A.N.G.C hat. Wait, where are they?
“Are there any A.N.G.C. hats?”
“All that we have left is what’s on the shelves.”
Dang, no hats.
Six shirts, two belts, five enameled ball markers, one hat (not A.N.G.C., why not?): $815.
11:38:17 a.m.
Drop the bag off in Sarazen and O’Meara’s locker. Briskly walk, never run, out the front door for a ride to the range. Meet Kenny, my caddie, an Augusta native.
“You ready for the best day of your life?”
“I spent way too much time in the pro shop.”
Quick stretch. Hit some chips. Full 56 degrees, 9 iron, 7 iron …
“They’re calling us to the tee.”
Three quick drives, six putts on the practice green next to the range, then a cart ride back to the clubhouse.
“Do you think I have time for a few putts on the practice putting green?”
“Boy, you have to experience that.”
11:52:28 a.m.
There’s a group in the fairway and one on the tee. There's time!
I walk up to the practice putting range. The three people I’m playing with, Jack, Ben Adelberg and David Rumsey, are already there.
“Is that Josh Allen?”
It was. He was walking off 18 as we rolled our last few putts.
There are ball markers, tees, scorecards and pencils at the starter's table. I take as many as I feel is appropriate. That means one handful, not two.
There’s sunscreen there too. I take off my watch and lather up. Jack doesn’t. He’s red as a cooked lobster when we finish.
First tee box. We snap a group photo. I flip a tee three times to determine the starting order. I offer to play a match, but there are no takers. I’m third up.
I step to the side, close my eyes and think of everyone who put me in this position, who gave me the chance to follow my dream of being in sports media, who I love and cherish.
“Thank you.”
5:38:28 p.m.
Walking off the 18th green. Soaking in those last breaths of pine straw. My watch is in my bag. I throw it back on.
“Five and a half hours.”
I wish could have been 10.
We return to the Champions Locker Room. There is one shower and I use it. The round washes over me.
Kenny yelled, “Disappear!” as my shot slid by the hole on four (6-iron from 175). I made the two-foot birdie putt. Kenny snapped a picture with my disposable camera.
On the 9th, Kenny and I discussed family and what they mean to us. I stared at the clubhouse and the oak tree in front. I closed my eyes and thought of everyone. Everyone else in the group hit their approaches and were walking up the hill. We lost track of time.
“What’s the number?”
“95 but it plays up hill.”
“Let’s go right at it with the 56-degree.”
“Just don’t leave it short.”
I hit it to six inches.
We had 150 on 12 and I hit a perfect 8-iron. I was 35 feet above the hole on 13 and made the putt. The short stick saved me several times throughout the round. To putt well at Augusta National makes one feel saint-like.
Yet, I’m no saint. I’m just, as my nana used to say, a lucky duck.
6:15:01 p.m.
The final seconds at Augusta National. Profuse thank-yous and a reminder to grab the photo they took on the first tee box.
They framed it. No detail is overlooked.
We're in the car. I look at my phone for the first time. Over 100 texts await. I start combing through the “congrats,” and “how did you play” and “call me when you're done” messages. I look up, put the phone down, and take in a final view as we start driving away from the clubhouse and down Magnolia Lane.
Time flies.
This article was originally published on www.si.com as I Won the Media Lottery to Play Augusta National, and Every Second Was Special.
