LIVING THE DREAM
Our golf writer fulfilled a lifetime ambition when he played the famous Augusta course last week
IT’S one thing following the Masters for years on TV; it’s another to walk the course in the footsteps of the world’s best and it is something utterly different, exhilarating and terrifying to actually play the course. But this was about to happen. Fight or flee? I’d watched White Heat on the way over from Dublin and felt like Jimmy Cagney. Top of the world, Ma. If the ma and da could have seen me now, I thought, I’d no doubt they’d have raised a large gin and tonic and enjoyed a chuckle.
Curiously relaxed on the first tee, I squatted, planted the left foot towards the fairway, and nurdled a half-decent drive up the hill.
It ran out and stopped at about 180 yards or so, almost level with the big bunker on the right. We were off. Beam me up, Scottie…
OUT OF THE HAT
WHEN it comes to draws, raffles, the lottery, I’ve a record second to none. Or very close to none. The horse I backed in last weekend’s Grand National, Enjoy D’allen, fell at the first. But my first experience of working at Augusta was a winner from day one. From takeoff on Monday to touchdown last Tuesday, it was a blast.
For starters, I had the finest of companions in Vincent Hogan of the Irish Independent, a great friend for 40 years since we were first in harness in the Irish Press.
With a surname fitting for Augusta, Hogie was my wingman for the week. He encouraged me to submit my name into the draw for the Monday game, pointing out, more than once it must be said, how his name had come out of the hat twice, in 1993 and 2019.
He said he went around in 93 blows but such were his yarns of golfing excellence, I’m surprised he didn’t break 80, or receive an invite to play in the main event. To be fair, he stopped short of claiming the Hogan Bridge on the 12th was named after him. Ah, the glorious 12th, more of that later. At Saturday lunchtime, I discoverd I’d come out of the hat, 24th of 28 members of the press permitted to play on Monday.
To give a sense of the odds, I was number 322 in the draw. My head was spinning.
It was a weekend like no other for Irish golfers at the Masters, with a second place for Rory McIlroy, a tie for third for Shane Lowry and a creditable 27th for first-timer Seamus Power. Between them, they won over two and a half million dollars in prize money. As for me on Monday, I’d a white Augusta scorecard to hand, and a green pencil embellished with the words ‘Augusta National Golf Club’.
Their worth? Priceless.
GAME OF CHANCE
LAST Monday morning, Ike Stokes was shuttling golfers from the clubhouse at Augusta National to the range and back.
The skies overhead were blue, the Georgia air was warm, and Ike was going about his business. As he had done for the previous 52 years.
Among the caddie fraternity at Augusta, Ike holds senior status.
The evening before, he delivered the green jacket to the Butler Cabin where club chairman Fred Ridley asked Hideki Matsuyama to present the most famous garment in golf to Scottie Scheffler.
Our four-ball was one of seven allotted to the press. There was Hirato Shimasaki from Tokyo, a tall, distinguished, Japanese golf writer; Abraham Yacama, an upbeat radio commentator from Mexico City, and Van Lott, a TV guy from Columbia, South Carolina, whose most important club was a camcorder.
Van told me something I wasn’t aware of, namely that all TV stations east of the Mississippi begin with the letter W, while all those to the west start with a K.
I wore a Tiger-red shirt with the Lahinch logo, in recognition of Alistair MacKenzie, who redesigned the classic Clare links – always the No 1 for me – and also the creator of Augusta.
For every amateur at Augusta, the 15th club in the bag is the fellah who’s carrying it.
In my case, I struck lucky with John Chance, a 20-year stalwart of Augusta, who’d seen it all.
John knew his stuff although I sensed when he saw the highcalibre clubs he was toting, he may have assumed, wrongly, I could play the game. For I had brought Titleist AP2 718 irons, plus a stiff shafted driver and a three wood into battle thanks to the kindness of Taylor Guilbeau, whose house we had rented for the week.
In his college days, Taylor played in the same tournaments as Scottie Scheffler so his clubs were used to low scores. On this day, things would be different. Humbled by the goodwill from friends and colleagues (as well as Lowry, who wished me all the best on Saturday, a typically generous gesture), we headed up the first fairway.
With a plane to catch from Atlanta later that evening, and clubs to return to the Guilbeau house, I decided on a cut-off time of 3.30pm, which left a window of four hours.
The early pace of play was decent but when we arrived at the 10th, everything was backed up from Amen Corner.
Up to then, things had gone swimmingly. Three pars in 44 strokes for nine holes was more than I’d dared hope for. I’d even felt confident enough to foozle a driver off the fairway. The hole preying on my mind was the par three fourth, played over a chasm to a pin tucked behind a huge bunker. It was here that Lowry came unstuck on Sunday with a six.
As he wrapped up press duties that evening, a grinning Lowry dared me to do better. I did, just.
Where the 2019 Open champion went right into the bamboo, the 1999 winner of the Dublin Journalists Golf Society Tom Squire Trophy at Lahinch went left.
Like Lowry, I took a drop. Unlike Lowry, I had a better route to the green, pitched up and was able to two-putt for a five. Never was there such relief after a double bogey.
A NINE-OVER-PAR RUN
ON the 10th tee, I felt I’d sussed Augusta out. Four holes later, I was back in my box – a nine-over-par run: seven, six, six, six. Ouch.
The 12th, where Cam Smith came unstuck on Sunday, is a magical hole which would befuddle Harry Potter. It’s only 145 yards, over Rae’s Creek, played to a ribbon of green that angles away from the tee. The pin was perched on the right edge, hard by a slope that runs back into the water. What could possibly go wrong?
I felt a six-iron would do the job. My caddie, John, suggested an easy five might be best as a wee breeze was into us. Did I stick with six or take a Chance? I listened to John, swung slowly for once, and watched the ball sail over the azaleas at the rear of the green in the direction of the Augusta Country Club.
‘You hit that well,’ said deadpan John. I didn’t disagree, nor did I feel downbeat. If you’re going to lose a ball at Augusta, best to lose it with a decent hit. Not long after, heaven’s gates were closed. A buggy was waiting on the 14th tee to ferry us back to the clubhouse.
I quickly changed my shoes in the champions locker room – with a nod of thanks to the Craigs, Wood (1941 winner) and Stadler (1982) – and headed downstairs, past the giant portrait of Bobby Jones.
I thought of Jones when, ailing with a spinal disease, he received the Freedom of St Andrews in 1958 and gave a memorable speech in which he said: ‘I could take out of my life everything except my experiences at St Andrews and I would still have had a rich and full life.’
After 13 holes at Augusta, I felt the same way. Amen to that.
By the 10th, I felt I’d Augusta sussed, four holes later I was back in my box