Bucket-list day at Masters with dad

My father, normally a very gregarious man, was staying quiet and attentive. He’s always been an attentive person, too, but this was a more vigilant type of silent awareness. I suspect it was because he was trying to take in as much as possible, paying close attention to everything he saw and listening intently to everything said.

We were at Augusta National Golf Club for the Masters. So there’s that. You’re supposed to be quiet when golf is being played. But even when we were away from the golfing action, he was more taciturn than usual. I’m sure he was trying to pace himself since we were going to be out on the course all day, and, at 85 years old, this was a major bucket-list item for him.

For as long as I could remember, Dad had watched the Masters on TV every year. He said he knew the course so well he couldn’t believe he’d never been there before. It’s a hard ticket to get. Augusta National offers only a limited number of tickets to the public. The bulk of tickets go to members of this private and prestigious club and the people and companies they do business with. Many of the companies rent out “hospitality houses” for Masters Week, the first full week of each April, to host their clients and other assorted guests lucky enough to get an invite. This was how Dad and I got our tickets to the Friday round of the 2017 tournament. It was all very last-minute. It was unseasonably chilly on Friday morning when we arrived at the gate at 9 a.m. The security line was akin to going through a TSA checkpoint at the airport. At one point, as we marched from hole to hole, we discovered a bank of landline courtesy phones provided by the club so patrons could connect with the outside world. Dad stopped and called Mom to check in, and for the sheer novelty of calling from inside a famous place so disconnected from the modern world. “I’m calling from inside Augusta National!” was a common refrain I overheard from many patrons while standing next to the phone bank.

We left the tournament around 5 p.m. and kicked our feet up in a hospitality tent to rest before the drive home. My father remained quieter than usual, but I knew he was thrilled, still taking in the environment of a place he had long dreamed of visiting.

On Sunday, during the final round, I called home. Dad was watching the tournament on TV and we reminisced about our one day at Augusta National two days earlier. Mom said he had an eager audience with the afterchurch crowd who wanted to know all the details about his experience.

“He’s telling everyone all about it,” said my mother about my father, who was apparently now back to his old talkative self.

CONTRIBUTED BY BLAKE GUTHRIE Pictured here, the author (right) with his father on their bucket list trip to last year’s Masters.