The Bogeyman at Augusta - A Round For The Ages
The letter from Augusta National, authorizing the Bogeyman to plat the golf course on the Monday after the Masters.
The Masters was front and center last week. Or, as golf’s collection of pretentious commentators told you - over and over again - it was the “89th playing of the Masters Tournament.”
That is, for those of you counting at home.
On Sunday, mercurial Rory McIlroy avoided another career-staining catastrophe and won, achieving a career Grand Slam. McIlroy already had the 2011 Masters meltdown on his resume, suffered at the ripe old age of 21. Another one at age 43, all these years and all these experiences later, would have put him in elite heartbreak company. Not even Harry Heimlich could have helped him.
Augusta National is one of the few places on earth that lives up to its hype. And while this scribe wasn’t there for Rory’s roller coaster ride, he was embedded in 1996, when Greg Norman regurgitated a Sunday six-shot lead and put a green jacket in Nick Faldo’s Easter basket.
That same spring, a younger and more audacious Bogeyman dared to enter the post-Masters media lottery for a chance to play the course on Monday after the championship. That’s right, play the Augusta National Golf Club, golf’s Camelot, the Holy Land of the dimpled ball, Bobby Jones’ Locker.
And - as if to prove southern hospitality knows no limits - he was picked.
Being new to the experience, being to a golf course what Wilson Contreras is to a first-base bag, Ol’ Bogey decided to document the experience. With this being the 29th playing of the Masters since - see what I did there? - he thought he would re-tell the story of that momentous occasion:
***
When he arrived at the media center on that fateful Sunday in ’96, Norman still carried the aforementioned lead, and he had every chance of winning his first Masters. At the same time, having entered the lottery for the first time, Ol’ Bogey had every confidence had absolutely no chance of prevailing.
After all, his kind of luck is what the gambling industry is based on, what sank the Titanic, what made Tommy Lasorda pitch to Jack Clark.
And yet, as he walked into the Media Center that Sunday morning and casually glanced at the electronic board, Bogey spit his coffee halfway across the room. There it was! His name! On the list … mis-spelled and everything! He was among the chosen, picked to play on Monday morning!
“My God, Toto,” he thought, “We really aren’t in Kansas anymore.”
The conditions of the lottery back then were simple: If you were among the 28 members of the media/production staff selected, you had a Monday morning tee time - and - you were never eligible to play again. To my understanding, the rule has since been amended. A statute of limitations is now in place, whereby one may re-enter the lottery again after seven years.
Personally, it feels like the one-and-done rule was most appropriate. There were no second chances in the Garden of Eden. And there’s something terribly wrong and irreverent about the Bogeyman desecrating golf’s perfect sacristy. To allow it more than once is cruel and unusual, like inviting Roseanne Barr to sing the national anthem again, like featuring Dylan Mulvaney in another commercial.
Sorry Bud Light, too soon?
Still, with urging from fellow scribes, “to dance with the devil in the pale moonlight,” Ol’ Bogey entered the lottery, fully expecting to make his flight home Monday morning. But to his surprise, there it was - his name among the few, the proud, the lottery winners. After confirming it wasn’t a mistake, that it was impossible to hallucinate on egg salad, he realized there was a problem. He wasn’t packing.
Ol’ Bogey left his golf clubs at home, banished to a dark corner of the garage, a place they should never leave. It was a “get out of jail free” card, a reasonable excuse to stand down and avoid the whole intimidating proposition. So he contemplated doing a David Freese and withdrawing his name from consideration.
He stopped at the desk and sheepishly inquired,“Excuse me, but what happens if you decline the offer?”
Activity at the busy media center screeched to a halt. Staff behind the big desk looked as if they had been tasered. One woman bowed her head in silent prayer, another stopped typing and wept openly. Others turned away, nauseous. A scream came from the back of the back of the room: “Oh the humanity!”
Realizing he had just said something that might get him deported, or at least flogged, Bogey nervously pivoted: “Kidding,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “Just kidding.”
He then turned and hightailed it to his work station, before the lynch mob could be formed.
***
As the day went on, as the final round of the championship unfolded, Bogey’s fears and anxieties subsided. Keep in mind, this was the ’96 Masters, where the Great White Shark took a Great White Dump in the bed. There was no way a slice-and-dice scribe could humiliate himself any worse by keeping his Monday tee time, not on national TV anyway.
Still, the equipment issue remained problematic. St. Louis amateur standout Jim Holtgrieve, who was on the leaderboard at the 1981 Masters, played as a non-competing marker that week, alongside Frank Nobilo. Upon hearing of the Bogeyman’s predicament, Holtgrieve graciously offered his own bag of bats.
That didn’t seem prudent. After all, Holtgrieve might want to use those clubs again. So the Bogeyman respectfully declined the generous offer. This time, no shock or revulsion over the withdrawal, more a sigh of relief.
At the same time, imagining the kind of combustible transformation Stanley Ipkiss experienced when he put on The Mask, Bogey did ask to borrow Holtgrieve’s two-tone, Foot Joy shoes. If this round at Augusta was destined to be - as Mark Twain might have described - “A good walk spoiled,” by God it would be spoiled in style.
As for clubs, Ol’ Bogey called around and found a local golf store willing to loan him a set for the special occasion. His excitement swelled as he entered the store to see rows of shiny new clubs lining the walls. Bogey pondered the possibilities, “What should I choose - Callaways, Pings, TaylorMades? A store manager interrupted the train of thought.
“This way,” he said, leading to the storage room in the back, where trade-ins and scuffed-up retreads were kept. “Here we go, take this set.”
In the breakfast cereal business, they refer to the bag he was handed as an “assorted fun pack.” There was a different flex and different manufacturer inscribed on every club. It wasn’t a golf bag, it was the “Island of Misfit Clubs,” a set even Hermey the Elf would have been embarrassed to carry.
But what was the Bogeyman to do? Sportswriters can’t be choosers. They have no leverage, no pride. They accept the meals, the complimentary tickets, the swag … and they do it with a Collin Morikawa smile on their face.
We don’t owe anyone anything.
His chin held high, Ol’ Bogey threw the battered bag of orphans over his shoulder, thanked the manager and soldiered on.
***
When you spend an entire week on the road in a Motel 6, you no longer have clothes in your possession, you have a laundry basket. The wardrobe becomes dental floss thin. And the cleanest leftover remaining for Ol’ Bogey was a wrinkled pair of khaki shorts.
However, after consulting with a Monday morning lottery loop veteran, and demonstrating a disturbing lack of private club savvy, he determined his attire would be acceptable at America’s most exclusive golf club. “What are they going to do?,” he thought, with a chuckle. “Throw me out?”
The next morning, Bogey showed up well ahead of the 7 a.m. shotgun start - nervous, excited and smartly dressed in a new Masters polo shirt and … some tacky khaki shorts.
“Good morning, Mr. O’Neill,” the young man behind the pro shop counter said, accepting the official letter of invitation.. “It certainly is a pleasure to have you here at Augusta National Golf Club, and we hope you enjoy the experience.”
And, after a brief look at the letter and the attire, he qualified that amiable greeting without skipping a beat: “But I’m afraid you won’t be playing golf with us unless you have something else to wear. Otherwise I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Shorts are not acceptable.”
The sun barely had risen on "Lottery Monday.” The start was still 30 minutes away and - already - the Bogeyman had been reprimanded by Augusta National Golf Club. You can’t teach that.
That said, Ol’ Bogey recognized a solution - unorthodox, yes - inappropriate, no question - obscene, very much so. Nonetheless, the admonished scribe sprinted back to the parking lot, threw open the trunk, rummaged through his luggage, sat on the back bumper and did what any public player worth his range balls would do.
He pulled off the offending shorts and pulled on some musty, balled-up slacks - right there in the parking lot of Augusta National. As Jim Nantz might say, it was a change of the ages.
***
Bogey hustled back, passed inspection and triumphantly headed to the first tee. The driving range was not open - in other words, Southern hospitality does have limits - and the round would start cold turkey. That was ok, Bogey likes his turkey the way he likes his revenge, served cold.
The rest of the foursome included an AP photographer, a CBS cameraman, and a CNN producer. “What a break,” Bogey thought. “If I set the course record, there will be a story and film at 10!” After all, there must be a record for the worst score at Augusta.
Finally, the peg was in the ground on the first tee, the moment of truth had arrived. Life is defined by such moments, challenging moments. It presents situations that require intestinal fortitude and great courage - playing Jeopardy, applying Preparation H, buying extended warranties.
But all of those circumstances are a trip to Ted Drewes compared to taking the club back on the first tee at Augusta National. It’s a whole different level of terrifying.
Fortunately, 1968 Masters champion and long-time friend Bob Goalby once shared some invaluable encouragement with Ol’ Bogey that helped him overcome his fear. “Just remember,” Goalby said. “If you teach a man to fish, he’ll never go hungry again. If you teach a man to golf … he’ll come after you with a 3-iron.”
God rest his soul. That’s personal mantra gold.
After standing over the ball for what seemed like weeks, Bogey finally bit his lip and pulled the trigger. The swing made contact and - Scruggs Vandervoort and Barney! - the ball was airborne. The drive sailed right, avoided the bunkers and settled beneath the cluster of pine trees.
Never in the history of golf - which goes back to 15th century Scotland - has one been more proud of a truly lousy shot. Punching out from the pine straw, Bogey chipped up and two-putted his first Masters green for bogey.
It was like correctly spelling “Krzyzewski” on the first try, an Irene Cara moment.
What a feeling!
***
Amazingly enough, the Neapolitan clubs notwithstanding, the round continued in similarly improbable fashion. Somehow, the Ol’ Bogeyman and the former Fruitlands came to an understanding that day. The pants were dirty and wrinkled, Holtgrieve’s shoes were giving him blisters, his caddy was quite likely inebriated, but after five holes at Augusta National, the Bogeyman was on the imaginary leaderboard in his mind, contending for the Masters at 1-under.
Under bogey, that is.
Of course, it didn’t last. Of course it didn’t. This is an account, not a fairy tale. A double-bogey at No. 6 stunted the momentum and three putts at No. 7 put the round in a more familiar context. Still, this was Augusta, with the same Masters Sunday hole locations. And at the turn, the card counted 45 strokes. “A Bob Gibson” Bogey noted to his playing partners. For a guy who shoots 45 on a good day at Ruth Park, it felt even better, more like a Bob Forsch (31).
On the back nine, Bogey continued to grind. At No. 12, otherwise known as “Golden Bell,” his tee shot landed in the water and he slid into third with another triple. He took solace in knowing that during his first Masters in 1959, Jack Nicklaus also hit it in the water at No. 12.
In 51 Masters after that, Nicklaus never did it again. And, while he has never played the course again, the Bogeyman also has never again hit it in the water again at No. 12.
How about that?
Finally, the dramatic walk came, as he ascended the 18th fairway. Bogey removed his cap and acknowledged the gallery that was not there. He could hear 30,000 imaginary patrons .. rising to their feet … and heading for exits.
Ruining his best drive of the day, Bogey missed the green and finished the round with - that’s right - another bogey. As he walked off the green, Bogey hugged his caddie and handed him $50. The caddie mumbled an obscenity and stormed off. It was electric.
Ol’ Bogey then paused under the most famous tree in golf, the old oak behind the white frame clubhouse, and reflected. He had just played the most famous 18 holes in golf in Jim Holtgrieve’s shoes - and his feet were absolutely killing him. He had played the ball down, by USGA rules, and landed in water only once. Moreover, he had completed the entire round without losing a single loaned club.
He shot a 92, only 14 shots worse than Greg Norman the day before - less than a stroke per hole. Maybe he wasn’t as inept at this game as he thought. Maybe he could learn to throw fewer clubs and actually enjoy himself. Maybe he just needs to play on better golf courses.
Maybe he should buy that extended warranty after all.