First Impression of Augusta National: All it's cracked up to be

Mark Spoor, a golf fan but admittedly not a golf fanatic, made the pilgrimage to the hallowed grounds on Wednesday. What did he like best? The essence that is Augusta National.

By Mark Spoor, Turner Sports

AUGUSTA, Ga. – First off, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m far from a golfer. I play golf occasionally, but I’m not a golfer. You know exactly what I mean.

I don’t have pictures of golf holes hanging up in my office. I’m not a guy who gets blown away by golf courses. Basically, “Wow, this is a pretty course,” is as giddy as I was ever likely to get. Probably more like, “Wow, that patch of water I just hit my ball in looks pretty” or “Wow, this sand sure is soft and well-manicured.”
 
That is, until Wednesday.

On Wednesday, I had the great fortune to go to Augusta National for the practice rounds and the Par 3 Contest. When I got invited to go, I thought to myself that’d it’d be a really good time and if nothing else, it sure would beat sitting in an office. In fact, I decided I would write a piece on it so that at the end of the day, it could be considered work.

To say I underestimated it would be, well, an understatement.

We arrived there at about 7:40 in the morning. Bad news: Augusta is nearly three hours from where I live outside of Atlanta, so the wake-up call was brutal. Good news: There’s a Krispy Kreme right near the course. Stick with the glazed donuts; the cake ones don’t quite measure up.

But I digress.

I had always heard from colleagues of mine who had gone to Augusta National that you’d be hard-pressed to even find one blade of grass out of place. I thought this might just be another instance of golfer hyperbole – sort of like the five-foot par putt that grows in length and shortens in score as the years go on.

Oh no, it’s literal. Very literal. When I caught my first glance of it, I immediately wondered how tough it must be to be the son of the head groundskeeper at Augusta National.

 “Mow the lawn, son.”

 “But dad, I just did – for five hours, just like you said.”
 
“You’re grounded. Go to your room and read those John Deere books I gave you.”

Of course, the first order of business was to find Tiger. It felt a lot like a military mission. We had to try and figure out how long it was taking him to play each hole, then we had to decide whether we wanted to just follow the throng or get a primo spot some holes ahead. Once we decided to get to go on ahead, then it was about getting by the tee or the green, right by the rope up on a hill.

And then we waited, passing the time by saying things like, “It’s 9:20 on a Wednesday. Don’t any of these people work?” Then I remembered that I was there, too.

Whoops.

Then, the sea of humanity parted. Tiger was about to make an appearance. But first, he had to go to the bathroom.

I am not making this up.

I heard someone next to me ask if they could take a picture of him leaving the bathroom.

I really wish I were making this up.

After he exited, half-eaten, half-wrapped protein bar in hand, Tiger stepped to the tee box.

The ovation started.

And continued.

And continued.

Tiger smiled.

After a minute, Mark O’ Meara, Woods’ playing partner on this day and his best friend on tour, came up to the tee box to a smattering of applause I’m certain only came because people felt guilty and obligated.

They both teed off on the par-3 sixth. O’Meara won closest to the pin honors and they strolled to the fairway, where the ovation, like a small wave or redemption, followed him, washing over him, possibly bringing a bit of relief to him – and the people clapping for him.
 
After our brush with El Tigre, it was time for my first meeting with an Augusta institution: the pimento-and-cheese sandwich.

Opinions on this varied like opinions on Tiger. Some said it was the greatest thing since the sliced bread it was served on (white only, cause this ain’t Subway). Others, though, like a couple of the folks I was with, said it was a little like eating toothpaste. For the record, my opinion is neither, though I lean more toward the former than the latter.

It was good – once a year.

What is great, however, are the prices. Nothing is more than $2.75 – not even beer.

Are you kidding me? And the lines move? Forget Disney, I’m bringing the family here next year.

From there, it was on to the par-3 16th, for the annual tradition of watching guys skip the ball across the water hazard. Some did great, some, uh, didn’t.

Coolest moment? Watching Ben Crenshaw do it.

How did he do? Ummm, I’d rather not say.

After another trip to the concession area (try the egg salad, it’s money), we walked over to the Par 3 Contest. On the way, we walked by the clubhouse and the folks in the roped off area eating lunch under the green and white umbrellas. Among them, Arnold Palmer, who had throngs of people watching him eat lunch.

They were watching him eat lunch.

I said they were watching him eat lunch.

How do you know you’re a star? When people line up four deep to watch you eat lunch.

In a spectacular move, one of my travel companions brought Masters lawn chairs and went to the par-3 course early to place them right on the rope line on the ninth hole – the premier spot. Claustrophobia is truly a small price to pay.

More than that, though, as I watched these guys with their kids and their wives and girlfriends just having fun, cracking jokes and goofing around, I wondered aloud why we don’t see more of that type of behavior from players on a weekly basis.

Don’t get me wrong, I get the pressure and that it’s a business and their job and all of that, but at the end of the day I think fans want to see these guys be a little more human and have a little more fun.

It’s fun for us to play, and we’d all like to think that if we were fortunate enough to play the sport we love for a living, it would stay fun. It should stay fun.

Wanna talk fun?

It started with a murmur.

“There they are.”

Then nervous energy.

“I have to get a picture of these guys.”

Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Gary Player came up to the tee. None of them overly impressive off of it, but as we all saw, Palmer sure was impressive with the putter. After he drained that long putt, the ovation he received crossed a line from just a normal reaction to a great shot to pure joy, and more importantly, pure love for the game.

And at the end of the day, it’s clear that is what Augusta National is about – pure love of the game.

If you love the game, you need to go.