The Tournament and Telephone Calls
Augusta, Ga is none too pretty by any man’s estimation. It is usually trash-strewn; it is overgrown with brush and weeds, uneven roads and whatnot. But slipped into that mystery of a city is a jewel known worldwide—The Augusta National. Be you golf fan or not, to walk onto that course is to glimpse Heaven on earth. Its fabled awe-inspiration and reverence cannot be exaggerated. It is truly one of the most breathtaking places I know. And it is one of the few things I miss about home. The Masters is under way and ends tomorrow. Masters Sunday, as it is known. I’ve been to the tournament a half-dozen times or so. I even made it on national television as a spectator many years ago as Tom Watson hit an approach shot on number seven, my long hair and backward cap certainly an antithetical image to viewers and patrons alike.
For nearly twenty years, Ken and I have either been together or spoken by telephone on Masters Sunday. Often he would call me from the course as he had somehow secured passes for the final round. He would call to gloat or marvel or update. Ken appreciates tradition and beauty much the same as I do but he is less likely to acknowledge it. In the years since he moved away—first back to Miami and then to Portland—we have talked late in the final round. Laughing about anything, then waxing serious about the finish. And this year will it be Tiger, who is surging, or Vijay who is unworthy, or Mickelson who is delightful, or Ryan Moore who is a young fool? Who will it be when the phone rings late in the day, just before the sun drops finally behind those Georgia pines via Eastern Time? Who will it be to slip on that hideously wonderful green jacket while Ken and I watch on separate TVs and talk about Baby Ava and Boy Emerson? I’ll have the television loud and the stereo louder when Ken calls, golf dialogue and soundtrack to my day vying. And the knowledge that the phone call will come is comforting to me as a pair of old jeans. It is a thing that I look forward to all year long. And the ridiculousness of such a thing makes me all the more thankful.
For nearly twenty years, Ken and I have either been together or spoken by telephone on Masters Sunday. Often he would call me from the course as he had somehow secured passes for the final round. He would call to gloat or marvel or update. Ken appreciates tradition and beauty much the same as I do but he is less likely to acknowledge it. In the years since he moved away—first back to Miami and then to Portland—we have talked late in the final round. Laughing about anything, then waxing serious about the finish. And this year will it be Tiger, who is surging, or Vijay who is unworthy, or Mickelson who is delightful, or Ryan Moore who is a young fool? Who will it be when the phone rings late in the day, just before the sun drops finally behind those Georgia pines via Eastern Time? Who will it be to slip on that hideously wonderful green jacket while Ken and I watch on separate TVs and talk about Baby Ava and Boy Emerson? I’ll have the television loud and the stereo louder when Ken calls, golf dialogue and soundtrack to my day vying. And the knowledge that the phone call will come is comforting to me as a pair of old jeans. It is a thing that I look forward to all year long. And the ridiculousness of such a thing makes me all the more thankful.
posted by Ryan at 2:37 AM
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