The Song Sparrows ignore the spectators who file through the entrance gates before breaking into a polite trot as they branch out across the course, strategically placing their green, mesh chairs in ideal locations to watch the afternoon pairings. With these empty, unfolded chairs serving as time-honored placeholders for the afternoon, the crowd contracts back to first tee near the Augusta National Clubhouse to see the morning pairings. One this particular day, the sun did so much shine, but rather lit the stage for a Sunday at The Masters. The grass was greener and the sky bluer than seen on even the best high-definition television. The elevations roll higher and dip lower than your flat screen affords the eye. The pine straw is softer under foot than a Midwestern kid ever imagined. By the end of the day, I had walked much of the 365 acres and never saw a weed. Not in the parking lot, not behind the concession stand, and certainly not in the fairway. In this part of the south, where civility still reigns with silent rule, weeds are simply considered rude.
Mingling in and around the Augusta National Clubhouse are actors and athletes, statesmen and politicians. Some blend well into sun-soaked waves of visors, sunglasses and popped collars. Others move with an entourage that forms a ten foot amoeba of humanity around them, which forms an even larger mass. The Members are easily spotted in their green jackets atop preppy shirts and ties with crisply pleat slacks accessorized with cordovan alligator golf shoes or loafers. Collectively they form a homogeneous display of old money, where everyone has a Yacht-Master on one wrist and a trophy wife on the other. The men laugh heartily as they lie about their golf game, while the wives greet one another with a polite word, a smile, and a nod. Above it all, flittering between the branches of long-leaf pines, the European Starlings participate in a completely different type of Spring-time fecundity.
The Clubhouse emerges at the top a slowly rising crest, awash in white paint that reflects streams of Georgian sun that, throughout the day, find their way through the canopy of The Big Oak Tree. To its east sits the Eisenhower Cabin adorned with neatly trimmed hedges. To the west, the Tea Olive fairway unfolds like all holes, rolling down toward Rae’s Creek. With its pillared verandas and shuttered windows, the Clubhouse invokes images of the South’s antebellum past. Like The Big Oak that was planted in 1850, the Augusta’s exclusive membership policies took root in an era of accepted racism and exclusivity. August National did not permit black members until 1990. Until recently, weeds were not the only thing prohibited at Augusta National.
While the old money saunters about the grounds, your new money is no good at the concession stands. Traditional Master’s pimento cheese or egg salad sandwiches will cost you $1.50. Beer runs $3.00 for domestic, $3.50 for imports. Enjoying a Georgia peach ice cream sandwich in the shade of the 13th fairway is a $2.00 experience. At Augusta National, concessions are not a revenue stream—that is reserved for the pro shop. No, at Augusta the concessions are a hospitality. As you enter the food lines, you are greeted not as a customer, but as a guest. As you make your selections you are faced with far fewer choices than in our everyday lives. No half-caff latte. No dry cappuccinos. No skinny nothing. Chips, plain or barbecue? Tea, sweet? Simple hospitality. A host presenting her guests with special treats reserved for special occasions.
It was my grandfather who taught me to love and play golf. He spent countless afternoons at our house for Sunday dinner and to watch the final rounds of many golf tournaments. However, the Masters was always special visit. For the Masters he would bring his Sears electric putting machine to house and set me up in the hallway to see if I could match the clutch putts down the back nine. Meanwhile—much to my mother’s displeasure—he would drag one of her upholstered arms chair across the family room so that he was sitting four feet from the televised action. He knew all the players and their quirks. Jack Nicklaus, never loses a lead. Johnny Miller, done (yips). Tom Kite, choker. Fred Couples, best golfer in the world “if he gave a shit.” As the golfers meandered through the mythical back nine of Augusta National, I re-enacted their putts over brown shag, across the tiled foyer, onto an olive indoor-outdoor carpeting hoping for Gramps to hear the magical ‘pop’ as the electric putting machine returned my ball. During breaks in the action, I would run to the kitchen to pour Gramps a “Bud and a brownie.” Gramps was a Bud Man long before Harry Caray; ‘brownies’ were shots of Canadian whisky. I was 16 before I recognized that what I thought was an aftershave that permeated his house and his Pontiac was really the Canadian Club I had been pouring all those Sundays.
Gramps was a functioning alcoholic. Never missed a day of work, but slept through plenty of Bears games. He was a product of his times. His father was a hard-drinking merchant from Chicago’s immigrant South Side. Gramps grew up smoking and drinking, dancing with the ladies and gambling on the ponies. He was also an ignorant and unapologetic racist and chauvinist. But long before I knew any of this, I knew him as simply my grandfather. He took me to my first White Sox game. He took me fishing; for smelt along Chicago’s shorelines under the cover of night, for perch off the Michigan City breaker wall, for Coho salmon in a small, aluminum boat on a choppy Lake Michigan. He taught me the slipknot used by the boat boys at Eagle Bay Lodge in Ontario, where we fished each summer.
When my parents needed a sitter, I would go to Gramps’ for the night. We’d watch the CBS Saturday night line-up—Bob Newhart, Mary Tyler Moore, All in the Family, The Carol Burnett show—while eating popcorn over which he poured an entire stick of butter. The real treat of the evening was brought out on TV trays that depicted an outdoor scene in which a fly fisherman cast a fly into a never-ending horizon. This treat consisted of a sleeve of saltines, each with a teaspoon of Smucker’s Concord Grape Jelly balanced on their salty crusts. Like the Master’s pimento cheese sandwiches, there appeared to be nothing special about these grape-jellied crackers. Just a host presenting his guest with special treats reserved for special occasions. Simple hospitality.
The hospitality and charm of Augusta National cannot erase years of exclusivity, nor can its grace and beauty lull us into being passive spectators. While the current membership is opening its doors to more diverse branches of the population, it may be generations before actual attitudes change. We must call for change, but also recognize progress—albeit slow—that has occurred. In August 2012, Augusta National admitted its first two female members. We learn at an early age to hold the tension in our lives between something we love, and ideas we want to change. A grandfather who teaches you to read a race program, but who uses the “N” word. A grandfather who teaches you to identify the fish of the Great Lakes, but who see no need for girls to graduate from high school. Over time, we learn that the views of our loved ones need not be our views. We learn that, at times, hospitality and civility go further than protest. If we are fortunate, we learn to accept our loved ones without endorsing their beliefs.
Happy 100th birthday, Gramps. I saved us a spot between the bridges of Hogan and Nelson. We have a view of the 11th green where Mize chipped-in for a playoff victory in ‘87, the shaved 12th green where Freddie was saved from Rae’s Creek in ’92, and the 13th tee where Jack began his run at history in ‘86. Come mid-afternoon, this long-leaf pine will shade our eyes and take the heat off our foreheads. Between afternoon pairings, the sparrows and starlings will entertain as we wait for the manual leader board to be updated. No need to drag over a chair. I saved you a seat. Pass the crackers.
Jeffry Osborne Tar ©
April 2013 (2020)
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