Today is, as far as this Georgia boy is concerned, a National Holiday. Today is Masters Sunday. The Masters is steeped in tradition. A Tradition Unlike Any Other, as Augusta National’s privileged membership likes to say. For years, the tradition in my family was to gather at our house on Masters Sunday for dinner, which included pimento cheese and chicken salad. We would each put five dollars in a Masters porkpie hat and draw the names of the players in the field. Whoever had the eventual champion’s name would win the pot. Side bets were encouraged. Golf and gambling, after all, go hand in hand. Around 3 pm, we would tune the TV to CBS and watch the proceedings that were going on some one hundred and fifty miles to the east.
At one time I was obsessed with golf. At least three days a week, sometimes five, I would hurry home from work to take care of my household and yardwork chores. I would then throw my golf bag in the back seat of my convertible and head to Lake Spivey Golf Club to walk nine holes, work on my swing at the practice tee or both.
Marie and I would play eighteen holes every weekend. I shot 80 twice but never could break that barrier. Marie scored a hole in one. We played at Bent Creek Golf Club in Gatlinburg, Tennessee the weekend of our daughter’s wedding. We holed out our putts on the eighteenth green and gave each other a kiss as always, never dreaming that it would be the last time that we would play together. Over the next year, what I refused to believe became more and more obvious. Marie was sicker than she ever let on and passed away in early December.
After her death, I lost all interest in playing golf. Jackie entered my life and met my family, fittingly, on Masters Sunday. Although she encouraged me to play, I had no interest. I continued to follow the four major championships. I played in our annual family competition, the Brooks Cup. But it just wasn’t the same and it really was not any fun.
Over time the emptiness subsided. Jackie kept bucking me to pick up the sticks again and my buddy Barry kept inviting me to play. Eventually I rejoined our regular foursome of Barry, his brother Kenny and our friend David for weekend rounds at Little Mountain. I occasionally played a round with my old school buddy Walt. Six and a half years after Marie hit hers, I joined the family club with my own hole in one at Sapphire Valley in North Carolina. But still, playing golf was the exception rather than the rule.
A couple of years passed and our next door neighbor Sue, an Air Force colonel, retired and took up golf. She was eager to play and kept pressing me to join her for weekend rounds. Jackie kept gently spurring me to play and I eventually agreed. Before our first round together, Sue asked me to “please be patient” with her. I replied, “Please be patient with me.” We are now regular golfing partners, playing a couple of times each month.
I am grateful and thankful that Sue and Jackie got me over the hump and, literally, back in the swing. The funny thing is, now that I am no longer obsessed with breaking 80 and just happy to keep my score in double figures, golf is a lot more fun.
Today I will put on my Sunday colors, green and white. I will prepare to cook a steak dinner for Jackie. And though some are no longer here, I will continue the family tradition, A Tradition Unlike Any Other. Around 3 pm, I will tune the TV to CBS, sit down and watch the splendor and the beauty that is… The Masters.