The Masters is Golf Heaven

The Masters is Golf Heaven

I am a little scared here. I enjoy good-natured hell-raising at a sporting event—if this was the New York Jets against the New England Patriots at New Meadowlands Stadium, I would not live in fear of embarrassing myself. I know I would not be the most outrageous or uncivil person in attendance. Those freaks are my freaks. I prefer baseball at night, when the crowd always gets weird. I like the Preakness from the infield, among the passed-out, sunburned bodies. I enjoyed every agitated second of LeBron's first trip back to Cleveland. I have Find Golf Courses In New York City been to WWE pro wrestling, and liked it waaaay more than I should admit.The Masters, now in its 75th year, is a different endeavor. There's a genteel way of doing things here, and it demands respect. I will confess I spent a pathetic amount of time before this trip trying to decide what to wear. I figured Augusta National was no place for my Johnny Damon JOHNNY IS MY HOMEBOY T-shirt and that vulgar Billy Ripken T-shirt I really shouldn't ever wear in public but do. I ruled out my jeans, my flip-flops, my hooded sweatshirts and anything that would make me look like I was at, you know, a Dolphins game. Instead, collared shirts were folded in my luggage. I found a pair of khakis I have worn exactly once, to a wedding. I thought shorts would be too casual, but that proved to a mistake—there are plenty of people here in shorts. (Khaki shorts. Not UFC shorts.)

But I don't mean to make it sound stuffy; Augusta is a place of contrasts. You get a whiff of it when you're driving up to the course down Washington Road. Across the street from the Blast To The Past Dollar Store, there's an elegant billboard of Phil Mickelson hawking Rolexes. People can spend thousands of dollars to walk through the gate—a Masters badge is one of the all-time Bucket List tickets—but the parking is free.