MASTERS BLOG 2006
Robert Tyre Jones Jr., (1902-1971), is still the President in Perpetuity of Augusta National Golf Club. He is best known in history as Bobby Jones, the world’s greatest amateur of golf. His status as the greatest amateur of golf will also remain in perpetuity. The looming presence of corporate sponsorship insures this outcome. Golf is now an empire and the money involved stacks with too many zeros. There will never be another world’s greatest who says he prefers instead to play only for, the love of the game, as Mr. Jones did….. Ever.
Bobby Jones apparel, the official licensee of the name through the Bobby Jones heirs, therefore has the franchise as the only trademark brand sold at Augusta National during the Masters Tournament. Oh, there are hundreds of square feet of available apparel and caps that are not Bobby Jones label. All are adorned with the treasured golden Continental United States embroidery, complete with the red and green flag spiked squarely into the Augusta location. But all of this is private label merchandise is resourced abroad at the best available pricing, and made especially for shipping to this cherished event. While another full wall is Bobby Jones brand, an array of short sleeved knits, cotton vests, and woven shirts, all closer in price to two, than to one hundred dollars….. EACH. There is even a suede to cashmere reversible vest if you brought the right credit card, or just don’t care about price. This is what the apparel industry calls the “top end.” And here at the number one merchandise tent, immediately beside the primary entry gate, the customers take the Bobby Jones away like this was a hot dog stand. It is a mesmerizing study in emotional spending.
Like my joke to one lady patron, “This is just like any typical day at the mall, right? All these men shopping?”
She laughed aloud. “It’s amazing! My husband actually bought more than I did!”
College and high school students in white shirts with Master’s logos are behind every counter eager to serve the shoppers, except at the Bobby Jones area. Behind that counter are the Bobby Jones representatives, including the head of design, the Vice President of Sales, and we wholesale salesmen from across the golden embroidery America.
This is my fourth consecutive trip and this time I have been assigned combat duty. In the past I have worked the back gate shop, half the size, half the traffic, half the work, and more time on the course. But the work load and scheduling needs this year have dialed my number to hold down the middle of the most shopped counter during the most shopped days. There is only one place one can buy this embroidery, and that is right here. These early days are when the invited or those with comp tickets are in attendance. Such first time attendees are like drug addicts in a crack house in the merchandise tent and all of them overdose on purchases.
I have arrived at six-thirty am to stay until the end, seven-thirty pm, maybe longer. The clock has lurched forward for daylight savings and I have lost another hour to the east coast time zone. The six-thirty start here is still four-thirty in my Texas time zoned body. I will take a lunch break for an hour and put on dry socks and sit in the observation stands like a cat licking her sore paws. I might even see some golf. There has been a mistake here, I am working hard.
At noon I turn to the VP of National Sales and say, “Don’t worry, we only have seven more hours to go.” He groans too.
My entertainment is "watching people."
Repetitive selling at a single area of counter for more than ten consecutive hours, for more than two consecutive days, has an interesting affect on my brain. It provokes an ethereal, existential, esoteric, even cosmic vision of that which is outside the self. In other words I get a little bit goofy around hour number eleven. If life is only conscious entities of the Godhead materializing amid a buzz-field of molecules, then so many of us choosing this place to be so peaceful and in such bliss, has some consequential meaning to mankind. I watch the swarm of men in caps coming from the other end of the shop, straight toward me, bumping the metal rounder of hanging merchandise like balls descending the pinball machine. At this moment in time there is only this moment in time.
The man in front of me may be the chief executive officer of a fortune 500 company next week, but he is a ten year old boy at recess right now. Over there a lady with full cleavage displays an expensive tear drop augmentation with call girl modesty. Also noted were her dyed black hair and eyelashes. The rich and the not so rich cannot be detected by sight. I meet some sophisticated red necks and some pseudo rich fakers. I’ve seen this next guy on TV but can’t quite pin him. Another buyer discreetly folds a six hundred dollar suede vest and puts it in his carry basket. He says thank you to me. The Italian family has one teen who speaks English for them. I know the word camisa for shirt and it helps. The Asian buys all the size smalls. This next guy needs bigger than big and taller than tall but he buys an extra large.
“A hundred and sixty bucks? I’m not there yet.”
Sir, if you are here, you are there.
"I can’t believe you are sold out of that already, will you be getting more tomorrow?"
No. We want to sell out. We want all fresh merchandise next year.
"Where is the women’s merchandise?"
Swim back upstream from where the current pushed you. Women’s merchandise is there.
"I need to buy my wife something, today’s her birthday."
Guess he only had one ticket.
One man holds up a shirt that he cannot find in his size." Have you seen this on a dummy?"
What a straight line.
"What would you say is the best combo with this shirt?"
I’d say a blonde on one arm and a brunette on the other.
I need to take two damitals and go to bed.
Meanwhile outside, the 2006, 70th Masters Tournament is creeping into place. There have been more than seventy years since the first, but two of the years were set aside during the World War. I pray another is never set aside.
The view from the clubhouse at the first tee box, across the elevation toward the ninth hole, is a field of wild flower golf shirts and caps that are brightly peppered against a vivid Augusta green manicure. There are not many tattoos or spiked faces in this crowd. Everyone is advised to display traditional customs of etiquette, decorum and behavior, and to obey all the Tournament policies. This will not be a backdrop for the refilming of “Rebel Without a Cause” starring Johnny Depp, ever. Running is unacceptable behavior. The men in the green blazers are given greater regard than someone in a police uniform. One can be issued out. One can lose his ticket. This is not a democracy here. This is sacred ground.
This year, it is as if a trio representation of the grey haired brain trust might have trudged in green blazers to the hallowed throne of Bobby Jones and asked:
“Sir, The Tiger has devoured our tradition of even play and competition. How might we negate both he of Godly talent and the modern technology of the drivers, so all may play with the skill that accompanied the modest equipment of your era?”
Sir Jones might have touched his chin and paused before responding, “Give them longer yardage to narrower landings so that accuracy and knowledge of the course might rein over technology and the tee to green distance alone.”
Tiger could wink at the revered Mr. Jones and say, okay, let’s tee it up. There are really no new rules to exclude him from contention.
The fact is, the Masters has never really been played on the same course every year. But it has been played on the same grounds every year. Five hundred yards has been added since 2002, including 155 yards in the past 12 months. For 2006 the course extends to 7,445 yards. Augusta has challenged the field to lay out fourteen clubs and find the best match for the puzzle that is this year’s course.
Certainly Phil Mickelson has done just that removing his sand wedge and adding a second driver. One driver is to hit fade shots and the other to draw the ball. After seven straight top ten Masters finishes and the confidence of a 28 under win at the Bell South, he must be given a nod as favorite to win his second Masters.
This will be the long hitters: Singh, Mickelson, Els, versus best accuracy: Campbell, Couples, and Goosen. The accuracy factor awarded veteran Ben Crenshaw a game outside his envelope for a few days. Of course the entire field has to score against Woods, whose game has it all.
Change the distance from the tee box or move the flag, nothing really changes. This is still the Mecca of golf and the grounds and the tradition remain hallowed.
It is told that one patron wandered away decidedly from the crowd as they were allowed to enter a fairway crossing. The gentleman wandered up the fairway some distance and lingered, hands slapping inside his trouser pockets, eyes toward the green. A security guard approached and began escorting him back into the group. The man smiled as teardrops ran down his cheeks, for as he walked, ashes, shaken from a devised pocket release, cascaded from his cuff bottoms upon Bobby Jones' playground.
His father's last wish had been fulfilled.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Wednesday, October 18th, 2006, NYC, NY:
“Will you deliver Chris Carter’s suits to the HBO studio on your way to the airport?”
I am in the New York showroom because I have just finished working my only appointment, with my national account, Neiman Marcus. The VP explains that he is scheduled to meet with the Bobby Jones Apparel design team but has some suits, specially made for Chris Carter, that need to go to the HBO studio, where the filming of “Inside the NFL” for this week is in progress. Hickey Freeman, a division of the parent company, HartMarx Corporation, outfits Mr. Carter. We are running late delivering the suits, get a currier or send me?
Chris Carter, one of the commentators of the HBO show, is the former NFL receiver whose career blossomed into All Pro status after he was traded to the Minnesota Vikings. He had been primarily used as a fade route, jump-and-catch receiver near the end zone for the Philadelphia Eagles. Coach Buddy Ryan’s statement to the press concerning Chris Carter has gone down as one of the famous quotes. Asked why he could trade the receiver, Ryan said,
“He’s not that valuable. All he does is catch touchdowns.”
“Yes, I’ll go. It’s on my way to the airport. Will I be able to go in and watch?”
“Sure, I’ll make that call.” He gives me the name of the person to ask for on arrival.
The entry is off Fifth Avenue, with an unassuming glass front door. When I enter however, there on the wall, behind the reception desk, are mounted the thick, three letters: HBO. A girl is summoned and she issues me back to what she calls, The Green Room. Immediately inside the door is Bob Costas in the hallway. I just smile a hello and he smiles and nods. My apparel eye looks at him and says, thirty-eight short. He has on showtime make-up that covers his face like a tan.
A very tall and lanky man in a suit is standing in the doorway to the Green Room, smiling like Cary Grant and chatting with a young lady about Matt Leinert, quarterback of the Cardinals. It is Chris Collinsworth. The girl leading me says to just sit down and someone will be right with me. Collinsworth is saying that Leinert probably felt like he was taking a step down starting for the Cardinals after leaving USC.
He then starts touting the rookie quarterback Cutler, from Denver.
The young lady ends her conversation when another gentleman enters and is immediately in charge of all conversation with Collingsworth. They chat about this week’s football games. Enter a new person, an attractive lady. She is in charge of wardrobe, and since I brought wardrobe, she is in charge of me. She introduces herself and walks me down the hall, away from the new conversation, explaining that Chris and the producer are working on details of the show and that I should come with her. I spy Costas in what is apparently his dressing room at the other end of the hall. He is sitting and looking at himself in the mirror.
The new room is the control room. It has more TV screens than a sports bar, almost. Peter King is there and is introduced to me. Mr. King is the NFL gossip guru and when he speaks I listen because he is informed. I sit down meekly to one side. I tell my wardrobe escort that I will just be a bird on a limb and thank you very much. I tell her, I won’t stay long. She says to stay as long as I like. Dan Marino steps into the room and I stare at him.
Yes, that is THE Dan Marino. Another person in charge comes by and greets me and says if possible, he will take me back to see the live setting. Someone comes in and announces that they are waiting on Chris Carter to finish in wardrobe. It occurs to me that he is probably trying on the suits I just brought. Another person in charge comes in and asks Peter King if he is ready to shoot “King’s Corner” and he is ready. Someone suggests that this is a good time for me to visit the set. I get to go in with Peter King and watch the filming of this segment. The director even asks me a question.
“Is that cell phone on?”
“I was just using the camera, but it is on silent.”
“Good.”
I put away the new cell phone and pray that I set it correctly to silent.
I think “King’s Corner” is some internet, or X Radio, or something bit and I have been merely allowed to watch a nonevent.
I watch the segment by Mr. King concerning the NFL trading deadline being the least important sporting event among sports dates and how no team is eager to try serious trading at this juncture of the season. A lineman named “Booger” is the only trade story of the week, he going to the Colts. Next year ignore all those trade rumors, he says.
The filming stops. The same wardrobe lady I met earlier begins primping Mr. King’s tie and discussing how he tucks his shirt, but is informed that the previous segment was a take. As they leave, talking about shirt tucking, one of the cameramen says:
“That’s one Tuck and one No-Tuck.”
Seinfeld – I saw that episode, George Castanza requesting hotel sheet preferences.
I am then back in the control room, now sitting to the side, rather than the back, of Collingsworth and King. They are talking with the producers about a question and answer segment that shoots next. The questions will be posed to Dan Marino and Chris Carter.
I am bringing out my cell phone camera like James Bond because I have a terrific profile shot of them side by side. I frame the two men in a hasty snap. Later, I see that the shot is worthless, Collingsworth losing a portion of his scalp.
Collingsworth brings up the subject of a player who was tackled this week by his flowing, dredlock style hair and tells the producer that he has come up with one of the questions for Marino and Carter:
“What’s the strangest way you were ever tackled?”
Carter is now ready, so Collingsworth joins the group on main studio set and I am watching him enter and hearing them talking on a central screen. This is the director screen, as well as other screens, one for each camera, but the central screen is what is “live.” To his left and right are technicians also looking at the same screens.
In the studio, Collingsworth is going over the questions briefly with Marino and Carter, so they have some anticipation of how to answer during the taping.
The director says, “Okay! Energetic and Lively!”
Marino repeats the words with little of either.
There is a countdown and suddenly the shoot is in progress.
The director is a maestro. Even his hands are up like a conductor and he is commanding the cameras that control every vision. With each command into his headset and a flick of his finger, one of the images in the screens below leaps into the central screen. He softly gives a preparatory command of “Camera three,” then a sharp: “Camera Three!” and a finger flick, and instantly camera three is the central screen, the live screen, filled with Chris Carter. “Camera two, Camera Two!” and instantly camera two has filled the screen with Dan Marino. The screen is a constant dance of the three faces, and the director is the vocal choreography. He captures the essence of the conversation as it progresses live using skilled anticipation and experience and mastery. Live editing, it’s amazing.
Then the question: Strangest tackle ever?
Chris Carter recalls a full stride run for the end zone when he suddenly collapsed and was tagged for a tackle.
“You just fell down?” asks Marino.
“No, my hip flexor snapped.” And they all laughed. In the NFL, hip flexor snaps are funny.
Marino recalls a tackle by Lyle Alzado who looked down into his helmet and said,
“Dan, I don’t know whether to tackle you or to kiss you.”
Yes, that qualifies as strange.
The segment works and they all call for the one take shoot when it ends.
“We can’t beat that one!” says Carter.
“What time is it?” asks Marino.
One pm.
“It’s Carter’s fault for running so late,” Marino replies.
I twitch. No, I think it is mine.
“Will you deliver Chris Carter’s suits to the HBO studio on your way to the airport?”
I am in the New York showroom because I have just finished working my only appointment, with my national account, Neiman Marcus. The VP explains that he is scheduled to meet with the Bobby Jones Apparel design team but has some suits, specially made for Chris Carter, that need to go to the HBO studio, where the filming of “Inside the NFL” for this week is in progress. Hickey Freeman, a division of the parent company, HartMarx Corporation, outfits Mr. Carter. We are running late delivering the suits, get a currier or send me?
Chris Carter, one of the commentators of the HBO show, is the former NFL receiver whose career blossomed into All Pro status after he was traded to the Minnesota Vikings. He had been primarily used as a fade route, jump-and-catch receiver near the end zone for the Philadelphia Eagles. Coach Buddy Ryan’s statement to the press concerning Chris Carter has gone down as one of the famous quotes. Asked why he could trade the receiver, Ryan said,
“He’s not that valuable. All he does is catch touchdowns.”
“Yes, I’ll go. It’s on my way to the airport. Will I be able to go in and watch?”
“Sure, I’ll make that call.” He gives me the name of the person to ask for on arrival.
The entry is off Fifth Avenue, with an unassuming glass front door. When I enter however, there on the wall, behind the reception desk, are mounted the thick, three letters: HBO. A girl is summoned and she issues me back to what she calls, The Green Room. Immediately inside the door is Bob Costas in the hallway. I just smile a hello and he smiles and nods. My apparel eye looks at him and says, thirty-eight short. He has on showtime make-up that covers his face like a tan.
A very tall and lanky man in a suit is standing in the doorway to the Green Room, smiling like Cary Grant and chatting with a young lady about Matt Leinert, quarterback of the Cardinals. It is Chris Collinsworth. The girl leading me says to just sit down and someone will be right with me. Collinsworth is saying that Leinert probably felt like he was taking a step down starting for the Cardinals after leaving USC.
He then starts touting the rookie quarterback Cutler, from Denver.
The young lady ends her conversation when another gentleman enters and is immediately in charge of all conversation with Collingsworth. They chat about this week’s football games. Enter a new person, an attractive lady. She is in charge of wardrobe, and since I brought wardrobe, she is in charge of me. She introduces herself and walks me down the hall, away from the new conversation, explaining that Chris and the producer are working on details of the show and that I should come with her. I spy Costas in what is apparently his dressing room at the other end of the hall. He is sitting and looking at himself in the mirror.
The new room is the control room. It has more TV screens than a sports bar, almost. Peter King is there and is introduced to me. Mr. King is the NFL gossip guru and when he speaks I listen because he is informed. I sit down meekly to one side. I tell my wardrobe escort that I will just be a bird on a limb and thank you very much. I tell her, I won’t stay long. She says to stay as long as I like. Dan Marino steps into the room and I stare at him.
Yes, that is THE Dan Marino. Another person in charge comes by and greets me and says if possible, he will take me back to see the live setting. Someone comes in and announces that they are waiting on Chris Carter to finish in wardrobe. It occurs to me that he is probably trying on the suits I just brought. Another person in charge comes in and asks Peter King if he is ready to shoot “King’s Corner” and he is ready. Someone suggests that this is a good time for me to visit the set. I get to go in with Peter King and watch the filming of this segment. The director even asks me a question.
“Is that cell phone on?”
“I was just using the camera, but it is on silent.”
“Good.”
I put away the new cell phone and pray that I set it correctly to silent.
I think “King’s Corner” is some internet, or X Radio, or something bit and I have been merely allowed to watch a nonevent.
I watch the segment by Mr. King concerning the NFL trading deadline being the least important sporting event among sports dates and how no team is eager to try serious trading at this juncture of the season. A lineman named “Booger” is the only trade story of the week, he going to the Colts. Next year ignore all those trade rumors, he says.
The filming stops. The same wardrobe lady I met earlier begins primping Mr. King’s tie and discussing how he tucks his shirt, but is informed that the previous segment was a take. As they leave, talking about shirt tucking, one of the cameramen says:
“That’s one Tuck and one No-Tuck.”
Seinfeld – I saw that episode, George Castanza requesting hotel sheet preferences.
I am then back in the control room, now sitting to the side, rather than the back, of Collingsworth and King. They are talking with the producers about a question and answer segment that shoots next. The questions will be posed to Dan Marino and Chris Carter.
I am bringing out my cell phone camera like James Bond because I have a terrific profile shot of them side by side. I frame the two men in a hasty snap. Later, I see that the shot is worthless, Collingsworth losing a portion of his scalp.
Collingsworth brings up the subject of a player who was tackled this week by his flowing, dredlock style hair and tells the producer that he has come up with one of the questions for Marino and Carter:
“What’s the strangest way you were ever tackled?”
Carter is now ready, so Collingsworth joins the group on main studio set and I am watching him enter and hearing them talking on a central screen. This is the director screen, as well as other screens, one for each camera, but the central screen is what is “live.” To his left and right are technicians also looking at the same screens.
In the studio, Collingsworth is going over the questions briefly with Marino and Carter, so they have some anticipation of how to answer during the taping.
The director says, “Okay! Energetic and Lively!”
Marino repeats the words with little of either.
There is a countdown and suddenly the shoot is in progress.
The director is a maestro. Even his hands are up like a conductor and he is commanding the cameras that control every vision. With each command into his headset and a flick of his finger, one of the images in the screens below leaps into the central screen. He softly gives a preparatory command of “Camera three,” then a sharp: “Camera Three!” and a finger flick, and instantly camera three is the central screen, the live screen, filled with Chris Carter. “Camera two, Camera Two!” and instantly camera two has filled the screen with Dan Marino. The screen is a constant dance of the three faces, and the director is the vocal choreography. He captures the essence of the conversation as it progresses live using skilled anticipation and experience and mastery. Live editing, it’s amazing.
Then the question: Strangest tackle ever?
Chris Carter recalls a full stride run for the end zone when he suddenly collapsed and was tagged for a tackle.
“You just fell down?” asks Marino.
“No, my hip flexor snapped.” And they all laughed. In the NFL, hip flexor snaps are funny.
Marino recalls a tackle by Lyle Alzado who looked down into his helmet and said,
“Dan, I don’t know whether to tackle you or to kiss you.”
Yes, that qualifies as strange.
The segment works and they all call for the one take shoot when it ends.
“We can’t beat that one!” says Carter.
“What time is it?” asks Marino.
One pm.
“It’s Carter’s fault for running so late,” Marino replies.
I twitch. No, I think it is mine.
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