Masters Tournament 2006

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.