Mr. Bower Goes to Augusta National

by Crai S. Bower

Last August, I was sitting on the Bryson City Brewery patio in North Carolina when I received an offer I couldn’t quite believe and would never refuse: visit Augusta, Georgia, and attend the Masters.

At first, I was incredulous, asking my hostess if I’d heard her correctly. I had. I’ve traveled to many insane places – stalking Komodo dragons in Indonesia, golfing at Royal Portrush, and skiing at 15 resorts (including heli-skiing and the Swiss Alps) this season alone. Still, I’ve never encountered the silent stares (or perhaps glares?) of disbelief from friends like I did when I mentioned my impending attendance at the 2025 Masters.

I’d love to tell folks that the Masters isn’t all that – that the green hues are intensified by CBS camera filters, that the grounds look different behind the camera’s scope, or that other concession prices swallow up savings from the famously cheap pimento sandwiches.

No can do.

Augusta National is as close to a mythical Eden as I can imagine. (And my dad was a minister and I studied with the Jesuits!)

However, there is one noticeable difference between Eden and this former tree nursery: there are no snakes at Augusta National. Nor squirrels. Nor pine cones. Nor pine needles (which is just plain weird). Nor, as everyone knows, cell phones. My favorite “only at Augusta” policy that I’d never noticed on TV was the lack of the fairway posse comprised of scorers, sign carriers, security, and others who typically accompany each playing trio.

And then there are the chairs, those Masters-branded green camp chairs planted by patrons who’ve speed-walked (No running allowed!) in at rope drop to claim their perch like a Carolina wren seeking territory for its nest. (A quick Masters conspiratorial note: Yes, I heard the wren’s “tea kettle, tea kettle, tea kettle” song incessantly throughout the day; however, I, armed with my ornithology degree, never once saw Thryothorus ludovicianus, aka the Carolina Wren.)

Nothing, not even the green-jacketed Augustus elitii (aka Augusta National members) promenading about exemplifies Masters gentility like chair culture does. There is no tragedy of the commons here; non-chair-possessing patrons are welcome to utilize this coveted resource up until the owner returns to claim their rightful throne. Borrowed seating is how my partner Patricia sat rope side on the second hole, eavesdropping on Rory and his caddie Harry’s most intimate conversations, including speed, grain direction, and break.

I presumed golf (our most elite popular sport) at the Masters (golf’s most elite event) would parse out to the highest bidder privileges like prime greenside and bleacher seats, the equivalent to sitting courtside at the NBA finals, on the glass during the Stanley Cup playoffs or in the front row for Springsteen. In truth, and it pains the proletariat in me to say so, once you’ve entered the gates, and ignoring Berckmans Place, attending the Masters is as egalitarian as general admission at a Grateful Dead concert.

And, like a Dead show, everyone here revels in peace and love, a rainbow-skorted and day-glo polo-shirted be-in of kindred spirits swaying in unison among the pines. You don’t see any marshals holding their arms aloft to silence the green-adjacent crowd, perhaps because these aren’t a crowd, but patrons. Nor are there bros yelling, “Get in the hole!” “Smashed potatoes!” or some other tired trope. (I did hear someone “boo” Phil Mickelson once, which felt just fine.)

This is not to say the volume around the grounds never escalates beyond “golf clap.” Roars echoed through the southern pines with most birdies, every eagle, and, as I discovered, when one Rory McIlroy made a lengthy par-saving putt, hit a monstrous drive, landed on the green in two, took off his sweater, retied his shoe, doffed his cap to run his fingers through his graying curls, pulled a sandwich from his bag, finished said sandwich, shared a joke with caddie Harry and, well, you get the vibe.

Even Rich Lerner, my favorite golf media personality, who I bumped into at the wonderful Relic Coffee Company Saturday morning, whispered he would “love to see history made,” wink, wink, nudge, nudge: the Career Slam.

The only sound comparable to the Rory Roar was the Rory Groan, at its most agonizing on four occasions as he set the record for making doubles enroute to donning the green jacket. I witnessed the first double-bogey, on No. 15, when he skipped his return chip off the green and into Rae’s Creek. (Is it tacky to admit watching a professional golfer mishit his eagle chip into a double bogey disaster elicited a wee tingle from one mid-handicapper?)

The Rory Groan rang off the pines two holes later – yes, I followed Rory, whom I adore more than my own children, when he doubled 17. (No tingles here, even though soon-to-be Sir Rory knocked his chip a whopping 28 feet past the hole and three-putted like a mid-handicapper.) Given that I, like every other attendee save his competitors, their caddies and families, was nothing short of desperate for Rory to win, his flubbed finishing holes took a bit of sheen off the day.

Of course, as with all fairy tales not penned by the Brothers Grimm, any double-bogey blemishes to my Thursday at the Masters were gloriously buffed up like the champion himself come Sunday evening.

I’d played the Ocean Course on Kiawah Island Sunday morning, an ideal prelude (Rory hoisted his first Wannamaker Trophy here in 2012.) to an afternoon poised at the Cherrywood BBQ & Ale House bar in the Osprey Point Clubhouse. We’d intended to watch the front nine of the McIlroy-DeChambeau grudge match here, but Rory’s mercurial round didn’t allow for the 10-minute drive back to The Sanctuary.

Like millions that Sunday, we sat transfixed as Rory stumbled and Justin came off smelling like a rose until, with his customary pedal to the metal, the Irishman bloomed brightest among the now familiar southern pines of Augusta National.

Crai S. Bower writes dozens of adventure travel articles a year for over 15 publications, including golf stories for Garden & Gun, AARP and Hearst Media, among others. Visit his site at flowingstreammedia.net.