The Return of the Lazer

This was written as a series of nightly recap emails I sent to a dozen people during my trip to the 2022 Masters. 

Monday, April 4th – ENFIELD – WINDSOR LOCKS – ATLANTA – AUGUSTA
After worrying about packing a robot weed dick, or marijuana e-cigarette, in my carry-on luggage, I’m flagged by security.

“Sir, do you have something in your right pants pocket?”

“Uh…shit. Tissues.”

The man asks if I want to be screened where I’m standing or in a private location, explaining that he’ll only be using the backs of his gloved hands to rub within inches of my tallywacker, ballbag, and ruby starfruit. As he spends a solid ninety seconds knuckle fucking every inch of my (former) manhood in front of my fellow travelers—harboring no shame, I select the public option in the event my five-inch taint is exposed—I can’t help but wish I’d at least thrown away the tissues covered in blood and dried semen.

While waiting by the departure gate, two different black drug-sniffing security dogs walk within a foot of my carry-on bag, their moist nostrils utterly disinterested in my junkiedom (and my junk, thank fuck).

I text my mother about this alarming turn of events.

“Tissues kill people, Adam! I raised you better than that!”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ 

Sit beside a retired psychologist from Vermont who moved to western Georgia six years ago. After confirming I’m one of the “sane” ones—her “Hillary for President” shirt went off poorly at a suburban rally—she mentions how the further away from the city you get, the more unpleasant the people become.

“I grow a lot of tomatoes and cucumbers, but I can’t offer them to my neighbors,” Ramona tells me. “That’s not salt,” she claims they say.

Probably because they want to rub some in her Hillary scars.

Complete The New York Times crossword puzzle in 15 minutes (#humblebrag) before watching the Augusta National Women’s Amateur on the screen of a guy two rows in front of me (while my iPod soundtracks it). Upon landing 2h20m later, I text Sue that the cough drop I inserted at takeoff lasted 109 minutes, a new personal record. That’s the equivalent of going nine-under par on a cough drop, at least.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Approach an elderly Delta employee and ask if I have to take the shuttle to baggage claim.

“Why do people always say, ‘Do I have to?’” he asks me.

“Some of us like to walk!”

“Whatever. Escalator’s over there. Have fun walking.”

Wait a half hour at Hertz to check in for my car rental then even longer for the car itself, a white Volkswagen SUV with Florida plates. A black lady named Nikki with a full head of shoulder length faded blonde hair says that because I paid an additional fee for a later pickup, I’m able to jump the line (Hertz’s idea of jumping the line is to wait in line like any other asshole/should’ve expected this from a company most famous for employing O.J. Simpson). She requests my name to alert me from her perch surveying the parking lot 20 feet away.

“I GOT YOU, FRIDAY!” she yells once I’m closer despite showing no signs of having anything for me.

The SUV arrives and Nikki, after providing me a fresh bottle of water (apologizing that it’s not cold) and offering Hertz-branded baggies of golf tees, says that if the rental isn’t to my liking, she’ll upgrade it.

“Where’s the charger port?” I ask.

“I DUNNO, FRIDAY, BUT IF YOU CAIN’T FIND IT, WE’LL GETCHOO A NEW RIDE!”

The port was right in front of my fucking face.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ 

Arrive at a nondescript faded yellow home in Atlanta to meet Brian. However, before he appears a woman exits a sedan asking me if I ordered a keyboard from Best Buy. Assuming it’s Brian’s, I find out that her name is Danielle, she moved to Atlanta from Queens twelve years ago, and says I’m going to love spending time in the city.

Brian approaches with a headful of disheveled hair, opting only for a fist bump. Two other keyboards sit beside his 35-inch computer monitors, but I refrain from an inquiry. He hands me 44 Masters badges in a plastic HAVE A NICE DAY yellow smiley face bag with an Uber Eats receipt for a chicken walnut sandwich and oatmeal raisin cookie taped to it. Nothing like a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of inventory being handled with care.

“Can I take one of these apples?” I ask him.

“Sure, take a few. But hey, you gotta get going. I have an important meeting I’m late for. And move a little toward the hall or you’ll be in the frame. You look good, by the way. You sound better. Your teeth are cleaner too.”

New boss, literally the exact same as the old boss. Awkward as ever.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Arrive in Augusta after 2h30m and Nancy (my GPS) says I will reach StubHub 15 minutes before their drop-off location closes. Unfortunately, a Berckmans Road closure delays me and upon my arrival a sheriff outside the house claims the employees have left. I text my friend Nicole because her brother’s working the event for StubHub (I lost his number ages ago).

“Who is this?” the recipient replies, an obvious sign I should’ve known m’lady wasn’t responding.

“AHF.”

“Who?”

“Adam. What’s Jaybird’s number?”

“Who is that? I think you have the wrong number.”

(A couple minutes go by.)

“What is your purpose for texting me?”

If only I weren’t so jammed up….

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

My old StubHub boss, Randy (aka The Mind), walks outside to greet me. Inside I smile at Jay then launch into the infamous Rick Pitino press conference bit, naturally using the ghosts of StubHub past to sell the joke.

“BUDDY WYRICK ISN’T WALKING THROUGH THAT DOOR! PJ PERDAEMS ISN’T WALKING THROUGH THAT DOOR! BROCK MOORE ISN’T WALKING THROUGH THAT DOOR! RICK DUBIN ISN’T WALKING THROUGH THAT DOOR! GARY ROSOFF ISN’T WALKING THROUGH THAT DOOR!”

Give Jaybird a hug and chat for the next hour as they all sip beer while he takes an eternity approving Brian’s ticket listings. Run the gamut ripping apart old co-workers (a handful rewarded with deserving compliments), mock the painfully slow Back of House process to order Chinese food (“Get the poached egg foo young, it’s the best!”), and then Sean, the longtime StubHub security guard/Augusta sheriff, walks in.

“We’ve gotta get a photo for Brock!” I tell him.

“You ask him when he sees it, ‘Which one is the otter?’ He’ll get it.” Unlike me.

Sean then tells a protracted, semi-pointless story explaining the reference before asking if Emily, another person not walking through that door, called him a “twunk,” which everyone seems too confused or disturbed by to offer a response. He mentions how he’s having surgery shortly to repair a few pinched nerves in his neck, worried that he can’t lift anything over two pounds for two weeks afterward.

“I told my doctor that I gotta drink my coffee!”

“What do you do, drink it from the pot?”

“I mean, I got a big mug.”

“Get a fuckin’ straw!”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

“Where’d you get that?” I impulsively ask a man in Kroger about his shopping cart, unable to find one on my way in.

“Out front.”

“Juss take that one,” says what appears to be his pretty blonde daughter pointing at an unattended one nearby.

“Just steal it?”

“Yeah.”

The cart sounds like a car dragging a muffler, so I push it on two wheels throughout the twenty-plus aisle store. Unable to find sodium-free chickpeas, I finally tell myself that I’m worth organic ones since this is a pseudo-vacation. Mrs. Kroger apparently didn’t bake peach pies, so I settle for pecan and grab seafood salad (scallions are a welcome southern replacement for celery). However, when I arrive at my Airbnb, I realize that I forgot to buy a lemon to use as salad dressing.

Incapable of finding a light for the ceiling fan, I stand on the bench at the foot of the bed to reach the string hanging from the fixture. Then I eat a raw tomato, red pepper, eight ounces of spinach, and half a cucumber along with downing half of the garbanzo beans using a spoon while waiting for TBS to finally load so I can watch the second half of the Kansas/North Carolina national championship game to unwind. 

The plan is to arise at 7 a.m. and be at Gate 6 as close to 8 as possible.

ADAM HARRISON-FRIDAY IS WALKING THROUGH THAT DOOR.

TUESDAY, APRIL 5TH – AUGUSTA
Arise at 7 in an instant panic brought on by five hours of sleep and the treasures that await five miles north. Drink two Stephen-sized cups of Café Bustelo purchased at Kroger after overhearing a drunk old man ridicule “west coast queer shit” while I held a bag of Starbucks medium roast two feet away. (Weird case of peer pressure, huh?) Stop by the StubHub house yet again, but this time to meet a broker on Brian’s behalf. I approach the driver’s side window of a black Escalade to find the stubbly North Carolinian reclined in the seat refreshing stubhub.com on a dirty laptop. Obvious statement of the day: There remains no glory in ticket brokerdom, not that there ever was any.

Park the SUV and head into the grounds wearing my red Masters hat, navy Masters polo with white stripes, green cargo shorts, and gray New Balance sneakers (rainbow Vans would be a poor choice for more than one reason). Familiar with attending alone in 2015 and 2016, I go into full on eavesdropper mode.

Highlights: One man jokes about security asking if he’s the reanimated Unabomber (it’s called a comb, bud), both men in front of me confidently tell their respective wives how they accidentally touched random women at a restaurant one time mistakenly believing said anonymous distaff were their better halves (both ladies are extremely even-keeled about the reveals, leading me to guess that the threesome we had last night will be a non-issue when the time for return disclosure is right), and I spot one twenty-something blonde sporting a vintage key lime-colored dress that I resist complimenting since a knuckle sandwich isn't one of the bread options scheduled for my mouth today.

Highest light (heavy on the dark): One lady behind me, packed into line with thousands of anonymous patrons, casually says to her friends, “If anyy’all dinnit get Covid, it sure as heck’s happ’nin’ todayyy.” Stark words to hear from such a friendly voice.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

After the expected pleasantries from The National staff, I hustle to the waiting area where one can have his photo taken in front of the clubhouse. Despite being told in advance that it might take two hours, a mere half hour elapses before it’s my turn. There are three camera angles: left of the yellow pansies, center, and right.

“I usually send solos to the middle but there’s a green jacket there now,” the man in charge informs me.

“That's fine!” I say, battling back my visible adrenaline rush. “I'll wait for him.”

Staring down Magnolia Lane, an image I’ve seen thousands of times in books and on CBS, nearly makes me cry joyous tears. The green jacketed man approaches me and with my pen and notebook clandestinely at the ready, I write his name. If only Sue was here to tell me about The Universe and The Signs it offers us because Jack, the first member to whom I say hello, shares a surname with two of my closest friends: Moore.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ 

As I’m about to begin walking the first hole, I quickly decide to inspect the tenth in case inclement weather ends the round early. Watching a caddy juggle golf balls on the fairway—waiting for players ahead to putt—adds a surreal touch to a hole with one of the game’s most Dali-esque features (its fairway bunker). An elderly lady walking ahead of me stops to finger in bloom camellia, commenting to her husband that it feels like they froze the hardened petals to appear perfect on television. We’re subsequently halted to let players pass to the eleventh tee; Patrick Reed, one of golfdom’s biggest heels (but a hometown-via-college boy), gets a lone “Hey, Pat!” from a “fan.” Gonna guess that someone lost a bet after that standoffish greeting.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Having put the urge to use the restroom out of mind until I see one, there’s an employee directing gentlemen toward the appropriate hole of a different variety: “This line for ones, this line for twos,” he says while pointing.

“What about threes?” a presumed Dad Joke Hall of Fame member inquires. 

Waiting inside the immaculate restroom—employees spraying Febreze and wiping the toilet after every single occupant leaves a stall—the guy directing us to the stalls appears to be a budding comedian too.

“Imagine if we let y’all in with phones? The line for the shitter would wrap halfway around the course.”

Disappointed by my inability to do anything but fart once, I piss half a gallon sitting down, proof that not wearing rainbow Vans was a brilliant choice. Plus, I’m certain Larry David would applaud my efforts.

Eternally smitten with eating mayonnaise, I purchase a chicken cutlet sandwich, pimento cheese sandwich, and an egg salad sandwich along with a bottle of water, unsweetened iced tea in a commemorative clear cup, and pecan turtle. Total? $12.42.

“Where are the peach ice cream sandwiches?” I ask.

“Supply chain issue,” the man behind the counter replies. “We hope to have ‘em back next year.” 

No peaches?! We’re not in Georgia anymore, Toto!

Searching for an empty spot to stand and eat, I encounter a middle-aged Asian couple and ask if they wouldn’t mind my company. Tiffany and Jin welcome me with smiles (and finally confirm that my reading 30 Masters books in the last decade was worth it). They arrived as eager National newcomers from San Francisco yesterday—carping about their interminable wait at the airport Hertz (appears Nikki wasn't yelling out JIN in that garage)—and sense that I’ve been inside The National before.

As I remove the chicken cutlet from its bun and place it in the middle of my pimento cheese bread slices, Jin has an aha moment and wishes he’d bought the cutlet, not chicken salad, to make the reimagined masterpiece for himself.

“Why is the pimento cheese so beloved here?” he asks.

“It’s a secret recipe. Good luck locating a better one anywhere else.”

“What holes should we see on the par-three course tomorrow?”

“Make sure to stay by Ike’s Pond, at least. It’s a great view. And go around the corner to the clubhouse beforehand to get your picture taken!”

“Ooh, thank you. We didn’t know about that.”

“Which holes have you seen thus far?”

“Just a couple. Any recommendations?”

“Ten is my favorite, but there’s the 13th green,” I say pointing to the bunker-guarded beauty in the distance. “Make sure to get up close. And then check out all sixteen others.”

A bit more small talk transpires before I take my last bite, shake their hands, and say I’ve got exploring to do.

“I’m sure we’ll run into you again someday,” Tiffany says smiling. “Thanks again for all your knowledge.”

Nearly had the almost happy crying blues once more. Augusta offers some euphoric encounters, y’all. (Had to.)

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The only hole at The National I don’t immeasurably love is the fourteenth, a par-four devoid of both sand and water. However, the course also fills me with such positivity that as I approach the green, I opt to scale the tiny hillock running off its backside to view it and find something worthwhile. There are enough bumps running through the putting surface that if I had a rag of ether handy, I’m sure I'd conjure a camel or two for a ride. Hallucinogenic absurdities can redeem anything if your mood’s right.

Standing beside the 16th green brings back memories of my first visit in 2013 when The Mind and Trousers (another former Stubber nicknamed Pants who I re-nicknamed) accompanied me inside the gates. We watched players skip balls over the pond before I had my photo taken while smoking a cigarette by the pines near the 17th tee. In the mood to steal a pinecone, a horn blares as I approach the 18th tee, my favorite first shot view in golf.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

Say no more, Doomsayer. The predicted rain, thunder, and lightning are too close for comfort, signaling a conclusion to the day’s round. I immediately regret telling Tiffany and Jin to buy merchandise on the way out—grateful they can get items tomorrow—but remain hopeful I’ll score gifts for the recipients who I promised green and gold golf wares. A loudmouthed southern man making his home inside my right ear discloses every detail of the price hikes affecting his construction company to the gentleman exiting beside him, a dad holds hands with his daughter to make sure they don’t get separated, and I imagine more people than seems possible would admit they’ve rarely been less disappointed by an unpleasant situation: four hours inside The National beats most other abbreviated apotheoses available on this planet.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Keep hitting the alarm button on my key fob—I’d scribbled in my pad that the car was in Lot C13, but the lot spreads across three fields—until the taillights flash. Eager to view my clubhouse photo, I search how to scan a QR code using my camera phone only to (in a surprise to nobody) repeatedly encounter abject failure.

Takes an hour to travel two miles to FedEx where a package awaits me. As the lady searches the tracking number, I see a Cast Away reference decorating her desk.

“Is this your store mascot?”

“Yeah, it's Wilson from that Tom Hanks movie, whatever it was called.”

Give that lady Employee of the Jeer. I’ll now begin writing my Dad Joke Hall of Fame acceptance speech.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

With a downpour unlikely to halt before evening—buried the lede: and a tornado warning until 5—I make a scheduled stop at Psychotronic Records, a shop I’d researched prior to my arrival. Parking in the barren downtown area, I step inside to see a place loaded with not only LPs, 45s, cassettes, and select jewelry, but also comics, fanzines, and vaguely pornographic vintage posters. Finding an abundance of intriguing titles during my 90-minute visit, in walks a soaked woman who is either mentally unwell, high on drugs, or both. She asks if the owner will dial a number for her to get a ride.

“What is it?” he replies following initial reluctance.

“Sevenohsixeightthreefouronefiveninenine!”

“You’re gonna have to say that slower.”

She repeats it then walks back toward where I’m browsing, a unique approach to speaking on the telephone, and sits on a green folding chair. When I say excuse me moments later, she moves her right foot 90 degrees, nothing else.

“That number wasn’t a cab company,” the owner says while approaching us.

“I know, it’s my house.”

“Oh, geez. Let me call again.” 

Since the IRS conveniently deposited my tax return funds last week, I buy a stack of gems: hometown hero James Brown’s Christmas Songs, three ‘60s Stevie Wonder albums (one sealed), an oddball Taiwanese copy of a Rolling Stones studio album I’ve never seen, the Where the Buffalo Roam soundtrack, a rare mint copy of Stop Making Sense with a photo book, Chuck Berry’s “last great album” (per the owner), and add a Johnny Paycheck album after being told the back room features the genres I couldn’t find up front (country and world music). In addition to a Fat Retard mask [Editor’s Note: purposely offensive nickname for America’s 45th president] ominously hanging by the owner’s desk, I spot a rack of Psychotronic fanzines and bring the earliest edition (Number Two) to the register halfway through my visit, waiting to speak with him about it until paying.

“This was my zine,” Michael tells me as he flips through it.

“Thought so. How many issues were there?”

“Stopped after 42. Became too expensive to publish. Took too much time. Ya know.”

“I saw you re-reading it. Don’t they tell writers not to re-read their stuff years later?”

“Well, I haven’t looked at it in ages. See this guy? [He points to an image of Ghoulardi.] You know the film director Paul Thomas Anderson?”

“Of course.”

“That’s his father. Great guy. When he released Boogie Nights, he called me to tell me about his movie, but also to thank me for the positive profile of his dad.”

We chat about another piece in the zine (a profile of Davie Allan & The Arrows/“Good band if you don't know them”) before I ask if anybody he profiled stood out most.

“David Carradine was a great interview. Also had Quentin Tarantino buy every issue of my zine. He showed up at my old store in New York when he had a layover before traveling to Cannes. Gave me a copy of Reservoir Dogs on VHS before it hit movie theaters. I knew he was gonna be good, but not that good."

Michael tells me how he saw Talking Heads (as a pre-Jerry Harrison trio) in Cleveland, moved to New York then Virginia, and settled in Augusta prior to opening the shop a decade ago. Noticing my sweatshirt, he asks if I’m from Maine.

“Connecticut. But I love Maine. The people remind me of coming here. Nicer, warmer, less salty and New Englandy.”

“I can recall a few wonderful childhood vacations in Maine. We stayed out by a lake near wherever Stephen King’s from. Bangor? [I nod.] Spent one Fourth of July up there that was a real highlight.”

Typically irked by record stores who play the radio instead of physical media, “Start Me Up” arrives on 93.9 Bob-FM, the go-to station on my digital SUV dial earlier today in traffic. Michael and I wind up on the topic of Joni Mitchell’s appearance at the Grammys before he comments concerning Liza Minnelli’s frailty at the Oscars. I reveal that I played one of her albums after seeing her during the ceremony but wound up mainly disappointed that she wasn’t remotely the entertainer her mother was, switching gears to sing the praises of Judy at Carnegie Hall. [I'd conveniently just looked at two copies.]

“I could talk to you about pop culture till midnight,” I announce before snapping a few exit photos and handing Michael my card for the LBS.

“Deportation from England?”

“It’s a long story….”

Start me up I’ll never stop.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Venture into Laziza, an unexpectedly vast Mediterranean restaurant one block away. Order a falafel platter and large side of baba ganoush before viewing framed photos on the wall.

“Ooh, I like your shoes,” an employee with blue hair says about my rainbow Vans, the pair of sneakers that have yielded more compliments than all others I’ve ever worn combined.

“Hey, thanks!”

“I saw you taking a picture so here’s a city guide and walking trail brochure,” she says while handing me two glossy pamphlets.

“Thanks again! Unrelated but I have a lazy man’s question for you. I don’t feel like going to the grocery store for one so can I buy a single lemon here?”

“We have tons of them that we never use and throw out at the end of the day. I’ll put some slices in a container for you.”

Clubhouse photo with The Third Moore, a tier one record store, and baba ganoush before 6 p.m.? Sue’s gonna need to create a new term for this level of Universe-generated alchemy.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Text Rick and ask how his new job’s treating him. After a brief update, he busts out a nine-year-old gem birthed in the Augusta trenches about brokers short selling badges:

“It’s almost as great as when you never had ‘em, listed ‘em, sold ‘em, bought ‘em, and got paid on ‘em without ever taking possession of ‘em.”

“I was expecting that line this week and it delivered!” 

Time to stream sambas (while staring at the wax on my here today, gone tomorrow coffee table), vape some Tissues (the T in THC), and read about Paul Thomas Anderson's paterfamilias. If there’s a discussion of “Sister Christian” or “Jessie’s Girl,” I vow to return to the record store and buy the $100 original copy of Satan is Real on the wall. Night, y’all. (Sorry, that was uncalled for.)

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 6TH – AUGUSTA – ATLANTA – AUGUSTA
Minutes after my alarm sounds, Brian texts—in his usual pingpingping style—to confirm if StubHub will refund buyers should the par-three tournament get cancelled (meaning patrons enter the course but not the par-three course). Struggle mightily with the clicker operating the ceiling fan light, the one thing I’ve disliked about the wide open, tall-ceilinged apartment where I’ve stayed the last two nights.

Head for the shower because Brian forgot he has two clients attending today, offering my services to drive them to the course after reclaiming their badges from StubHub. In a twist, he’s the first to ever bungle my surname as such: “Adam Harrison is picking up two” he writes in the email he forwards me. The guy only wrote my paychecks for four years….

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Drive through the desolate downtown area—auto body shops, restaurants, and churches all devoid (or: in need) of humans—and see a billboard advertising syphilis awareness. Did you know that it’s a silent killer? “How could I until you informed me of that distant placard?” I hear you thinking. Touché, and nice synonym usage. 

Visit Jaybird to reclaim the aforementioned badges and inform a broker sitting opposite him to not do anything distracting. “He’s a child,” I tell the man prior to engaging in brief conversation about traffic yesterday, recalling the disgruntled patron chain smoking cigarettes who screamed at a teenager to direct us out of the lot where we sat motionless for a half hour. Fly to the Sleep Inn to pick up Brian’s clients. In what should be a shock to nobody, the men’s surnames are Moore.

A goateed man approaches the SUV with a lit cowboy killer and says, “Gon’ be two minutes. My father’s gotta peeiss.” Already know he’s one of mine. Then he floors me.

“Brian said you’re about as knowledgeable as anyone down here about The Masters,” Bill offers. Good to see Brian’s aggressive salesmanship is alive and well. Still, who doesn’t love flattery?

As Bill and Father Bill discuss golf in the back seat, Son of Bill reveals that he spoke to his wife this morning and began complaining about a work-related annoyance.

“She told me, ‘Fuck you, man! You’re going to The Masters today. Shut up!’ And she was right.”

Informing the Bills that I can’t drop them off on Berckmans Road, I pull into Walgreens and provide detailed walking instructions. I’ve been waiting nine years and finally utter the finest sentence in all of sport: “Welcome to The Masters,” I say while clenching my jaw to mask my shit-eating grin. I realize that it would’ve gone off better at a Duane Reade.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Detour to FedEx and see that their Wilson mascot has been Easter-fied since yesterday afternoon. Employee of the Jeer? More like Employee of the Seer! Who’s looking to attend as my plus-one for the Dad Joke Hall of Fame induction ceremony?

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Return to StubHub and see a reply from my pal Josh—I texted him “Happy Birthday, mon frère!” with a Bitmoji a little after midnight—commenting on yesterday’s visit inside: “I half-expected you to describe your experience of Magnolia Lane like the sex scene from Scary Movie.” This guy’s in good spirits as he begins his 40th trip around the sun.

Brian texts me to keep a badge for myself, indicating I can return to the course and stay until 3:30 (before I must head north to grab him from Atlanta). Drive back to the apartment to pack, chat with Harry on the phone for ten or so minutes (remembering to tell her that I saw both Augusta-affiliated Masters champs yesterday: Larry Mize was two feet from me while I walked the 18th after the horn blared) and waste a few potential minutes of course time politely washing the four dishes I used. Leave a note for the owner along with a copy of Providence Magazine I picked up Saturday, assuming it’ll get “recycled” (no bin to be found) like intended if s/he isn’t interested.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

On my way to The National, I see a man in a black tee shirt and red pants hop the highway median holding a bottle of water. First for everything here in the promised land, it seems. As I approach a parking lot, the attendant informs me the course is being closed due to a tornado warning. Too hungry to wait and see if they reopen, I visit Waffle House—snapping a photo of the annual lunatic holding a TRUST JESUS sign on Washington Road—for my first ever meal at the 24-hour establishment. (One guy with Virginia plates asks if they’re open and I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic or stupid.)

Order sausage, eggs, and a slice of American cheese on grits along with one biscuit and gravy since I didn’t see any vegetable except potatoes on the menu. You’ll have to wait for this evening, fiber! A girl named Stephanie donning fake eyelashes longer than my index fingers serves both plates five minutes later while I read an email from Moore (Bryan, my best bud) claiming he’ll be eating a prison “pimenteaux cheeze” in my honor for dinner tonight. Easy on the jalapeños, hoss! Head to the car to scour Twitter for updates, type on my laptop, and prior to heading in Home Goods in hopes that they have a restroom, a tweet alerts me that the gates are reopening at 12:45! Brace thyself, Capital One.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Park in Lot B7, which the man next to me keeps reminding his buddy—saying it three times—is Bravo Seven. Think his buddy’s subtle way of telling him to shut up is his perfect reply: “You sunk my battleship!” 

The gift shop line is longer than I’ve ever seen it, so I begin walking toward the first hole and brush elbows with another green-jacketed member, quickly scanning the surname on his badge: Not Moore! Hallelujah. Had it gone the other way, I might’ve considered returning my atheism credentials to wet blanket Ron Reagan, Jr.’s office. Since there’s a concession stand tucked to the side of the second fairway, I grab a Häagen-Dazs ice cream bar knowing that forsaking one will earn Sue’s scorn when I call her later. Stare at the approach shot to the green and eat my treat beneath a pink dogwood tree, fingering its petals to confirm their softness.

A man blocks the walking path with five cups of half-consumed beers, prompting a passerby to jokingly ask, “Where do they sell Masters beer bongs?” The soaked grass is decorated with rock salt to avoid slippages, the millionth reminder of how tip-top The National is regarding attention to details. As I approach the fifth green, my own attention to detail strikes: a fit woman’s posterior is impossible to miss in skintight silver yoga pants. Is that a birthmark in the shape of New Hampshire on her left asscheek? Indeed. Shit free or die!

On the seventh, I’m surprised to spot one batch of pampas, thinking there was a second. Timidly approach a group of five noise silencers: “Is that the lone cluster of pampas on this hole?”

“Sure is,” one man offers.

“Figure they put it there cuz they had tuh name it after somethin’,” a sage adds.

Meanwhile, Cliff Roberts murders a ghost in his grave.

Hiking the eighth hole, I notice that the bubbly hills in the fairway might lead a more foul-brained scribe to compare them to breasts or buttocks, but not your faithful correspondent, oh no. Transfixed by the lushness everywhere I look, I accidentally take two steps on the ninth fairway.

“Sir. Sir!” an employee says to get my attention.

“I was busy daydreaming about tittyfucking the fairway,” I don’t tell him.

Beside the ninth green sits a Securitas employee scrolling on a cellphone, an item I’d never seen in use by anyone on the grounds. Leave a note to the attention of Chairman Ridley on the way to my SUV simply stating: “Saw a phone in use on nine. DEFUND THE FAUXLICE.”

Oozing out Waffle House gravy to an unseemly degree—I keep bug-eyedly spotting obese men guzzling beer who appear drier than a Steven Wright one-liner, mocking how my health regimen leaves me smelling like a pimento cheese left in the sun all day—I walk the tenth again, chatting with a lady holding a merchandise bag. She purchased her goods at the shop by the eleventh hole, where I met Tiffany and Jin, and recommends it for hats. I finger the camellia near the fairway (soft) and by the green (firm) to test the eavesdropped theory I heard yesterday.

Purchase seven hats (including two promoting the Augusta National Women’s Amateur; I’m forever a completist at heart), two lanyards, a program, a cinch bag, folding chair (so I can have a seat at The Masters every day of the year), hat clip, and a pair of commemorative pins.

“May I please have an extra bag, ma’am?” I ask. “My hat’s ruined.”

“I was gon’ offer one. I could see you was sweatin’.”

Given I have time before my scheduled 3:30 departure, I finish walking the second nine while eating a pimento cheese sandwich on its own since I have no company to impress with culinary creativity. Poised to leave, the main gift shop is now lineless, a cue to indulge myself for an extra 15 minutes. Hardly anyone wears a mask, prompting me to ponder how many of the ham-and-eggers around me will be dead by May Day.

“We don’t have any more XL or above t-shirts,” one cashier says to a disappointed man sweating so much that we could trade pores without anyone noticing.

“Do you have any hardcover books this year?” I ask.

“I hate to send you back to the Clubhouse area, but if we do, that’s where they’ll be.”

Oh no, not a second chance to buy things! No books are on the premises but a beautiful paperweight flashing the tournament logo is too singular to forgo. “I can’t believe I’ll only spend $25 in here,” I tell myself then get in line. 

As I grab a yardage guidebook, green bath towel, stuffed bear sporting a visor and skirt, coasters, keychain, and birthday gift for Sue (book of eight postcards), the friendly lady in front of me doing the same comments, “They know we’re such suckers!”

“I feel like I’m in the grocery store grabbing candy bars.”

“I’d buy one if they had ‘em here juss cuz.”

Exit the parking lot in record time and learn that the course was closed five minutes later due to inclement weather. Someone’s still watching over me, Reagan.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Heading northbound on I-20 to meet Brian, I encounter a mix of wacky weather: a couple miles of sunshine followed by thunder and lightning followed by a black sky reminiscent of Lost’s smoke monster mixed with a deluge followed by repeat for the first 60 miles. As I chat with Sue, her giddy voice makes it feel like she’s riding shotgun during one of our trademark treks around New England during a hailstorm, snowstorm, or as we’re being chased by armed bandits. Regret predicting I’d see a rainbow due to my good luck streak though. If you say it, they won’t come.  Rejected Field of Dreams tagline?

Spending several minutes detailing yesterday’s record store owner, I say that his surname is the same as my buddy Geoff’s, yet another sign if you’re the type who’s on the lookout (Sue never ceases from seeking the mystics). Upon realizing I’ve missed two calls from Brian, I learn that he won’t be arriving in Augusta until tomorrow.

“I’m sorry I didn’t give you the badges on Monday, bud.”

“It’s fine. I was going to pick you up tomorrow if not, right?” 

Not exactly the mindset of Sherman during The March, but my pleasure is bliss, not blood. Call my grandparents—Fred hangs up on me before I call back, and my nana can barely hear a thing I say—then chat with my mother again. Her concern about Brett Gardner not being re-signed by the Yankees notwithstanding—a Gardy Party cancellation is a touchy subject in her world—the trio of loved ones’ company makes my wet ride zip by.

Brian’s on a phone call as he greets me opposite a stained-glass door at the Atlanta home where he’s still staying. I offer a white chocolate pecan cookie procured from The National concessions only for him to silently sneer at it. Along with the badges, he gives me an Amazon cardboard box that engulfs 80 percent of the SUV’s backseat. What a mensch.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Return to Augusta and keep hearing either Doja Cat’s “Say So” or Latto’s “Big Energy” on seemingly all the hip-hop stations I select (I liked the latter song’s Tom Tom Club sample more when it entailed Ol’ Dirty Bastard claiming he and Mariah Carey formed a duo as essential as babies and pacifiers). Brian texts me a laundry list of four people to meet, his contrition for my round-trip ride evident throughout his brief pingpingpings.

Arrive at Kroger to meet Jimmie, the North Carolinian, but first I enter to leave a piss (Sue recently argued that taking one is linguistically inaccurate/also gross) and buy two premade salads along with another cucumber, tomato, and red pepper (this time featuring Italian dressing). Cashing out with the same woman from Monday night, I tell her I’ve already misplaced my pristine Kroger card; luckily, she remembers me and gives me the store discount anyway. Since I don’t have a clean hat to wear handy—I bring new ones home and douse ‘em in hat spray before they hit my scalp—my glasses get soaked for the second time today as Jimmie tells me a confusing tale about losing badges under a couch earlier in the afternoon.

“Never a dull moment down here, huh?” I ask him.

“And I hate every second of it,” he replies.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Next stop is a trip to grab eight badges from a contact named Colleen. Her directions describing her white van’s whereabouts confuse the shit outta me; I walk around the entire building and call her back. “Oh, I’m right in front of Talbots,” she says, which makes me wonder why the fuck it wasn’t her pitch from the get-go. (Sue and I have a running gag mocking Talbots for being too fancy, pronouncing the name in a deep feminine voice for comic effect. Yes, I said it aloud to myself while my glasses looked like they’d just been dunked in a urine-filled wave pool. I’m not sure why urine was involved either.)

Parking outside a house lacking a number—“You’ve arrived!” Nancy intones—I ring the bell and wait before an elderly man greets me. “I’m so sorry for bothering you, sir,” I say when learning the correct house is one over.

“Hey man, how ya been?” a ticket broker says.

“Fletchdog!” I reply to Mike, a guy I’ve interacted with several times but not in six years, shocked that he remembers me. I tell him how I bothered his neighbor.

“I’ve never even met the guy,” Mike says.

“Nice guy,” I tell him. “Maybe I’ll say hello for you when I come by tomorrow.”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The last stop is a return to the Sleep Inn. I call Bill in advance to let him know I won’t leave him hanging.

“I could sense your presence,” Bill says while audibly cutting a grid.

“Positive energy in the air, huh?”

I ask how Bill and his father enjoyed the course and learn they left at noon but opted not to return. Apologizing for running late, I explain that I’d been in the course prior to driving to Atlanta and back.

“I knew Brian was in Atlanta,” Bill says. “You went there to get me these?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wow! My man.”

Moore fist bump? Check. More than this? There could be nothing.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Arrive at my one-night Airbnb and walk in soaked to spot a vintage Coca-Cola cooler as the house fridge (sweet), movie posters on the wall to the mattress’s left/your right, if this were a play (Staying Alive, Footloose, and Flashdance/sweeter), and no signs of a cutting board, trash can, or Wi-Fi password (low, hold the sweet).

Conclusions you’ve just drawn are likely accurate: I eat significant portions of my salads and vegetables with my hands (no large bowls to be found—same deal at my previous bnb—are accompanied by the absence of my recent archnemesis: tissues), bag all my trash to throw it in the tiny bathroom cannister come morning (along with tossing an old pair of soaked socks), and struggle mightily until giving up accessing the Internet on my MacBook. I may be a man of many talents, but a Luddite I’ll remain, one clear sign that things couldn’t be more normal.

Don’t revoke my credentials yet, Ron.

THURSDAY, APRIL 7TH – AUGUSTA
Bolt out of bed at 6:45 (beat the alarm by 19 minutes) to ingest a water bottle filled with iced coffee, some of which I spilled during last night’s pour, incurring a rare yet primal feeling: the hatred of being soaked on a wet day, drying off, and getting wet again (sleeve got some bean juice on it). “How terrible for you, Adam!” you’re not thinking, and you know what, you’ve come this far, so fuck you! I may have made new friends, visited the world’s most famous golf course, and driven round trip through a monsoon yesterday, but remembering to purchase a mug (or obtain a cardboard cup) has eluded me. There’s a reason for the 7 a.m. wake-up call: StubHub beckons.

Jaybird heads inside to grab two badges while I chit-chat with Alex, an employee from the Salt Lake City office. I explain how Jay and I were in the same June 2011 training class, sat next to one another for several months afterward, and occasionally played Connect Four in between inbound calls and emails. Racking my brain for names of explorers who moved west after the East Granby Call Center of Excellence™️ closed, we analyze Geoff (“He’s a good dude,” Alex says), Hillary (his former supervisor, he agrees she’s a sweetheart), and too foggy to summon others, I ask what Utah national parks he’s visited.

“It’s funny how people I know live an hour or two away yet never go to them,” he ruefully tells me.

“That’s how it goes. Keep saying you’ll visit until you’re dead.”

Jay resurfaces and explains that Brian put the pickup order in my name (Adam Harrison, natch) but it was filed under his surname, hence the confusion. Given the round has been delayed a half hour due to the ongoing drizzle, I’m happy to have unveiled “Back in my call center day…” tales to a fresh face.

“I hope you get in the course today, Alex,” I say while decamping to the SUV.

Hate to be two minutes away and never get in; his friends in The Ute would have plenty of ammo next time he carps about their never patronizing Monument Valley.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Snake through parts of Augusta’s roads I’ve yet to see to meet Brian’s clients on Abba Drive, repeatedly telling myself to not make any Swedish pop jokes when handing over the badges. The door opens and the guy is far too inquisitive.

“How ya been, man?!” he asks.

“Uh, good. You?”

“Oh, fine. Where ya livin’ these days?”

“I’m from Connecticut.”

“Still there, huh?”

He begins to realize I’m clueless and lets me go. I awkwardly wish them well on the course then text Brian about this man, known only to me in his texts as JM, questioning how he knows me.

“You met him before. Friend of mine.”

Well, by golly. I’ll be, y’all. I don’t forget much at The Masters, but Jebediah McPherson (not confirmed) has me beat.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Pull into a Chevron and exit the vehicle as an elderly black man with a white beard stops me.

“This a full-service station, sir! I’lls pump it foah yuh.”

Moore and I discussed on Sunday how only Oregon still largely relies on full-service gas stations, which makes me excited to explain how he pre-Uncanny Man-ed me in Augusta. A middle-aged white man approaches to pump after the first man gets tied up helping someone else.

“I’m gonna go in and get a paper,” I tell him.

“Sure thing, sir!” he says while checking my tire pressure. Proof I’m not a car guy: the SUV’s a Buick, not a VW. *make your own rainbow Vans callback, okay?*

There aren’t any newspapers, but I do spot a rack of assorted candy, another item I’ve been meaning to procure, and snatch a Heath bar and Cow Tales.

“Sorry, I forgot we don’t have papers,” the man tells me upon my Chronicle-less return.

“No problem. Where’s the best local breakfast joint here not near The National? Like a diner or something.”

“There ain’t much in the area. There’s a good diner on Washington Road but who knows if you’ll get a seat at this hour. Panera would be your best bet.”

Prefer to eat my remaining banana, apple, and orange instead so I can defile my insides with lunch from Zaxby’s to mark my second day in a row patronizing a chain new to me. Mr. and Mrs. Panera will have to wait until my next Augusta visit. I hear they may be expanding soon. Breakfast is their business, and business is good.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Hang out on the couch at the bnb for a couple hours and notice there’s a mannequin head perched on the top shelf in the bathroom. This man’s good people though: a half dozen tumbler glasses sit beneath the television, five-pound dumbbells are beside them (begging to instigate a drunken weightlifting contest for teens hitting the sauce), and there are several subtle touches to indicate he’s a regular marijuana user. At this point, I’d buy a bottle of Cutty Sark for a 16-year-old who could connect my fucking laptop to Wi-Fi.

“Are you alive?” my mother texts, clearly anxious about iMessages I’ve yet to view. Where are the tech-savvy fetal alcohol syndrome survivors-slash-relapsers? Probably at Panera triumphing against their hangovers.

Finally try one password I missed. It connects! Knew I should’ve never quit imbibing.

Rick texts, “Where is my fucking recap? I wake up and no 3rd day recap! And you call yourself an author. Blames Wi-Fi! Really testing the limits of this so-called friendship. I’ve been posting your stories to my Truth Social account and all my followers are clamoring for these dailies, bro!” 

Brock asks me to rate my first Waffle House visit and calls me a communist for deeming waffles (in general) humdrum. When I ask for recommendations of other southern eateries, he suggests a Publix sheet birthday cake: “House a whole one.”

Man, I missed you, Internet.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Tell Brian I’m running a few errands between noon to two while waiting for the new Airbnb to transfer to our electronic ownership (these people use some utterly stupid passwords, often the numbers in the house’s address or a string of consecutive digits). Not many renters who trust Nate Silver, it seems (smart move). Let Brock know that I may swing by The Dental College of Georgia after lunch for a polishing to further impress Brian.

Regrettably try a contemporary country station and drive by two black men riding motorized chairs at roughly one mph across a deserted cross street—can we get an instructional cart-driving video from The National, stat?—and return to Psychotronic. During our call yesterday, Sue revealed that Michael was The Dude who established the cult video canon, teasing me by saying he published two iconic underground books. Walk in and say that I’m going to buy more zines; while he unearths a few extra copies from beside the Fat Retard mask, I opt to get Al Green’s first album (was on the fence Tuesday) and an original copy of James Brown’s Hot Pants. A silent older man with a cane browses miscellaneous rock records until The Cult Leader resurfaces.

“You don’t have any copies of your books?”

“Nope. Didn’t save many. Only time I see ‘em is when people come here for an autograph.”

As is a (new) tradition unlike any other, Michael flips through the issues I’ve selected—“This is one of the first interviews of Peter Jackson to appear in an American publication”; “This piece about spook shows was one of the most entertaining things we did”—and mentions how hardly anyone was paid for their work.

“Many of the writers only wrote the one piece they submitted. They cared about the subject so much. Knew more than anyone else I could find at the time.”

Additional nuggets about See Hear, a store selling only zines that used to be in the East Village, will generate an historically deep rabbit hole for Sue. The Marianas Trench of rabbit holes. Give those hoppers life jackets, B!

“Well, I’ve gotta run. It was a pleasure meeting you,” I say while shaking his hand. “I love your store!”

“Thanks,” says the humblest man in town while barely smirking. The Cult Dude has cast his spell on me, I can feel it.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Snap a photo of a James Brown mural around the corner then drive to the James Brown Arena, a 42-year-old complex opposite a church. How can a town that birthed the funkiest man in music history not feature a statue of the granite god with shellacked hair donning a cape? From there, I spot a young girl pinching a scallion plant in a stranger’s yard—her brother seems to be encouraging her to walk with him/kids pet vegetables so fast these days—and visit Zaxby’s. The middle-aged lady at the register asks, “Will that be all?” after everything anyone orders.

“I’ll take the classic fried chicken sandwich.”

“So, the chicken club?”

As I drink some Aha lemon-lime fountain seltzer, it dawns on me that I haven’t gotten a fountain drink in years. Order spicy fried mushroom pieces too, which are neither spicy nor particularly memorable. On the opposite wall is a sign to BEWARE LOOSE WOMEN. Any chance Mr. Zaxby used to deep fry a prostitute or two every now and again? 

Return to a grocery store Brian, Trey, and I visited many times in 2015-16 to load up on the usual produce, peach-pear seltzer, some sale sushi, and grab the elusive paper, the final copy on the rack (it had just been looked at by a Lee “Scratch” Perry clone who bugged out my cashier). Forgot to get two things: a lemon and a mug. Fuuuuuhhhhck! 

Sit in the car for 20 minutes and see that Meaghan aka Schenks, one of my favorite people from the old Call(back) Center of Excellence™️ Major Events teams, asked me to send her the recaps. I’d impulsively messaged her last weekend, fondly thinking about how we used to smoke menthols, shit on co-workers we hated, and rip apart “retarded” brokers (one hopes East Granby’s come a long, long way in the Wokeness Wars). Her reply about recently visiting Savannah and reminiscing about me warmed my heart, a sign that all it takes is one person to simply hit send. How fucking great is it to be alive?

Harry emails that Augusta seems to transform me, the understatement of the week: When I return post-surgery as Ada Harrisdaughter-Theyday, she’s gonna have some soul-searching to do about her trans-shaming flippancy. *Groucho Marx emoji* *scissors emoji* *banana emoji*

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Speaking of life’s greatness…I enter the bnb to find a MONSTROUS home with four bedrooms, a viewing/listening room, a bar, an island kitchen, and a mirror to the left of a roughly 18,000-inch TV (“1,000 inches for every hole,” or the subtitle of the last gangbang I watched). I cannot overstate how tempted I was to tuck my bing bong and flabby habby babby into my asscrack, snap a photo, and text Sue a reminder to put the lotion in the tisket and the tasket. Huh?! 

My pal Drooq provides one of his intermittent apple reviews (they’re almost as essential as his paragraph-length synopses of oddball jazz albums he samples on Spotify): “Tried out these apples, Wild Twist. Flavor is really mild, but they have a good texture and a lot of juice. Large like a crisp strain. Satisfying, but overall unremarkable. Would potentially have again in the future if they are ever less than $2.49/lb. I’d say 5/10.”

His recent praise of Cosmic Crisps led to me buying one on Monday, loving it, and it’s been designated my apple of choice for the week.

Text Brian—he’s now arriving tomorrow afternoon—that I’ve left him the master bedroom; he says to sleep anywhere else but clarifies that the two other big bedrooms will be used by his inbound company tomorrow night, so I opt to sleep on a cot largely because I refuse to wash sheets and remake the bed. Incapable of finding ESPN on the dial, the television defaults to screensaver mode and an image of the Portland Head Light in Maine appears. *insert Powerball Dad Joke* I’m so exhausted that a nap is in order (a hallmark of Major Events).

“Haha beat!” Brian replies regarding my nap. “Fucking drink a soda & kick your feet up. Take a nap. Relax. You were great to me & the company. Happy to keep those vibes going.”

Tossing and turning for most of the three hours with Hamlet clutched in my right hand, I can’t undo the adrenaline and caffeine pumping through my brain despite being pooped. Have a sunburned face from yesterday (“Where was your suntan lotion, Blebbz?” Sue just said to herself), achy legs (walking 11,000 yards in two days’ll do the trick), and need to drink more fluids like I normally do, but the fear of wetting my Buickwagen is chillingly real. Each time I open my eyes, another sign looks at me: an enormous photo of Einstein that Moore’s father (best bud, to clarify) had hanging in the basement for years. Any more signs and M. Night Shyamalan’s gonna pen a cult sequel so weird that Michael Weldon may hire me to write the review for issue #43.

While waiting for Brian to text—I’ve got driving to do each night—I sit shirtless in only my underwear on the couch and catch up online. Free and loose, the way Bobby Jones envisioned. I should feel painful loneliness without anyone in this house, but my imagination can soar to new heights when my brain’s toast. At least I found the trashcan, Wi-Fi information, and tissues—the same homeowner as last night’s place owns this palace—which makes me certain the absence of another everyday item will haunt me before the weekend arrives.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Though the Goody’s packet says it expired in August 2021, I dump the caffeinated aspirin on my tongue and immediately chug water, a legendary pro tip Brock recommended in 2013. Within five minutes, the Richard Petty-approved concoction lights up my energy level and reduces the pressure in my noggin. Perfect choice before reclaiming and delivering badges.

Brock and I discuss if Eldrick Woodchipper’s triumph here is inevitable. I’ve never met anyone who detests Tiger like Brock, but even he must enjoy the infamous 1997 GQ interview, one I recall reading during my last trip to Tony’s barbershop back home. Did Tiger’s cock jokes somehow lead to me shaving my own head? I’ll await Jim Nantz’s dulcet musings on the subject when I get around to comprehending how Paramount+ works in 2041.

Rick updates me on his new gig: “Meanwhile, while you are down there in O-Gusta, I went off on my COO, CTO, and CEO in the last 24 hours. And they all thanked me and appreciated the bluntness. What world am I in right now!?!? Is this fucking Narnia?” Reply: “The baby boy beating bosses badly but being boldly bumped by boisterous buds!”

For the record, I’m rooting on—in order—Rory McIlroy, Tony Finau, Rick’s CEO, and Brooks Koepka.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Text Sue photos of the week’s final bnb, yielding a comedic goldmine reply: “Won’t regale you with all my dreams from last night but had to tell you about one that stood out: a pirouetting squirrel! He (she/they) came up to me & just did a fancy pirouette! The remainder of the dream(s) I kept telling everyone, ‘Omg I saw a pirouetting squirrel!’ And now that phrase is stuck in my head–name of my new band, memoir, or dance craze.”

It's clear that the birthday girl’s in fine form, folks.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Meet Bill at the Sleep Inn and ask how he and Father Bill enjoyed their time inside. He had a beer at 8 a.m. and sat on the best perch the course has to offer, a view of holes 6, 15, 16, and 17. “That raised bit where they had the pin on the sixth green ain’t no bigger’un the top’uh yer carrr!” he says. Breakdowns of a few players’ rounds leads to him segueing: “What do you back in Connecticut?”

I tell him about my record selling and writing, along with my hopefulness about a job at the Capitol, before leveling with him: “I’m an audiophile nerd who happens to love The Masters.”

“You got a turntable?”

“Yep. Cassette deck, CD player, and an 8-track machine too.”

“I still got some 8-tracks,” Father Bill says.

“Clunkin’ in the middle’n’shit, right?” Bill asks him. Then comes a whopper.

“I swear Brian said somethin’ about you being on-air talent at ESPN.”

“Oh no! Not me. I met him through StubHub.”

Bill says he’s a Virginia Cavaliers football season ticketholder, explaining why he loves and hates StubHub: “They raped me on fees when I sold four tickets to the Notre Dame game, but without them, I couldn’nuh made two grand on ‘em. Paid for three years of season tickets!”

Suddenly, it arrives: the urgent need to piss my pants.

“Well, gentlemen, it was a pleasure to meet you both.”

“Adam, man, you too. You got my number. Yer ever in D.C., you call me. I’m dead serious, man. *he takes a long pull that makes me wish I could smoke only when I’m here* I’ll show you a real fuckin’ good time.”

“Deal.”

Fist bump aaaand scene. Postscript: Pissed in the backyard because the door code’s too tricky and homey don’t play that on a full bladder.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Visit The Fletchdog—four or five brokers clog the living room, my invitation to meander to the couch and spot a paperback copy of Where the Crawdads Sing on the coffee table, wishing I had more time to eyeball the beautiful wooden bookshelves on opposite sides of the television—then meet Colleen at Hooters. Jimmie arrives soon thereafter.

“Another day in paradise?” I ask.

*Judge Judy-level eye-roll*

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

See Jaybird and discern he’s sunburnt as well. Inform him that he’ll feel like shit tomorrow as I shiver, the night developing a brisk chill. Brian confirms there’s nothing for me to do in the morning aka I’m sleeping until noon, I hope. Which fast food restaurant will see my red face? Hint: It’s named after Nixon’s dog, or so legend has it.

Let’s settle one final whodunnit: What’s being implemented as salad dressing? Found kimchi in the fridge or there’s apple cider vinegar with The Mother. (True heads know what that means.) Grabbing my Masters-branded binoculars now to hunt for pirouetting squirrels while I watch round two in the afternoon.

Will Brian finally surface on the Georgia-South Carolina Line? If he doesn’t, I’ll be in the nude on the couch when his clients arrive.

“Oh, hi! Name’s Tuck.”

FRIDAY, APRIL 8TH – AUGUSTA
“You up?” Brian texts me at 8:05.

Is he looking to play tummysticks? This early?

“I am now.”

Promised I could sleep in until noon-ish, he’s an hour away and needs me at StubHub. Put on my Yankees polo in honor of Opening Day and head out. Due to traffic, I make a U-turn. Brian calls again to distract me.

“GETCHER ASS OFF YER PHONE AND PAY ATTENTION!” a sheriff directing the flow screams at me.

“Sorry, I was getting yelled at.”

“I heard. We may have to go in the course today.”

“Really?! We’ve never gone in together.”

“It’s not for fun. Some badges got confiscated. I’m gonna try to use ‘em, and if they question it, I’ll talk my way out of it.”

Pull in the driveway to see Brian in all black aside from his green Masters hat. He has the two enormous monitors from Atlanta, two tattered paper bags, and a tiny suitcase.

“Hey, man. How do you get in this place?”

“It’s finicky. Who are you these days, Johnny Cash?”

“Huh?”

Brian can’t find his bedroom and doesn’t know where the light switches are; he’s clearly running on little sleep.

“I’m going in with this guy who’s coming. Now I gotta dress up and go to The Masters. ‘I know, life is tough, Brian,’ he jokes. Oh yeah, did I tell you that I have a daughter named Sophia? It’s not a good situation. Her mother is a terrorist.”

“Shoulda pulled out.”

“Anyway, don’t tell anyone coming here about her or these monitors I’m returning. They’re not defective but I’m sending ‘em back.”

“Deal. I cannot find a coffee pot to save my life,” I mention for the second time. Lack of a household item haunting me? Check.

“So, you gotta return monitors, get stuff for tomorrow’s continental breakfast, and buy a coffee. Sounds like a rough fucking day, Adam! By the way, dinner tonight is at 8:30 and I think you’ll be running around. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe you can grab me something?”

“What am I? Your boyfriend? ‘Ooh, get me dinner, Brian.’ Do you not remember me? I’m not like most people. So, fuck off!”

I forgot how funny this bastard can be.

“Remember Trey? Remember when he got lost down here and I had to go find him?”

“In that trap house?”

“Yeah, man. Fuck him. You got a big bonus when I sold the company, but he didn’t get shit. And he was the only one who wasn’t happy about it. Hey! What’s up with all these plastic bags in the kitchen?”

“I’m a fan of them. They come in handy.”

“Put these somewhere so I never see them again!”

Off and running.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

A 67-year-old man from Aiken, S.C., named Guy arrives at the bnb in a peach-colored shirt and cargo shorts, a guarantee that we’ll be friends. Drive him and Brian to a gas station where I plan to get a coffee (inside a man is playing piñata party, my first sighting of a petrol slot machine); they’ll walk the remainder of the way to the course.

“Berckmans Road has some good history,” Guy says. “Mr. Berckman didn’t employ slaves on his cotton farm and had a female business partner.”

“Progressive man. Believe he was Belgian, right?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. There’s too much fascinating Masters history to remember.”

“Trust me, I could read about it all day.”

“Shit, Adam!” Brian says. “I can’t bring in my phones and I’m gonna have to call you…”

I remove the notebook from my pocket and write my number. There are free payphones at the gates in The National because of course there are.

“Adam’s brilliant. Always carries a pad and pen. I forgot that about you.”

“Are you a writer?” Guy asks.

“I am.”

“No kidding? Me too. I write fantasy.”

They hop out of the car, and I overhear Brian say, “He’s such a nice guy, iddin’t he?”

What is going on here?! At the rate this day’s progressing, I’ve got serious research to do about how three people play tummysticks simultaneously.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Call Sue to wish her a Happy Birthday and catch up. The news of the day is that her teen idol, JoJo Siwa, chopped her hair off and now looks like K.D. Lang. Sue planned to visit a vegan bakery in Agawam, but they unexpectedly closed for the day, and she doesn’t want to buy a container of Oreos, fearing she’ll consume too many while indulging herself.

“So, you gonna eat some steamed spinach and mushrooms for your birthday dinner?”

“Yeah. Cauliflower and scallions too.”

Comment on a line Brock shared last week, specifically how you can feel the energy throughout this town all week.

“It’s real, man,” Sue says.

“Kind of like when Guy mentioned The Dental College of Georgia in the car. WHY would that ever happen?!”

“Are you fuckin’ serious?”

“Yeah. It’s even impacting colors. I looked at the photos of your birthday flowers last night and realized the colors are purple (tulips), pink (lilies), and yellow (sunflowers), my favorite, your favorite, and your mother’s favorite colors. Then I looked at my clubhouse photo again (millionth time) and there’s the American flag above a Masters flag—red, white, blue, green, and gold—and I’m wearing those same colors (Gold Toe socks not visible).”

“Energy, man.”

To quote Latto: Big, big energy! Man.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Take a ride to grab badges and it’s Unofficial National Short Skirt Day in eastern Georgia. How many labia are poised to be tickled by Bermuda grass? Drive past Curry Hut and am happy to see several cars in the lot; may get Indian food tomorrow to test the pakoras and tikka masala. Two men standing ten feet apart outside an Arby’s slay me: one has a NEED TICKETS sign, and the other is repeatedly waving two badges. Wish I had a poster board so I could stand in the middle with a sign reading COGNITIVE DISSONANCE. As I turn on Bertram Road, the Godmobile is to my left, which features a sign yelling HELL CURES ATHEISM on top along with anti-non-believers slogan stickers slapped on every inch of the white van. I take back everything I said about Ron Reagan, Jr.!

Pull into Checkers and a dirty blonde in a red SUV tells me, “They’re closed. Sorry ‘bout that.” Things go wrong and the citizenry apologize. What a town. Make my way to an alternate Checkers—AMERICA: HUMBLE YOURSELF NOW! is the finest lawn sign on display in a neighborhood rife with them—and get a Big Buford burger and hot dog with mustard.

Return to eat lunch and Brian is on a call congratulating a man named Adrian for being promoted to Vice President (of what?/fuck if I know), which he chooses to celebrate by singing the national anthem (America’s, not the Radiohead song, unfortunately) and randomly inserting Adrian’s name here and there.

“You always say you don’t sing but I’ve heard you sing three times now,” Adrian says.

“What can I say? I like to sing.”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Head to Fresh Market and get $187 worth of pastries, fruit, various fruit drinks and seltzers, and sushi. While mulling my shrimp options, a man in chef’s whites comments that he’s struggling mightily too, especially since there’s no Philly roll.

“I gotta make it quick and get back to the clubhouse.”

“Do you cook for The National?”

“Nah, one of the clubs down the road.”

“How long’s your day?”

“5 a.m. to 10 p.m. You should see all the food. Lamb, shrimp, lobster, pizza, shaved steak for tacos, you name it. Been doing it for 15 years.”

“You still enjoy it?”

He picks the last shrimp container I have my eyes on.

“Oh yeah. I love it.”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

“THERE’S SOMEONE AT THE DOOR!” our A.I. security system informs us—Brian casually mentioned that he paid $1,700 per night for this place—and in walks his client Gin (pronounced Genn), here from Seattle to attend tomorrow’s round. Cue up the stereotypical Asian tech joke because he has the tournament streaming via Chromecast within minutes!

Gin is a Masters diehard, meaning we nerd out with one another describing our favorite holes, course undulations, I dole out viewing recommendations for tomorrow, and you’re bored. Sitting in my pajamas watching my favorite event with a stranger who shares the same passion may scan as too convenient, but then maybe you’re reading the wrong recap.

Tiger hits a gorgeous second shot on ten, which gets Brian yelling at the TV even though he’s an admitted fair-weather fan. I can see it happening: He’s greasing up Gin with his sporadic charm to plunder his brain for marketing ideas, analytics numbers, and partnership opportunities. The Tickle Dumpster spirit is alive and well. Yet I have no clue what they’re talking about: earlier in the day he told Guy that he’s in the flower selling business, “I met a guy with a huge farm in Ecuador” being the explanation for his (assumedly) multimillion dollar seed to stem supply chain.

“Adam, would you like to call and cancel my flight on Sunday? You have to get points back though.”

“Iiii can try.”

“TRY?!”

“I’m an ops guy, not a sales guy.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

(A half hour hold elapses before the call’s disconnected.)

“I’m sending this to my mom,” Brian says. “I bought her a fuckin’ car. And she loves fixing shit like this. She can deal with it!”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Moore emails a piece of Keats-ian poetry that literally leaves me crying alone on the couch while Gin and Brian take a walk:

“The sheer joy of your blogs has ME positively giddy just watching TV/listening to music. 

Jesus fucking Christ, man, if I could read expressions of joy like that every day, I’d never need porn, fried food, or Balvenie 15 Sherry Cask and Klondike Bars again. Keep it up, man. Can’t wait to see The National on TV tomorrow!

SPREAD THE LOVE!

Love ya, bud.

Chee-a!”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

“JM is coming by to bring you those two badges. Tell him I’ll be there in five if he wants to say hi.”

“I can keep him here by telling him that you want to say hi.”

“No, no, no, no, no! I don’t do that. Just tell him I’ll be there and see what he does.”

What is this, Big Brother: Augusta?

Brian returns with major news: “Abbie got my flight cancelled and my points back! Watch out for Abbie! She’s a swindler!”

He also said hi to JM in the driveway. Mum’s the word on that exchange.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

“It’s so hot in here,” Brian keeps bitching. “You sit there in a hoodie, flannel pants, the whole thing, and I’m sweating.”

“You’re welcome to sit here shirtless,” I tell him.

“I’m gonna turn on the air.”

“No! No, you’re not! It’s 65. We’ll open more windows.”

“Think it’s the laptop too,” Brian says. “Ya know, it could also make me sterile.”

The Terrorist says otherwise. Poor guy should’ve committed a jihad on his johnson years ago.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Text Sue to find out how her birthday’s going.

“Actually, a lot better than it started! Amy called out of the blue & said she was in town for her dad’s 80th bday & wanted to see me! So we met at Starbucks & talked for 90 minutes! It was awesome & such a surprise! Then I went to Stop & Shop for cut watermelon and… (wait for next text)… Look what the Birthday Magic fairy brought me! BRAND NEW Ben & Jerry’s AND BRAND NEW Oreos!!!! Whaaattt?!?! Just starting the finale of Severance now so all is right in the world. Hope your Universe continues to spin in the right direction too!”

Knowing Sue’s eating her two favorite sweets on Her Day is proof that energy travels fast. And you can’t spell energy without GYN. You’re right: Unofficial National Short Skirt Day doesn’t deserve to overshadow Sue, but it will make you reevaluate the phrase cookies and cream.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

“We’re eating at 8595 tonight,” Brian says.

“Sounds like a Philip K. Dick novel.”

“A dick novel? Why would you say that?”

“Just where my brain takes me.”

Rick texts: “Yah yah yah Friday with Friday from O-gusta yah yah yah. Working late night over here! Saving my company from disasters! I’ll be Operations Czar by July!”

“RD the OC!” *send Welcome to The O.C., bitch GIF*

“Just slammed a cold brew to get in the zone and now I’ll crack a Voodoo Ranger IPA to set the mood. Firing off emails to executives on Friday. I am Lorde yah yah yah! How’s O-Gusta?”

“Sitting here in my jam jams, eating a salad, chatting w/ Brian & his client, a fellow Masters nerd. Life is grand as shit, bud.”

“The combo of Brian’s out of left field outburst about Trey and us joking about Trey’s bonus over the last 4 years has absolutely taken one of our inside jokes to a whole other level. Couldn’t anticipate how that joke could have gotten better. And here we are!”

Amen. <— I, too, am shocked that it’s my first use of the word all week.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

“Adam, do you wanna put on some pants for dinner?” Brian asks.

“I’ll put on my shorts.”

“Did you not bring pants?”

“I have cargo pants.”

“Do that. Gosh, I feel like I’m dressing my child.”

OH, IT’S KOSHER TO TALK ABOUT HER NOW?!

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Chauffeur Brian to see Fletchdog and during the ride he talks to a woman—he’s a status fiend, bragging about his friend’s $250,000 Audi, flying in private jets, and especially about various attractive women he’s ogling online (no comment)—and affects a vaguely ethnic accent to say shit like, “You flippin’ dem coins, baybee?” and “Wurk it, gurl!” I begin singing the hook to Ludacris’s “Area Codes” and he shows me a busty blonde who he was planning to meet on the aborted trip to Los Angeles next week. Impregnates terrorists, avoids escorts. Sounds like an early 2000s Green Party fever dream candidate.

Brian bitches to Fletch about traveling across town to his new house—featuring a breathtakingly gorgeous colonnade in front—while I sit on a comfortable white stool in the kitchen, my sarcasm kept at bay. Fletch presents two envelopes, one with $20,000 and another with $11,700 before dropping the kicker, “Oh yeah! I owe you a dollar!”

“What?”

“You said Tiger’d play, I said he wouldn’t.”

A thin, raspy-voiced man named Jason asks if Brian or I would like to play basketball with him.

“This guy’s a fuckin’ ringer,” I say.

“I haven’t picked up a ball in twenty years. But we have a hoop here and I’m itching to shoot.”

“If I swing by tomorrow, we’re playing a game of HORSE. I’ll match your airballs.”

On the ride back, I let out a seltzer-fueled burp that is admittedly repugnant, earning Brian’s displeasure.

“You’re gross, man.”

“At least they’re not farts.”

“I heard you farting earlier.”

“What did they sound like?”

“Like farts, asshole!”

“You don’t wanna try poetically describing them?”

“Would you just pay attention to the road?”

Brian claims there are two right turn lanes on Boy Scout Road—something I know to be untrue after having driven it each day this week—and insists that I cut around a group of cars. Of course, I nearly smash head-on into a SUV, the woman blaring her horn at me for ten seconds as I lose my cool for the first time this week.

“Please do not tell me how to drive again. I’m a good driver and I know what I’m doing.”

“Well, Adam, I didn’t tell you to almost kill us.”

“No, you just imagined a lane that doesn’t exist. Let me drive how I drive.”

“We got through it, bud. Let’s stop.”

“You’re right, you’re right.”

Brian’s always been one to blaze through an issue and immediately move it out of mind, a trait I admire. We see the remnants of a car crash on Washington Road, the natural calamity necessary to offset our good fortune, then he begins gently mocking me: “I’m a good driver, Brian. Rah rah rah rah, rah rah rah rah.”

“Shut up, bitch!”

“Ya know, Adam, you drive like an old lady, but you are a great driver.”

Humongous energy.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Colleen stops to collect badges and Brian informs me that she’s Brendan’s daughter. When I met Brendan, a hilarious Irishman, in 2015, he was in his mid-70s. Sharp as hell and full of Masters trivia you can’t find in the archives—he owned at least one badge from every Masters and privately sold rare books to several players, Ben Crenshaw buying more than anyone else—I could’ve listened to him for days. Good to see the torch was passed; I hope to pick Colleen’s brain before the week is out.

While I was talking to Harry earlier this week, I drove past the Partridge Inn, a hotel in the posh part of town built in 1910 and told her to look it up. As luck would have it, we’re dining there this evening with Brian’s lawyer, Greg (the man who helped sell his old company, I used to assist in selling his Knicks season tickets), the man’s son Matt, Gin, and Brian’s friend Rob, who I’m picking up from the airport.

Order the fried green tomato appetizer then fetch Rob, a Will Ferrell doppelganger. Rob exits the airport holding a tallboy—he ran into a buddy who had a Miller Lite six-pack with him, apparently—and offers it to me. He sits in the back seat and talks to a client named Littleton.

“Hang on,” Rob says softly and politely. “Listen to me. I did a billion dollars of business with him last year. You can trust him.” Wow, Rob sounds important. The reveal: “I’m going to eat dinner with him in five minutes, staying at his place, he’s been my friend for nine years, and he’s taking me to The Masters.”

A BILLION?!

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The fried green tomato—yes, I made a Kathy Bates joke—is topped with pimento cheese. I also dine on shrimp and grits with gravy, a first for this crustacean chaser. Divine. Greg tells us how he tries to fire Brian regularly then Brian returns the favor then repeat, a sign that this midtown Manhattan bigwig doesn’t have a stick up his ass. Rob owns the funniest anecdote: When the pandemic began and Miami’s beaches were closed, he and Brian would take turns paddle boarding to one another’s South Beach homes. Picturing Brian at sea is an image I cannot shake.

Brian’s bringing Rob, Greg, Matt, Gin, Littleton, Howard, and some anonymous sexpot (one assumes) into the course tomorrow morning. Those in attendance commence forming a plan of attack and he immediately flatters me in person.

“Adam knows everything about The Masters. Tell us what to do, where to go, and what to eat, Big Guy (an old nickname he used to call me).”

Graciously holding court, it’s clear that these men truly trust my opinions because they trust Brian’s judgment of the people he holds close, which leads one to believe that they’ve never let him ride shotgun.

SATURDAY, APRIL 9TH – AUGUSTA
Arise after seven hours of sleep feeling like my “best self,” or so my therapist would want to hear. The unknown secret homemaker in me takes flight: pouring out half-empty seltzer cans and organizing the table. My OCD’s been absent throughout the week, so it’s naturally resurfacing although I like to think the men in the house admire my feminine touch. Go ahead and cancel me now for my phrasing, okay?

There’s a knock at the door and in walks Katherine, a pale blonde in a green cable knit sweater, white skirt, thigh high black socks, and green, black, and white Nikes. She later informs me that she met Brian via her maid of honor, so unless she failed to mention her divorce, I guess this may not be a skirt he’s chasing. Wondering if we have any tea, I find the box for her and it’s anti-constipation tea, a flavor that may literally taste like shit. She declines. Gin enters the kitchen also with tea on the brain, I make an “Are you constipated?” joke, and he launches into saying how he has a liver issue that affects his stomach. Too soon, bud.

Minutes later, after I insist Gin show me how Chromecast works (you simply click YouTube TV and find the right link/sounds like a challenge I may be able to conquer), he mentions the liver issue again.

“So, what advice do you have on the bathrooms in there?”

I grab the course map given out free upon arrival, suggesting a few less patronized areas where he may have better luck pinching a loaf more rapidly. It occurs to me that one can never know “too much” about The Masters, but bathroom tips weren’t necessarily something I was hoping to add to my repertoire.

Bring Greg, Matt, and Gin to a parking lot a block from Berckmans Road and learn that Greg filed the charter to found T-Mobile! I’m surrounded by rich people and like them all. Bernie Sanders never told me it could be like this. Return to grab Brian, Rob, and Katherine of Loose Bowels; Rob sends me a photo of Littleton, who I’m meeting at the airport, and my knack for celebrity comparisons kicks in.

“He looks a little like Phil Collins, huh?”

“Adam, come on,” Brian says.

“Shit, sorry. Forgot you’re more a Peter Gabriel guy.”

“You want me to get you anything today?”

“One of those nice green hats you bought yesterday. By the way, did I tell you how well the ladies hats fit? This one I’m wearing is a woman’s hat.”

“Coooool, Adam. I’ll grab you a bunch of women’s hats instead.”

Kills me to not say that they have an invisible touch, but he wouldn’t get the reference.

“You ready to be without a phone for eight hours, Brian?” Rob asks.

“Ugh.”

“Digital detox. It’s good to be present.”

“Mindfulness is overrated,” I add. “Who doesn’t wanna be looking at memes while inside this course?”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Drive to Daniel Field to meet Littleton where he’s arriving on a private plane. As I soak up the sounds of helicopter blades and running engines while sitting in a wooden rocking chair outside the lobby, Rob calls from the third hole.

“Hey, man. Any chance you can grab three cigars from my backpack and give them to Littleton?”

Minutes later, a hyperactive man in a navy blazer, khaki-colored slacks, and brown dress shoes quickly approaches me with identical twin blondes, both sporting $500 blown-out basic bitch haircuts, one in short pink shorts, the other in short green shorts. They look a bit like human lollipops.

“Rob asked me to give you these cigars to bring in.”

“I don’t smoke cigars.”

“Well, seems he does.”

Spoken as one sentence he tells me, “We need to meet here at 6:30 on the dot. They’ll ground my plane overnight if we don’t leave at 7:09. Okay?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be early.”

“I like your hat,” one of the Doublemint Twins says.

Peter Gabriel said it best: She knows what she likes (in my wardrobe).

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Despite Rob showing me how to make coffee, I’m not interested in the process and stop for two tall cups at Fresh Market. Upon returning to the bnb, I unsuccessfully attempt to input the door code for, no joke, 23 tries. Worried about pissing in the yard in daylight, I hustle to the back deck—setting foot on it for the first time—and grab a chair. I’m grateful Brian’s blood was boiling yesterday because the kitchen windows are unlocked, and I climb in with relative ease. All that’s left until my return meeting with Littleton is a visit from Brian’s friend Howard, arriving at 12:30 to grab a badge and a ride to nearby the gates. Set the thermostat to 70 (it’s 55 outside), don pajamas, and eat a croissant in advance of bungling the YouTube TV settings so badly that the door code dustup will be remembered fondly when comparing the two.

In “Who saw it coming?” news: Gin’s logged into YouTube TV via his password-protected Huawei laptop. Guess it’s streaming for this guy.

Brian calls from the course for confirmation that things went well with Littleton, to ensure me that he’s getting the hat I requested, and to tell me we’ll review tonight’s work orders prior to his 8 p.m. departure. DETOXIFY THE DIGITAL DEMON, DUDE!

“And, uhhhhh, there’s someth-, uhhhh, somethin-, uhhhhh, something else. Shit. Oh! Do you have Howard’s number?”

“No. He knows where he’s going. I’ll give him a ride to where I dropped you guys off once he arrives. No need to worry. Now would you please go enjoy yourself?”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Howard arrives and before we go, I ask him to let me test the one key in the house to confirm I can get in via the side door. It works! As I drop him off, I realize his badge is sitting on the kitchen table. Feel like shit for costing him ten minutes inside the course but the guy’s so laid back that I dunno what I’d have to do to get under his skin. He grew up with Brian in Virginia Beach and I’m puzzled by the temperature conversations between these two guys must’ve been like through the years.

“I like the lavender,” he surprisingly says about the badge’s decorative flowers, which are wisteria. Seems like a guy who saves his words for meaningful conversation. “Not for resale. Who are they kidding?”

“They know plenty get resold, but they randomly ask people where they got them. Just say it was a gift.”

“I’m gonna give them your phone number, Adam.”

“I am ready for that call!”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Brian calls again because he’s been unable to find Howard beside the big oak tree near the clubhouse, as if there’s anything I can do to help. An hour later, Gin calls after waiting 90 minutes for Brian at the twelfth hole grandstand, opting to venture off on his own. I get access to his laptop, am confident I’ll turn on CBS, and immediately meet a technological hurdle too challenging for my limited skill set. Feels certain that The National tracks phone calls, meaning I may be subject to heretofore unknown telemarketers chasing wealthy clients (“You have the wrong bank account!”). Not sure if it will increase or decrease my odds to win the annual Masters badge lottery in three months.

Sue’s text cheers me up: “Solo in the bnb for 4 hours—I would HOPE you’re not letting that time go to waste. *eggplant emoji* *hand emoji* *bottle of lotion emoji* 

My one critique: You went to Checkers and didn’t get their famous FRIES?! I’m hoping that was a misprint/misphoto. Because if not, I just don’t know what to say. (“But Blebbz, I was already getting the burger & hot dog & didn’t want to feel stuffed plus we were going to dinner later & blah blah I’m an affront to every person who’s ever eaten fries, especially you…”)”

She knows me too well because that’s exactly why I didn’t get them. However, I had no clue they were famous. Then again, any fries are famous by Sue’s standards. Ah, the trials and tribulations of dating a french fry ‘ficionado. As for my time alone, only Hamlet knows what happened, and he can keep a secret like no other.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Problem solved: I stream via masters.com on Gen’s laptop and use my laptop for research and chatting purposes. Yer boi AHF, master of the illogical workaround! Scottie Scheffler, who seems poised to win, keeps removing and redonning a puffy black vest. I’m in no position to offer fashion advice, but has this guy heard of jackets? Would hate to see him in Butler Cabin tomorrow night sporting the tournament’s first green vest.

Katherine returns alone to give me her badge, eager to quickly leave.

“How was your time in there?”

“Absolutely wonderful.”

“Did Brian ever find Howard?”

“I dunno.”

She spends more time backing out of our awkward uphill driveway than conversing, which is fine by me. Meanwhile, there’s reason to believe I’ll be filing a missing persons report amid my badge travels this evening. Start doing my annual event live chatting with Brock while eating a salad. We agree that Scheffler’s winning this tournament. Contrary to the long-established belief that The National pumps in birdsong, I’ve heard feathered friends cooing throughout the week. I’d rather be on the course investigating, but how would my oversized red pajama pants fly? Navel-gazing at The Masters, y’all. Powered by Primesport.  Another old saw about a ticket broker that Rick and I use often.

Stray hypotheticals from the simulcast: Will Tiger get his leg amputated and win his sixth Masters before turning 50? And will he immediately be hailed as the greatest amputee who ever lived? Does Scheffler look like a poker pro, middle-aged math teacher, or lobotomized extra in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest? Brock reveals that his wife misheard a former champion’s name: All hail Charo Schwartzel. Is the downhill par three sixth hole the most underrated on the course? It’s never mentioned among the par threes—the fourth is one of the toughest holes on the course, the twelfth is the most famous, and the sixteenth is a jaw dropper—yet it instantly became a favorite upon seeing it in person.

“Ella has a loose molar and is whining about chewing anything, so I made a homemade Goody’s with kids’ Tylenol,” Brock says.

“A form of ingenious parenting Brian aspires to!”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Head to Hooters to meet Jimmie. I walk to the passenger side of his car, and he immediately hands me three $10,000 bricks. Turning around, I’m nearly hit by a SUV as he says, “Watch yourself.” Guy’s attentive to details but can’t put cold hard cash in an envelope?

Return to the house and Brian’s poised to leave. Proof of unbridled sociopathy: Howard didn’t purchase a single item at the gift shop. Brian mentions that Gin now considers me his homeboy, everyone else claimed I was nice and “super helpful,” and he says, “You ready for next year? We’re going big, baby. I need you here.” Holy Moses!

“Please take some of these pastries for the road, Brian.”

“I don’t need ‘em. Give ‘em to a homeless person or someone who needs food.”

He reminds me to remind him to book me a final bnb for tomorrow, to take Rob to the airport, and coordinate with him on tonight’s StubHub drop-offs. Should be smooth sailing. Waited five years to spend 36 hours with the guy and wound up liking him more than I ever have. The green and white hat he gifted me is a doozy, plus I’m inheriting a traditional badge for my collection. What’s a cherry on top of a cherry called?

“Tell Brian you’ll only come back if Trey can come!” Rick texts.

Just got my answer. It’s called a Trey.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Gin returns and claims his liver held up throughout the day. Would be a helluva story to regale people with how you shit yourself on hallowed ground. Gin and I hang out as he tells me his favorite hole to see in person (16), how he loved the pimento cheese and egg salad, and how cold it was, a recurring theme from today. You’d think the course was transported to Sioux Falls in February. (You expected an Augusta, Maine, joke, you simpleton.)

Meet Rob at the airport wearing his backpack with his carry-on in hand.

“You’re awesome, man!” he says, not only a Will Ferrell lookalike but seeming to embody a bevy of his lovable spirit. “What first class service.”

“Happy to help.”

“I am keeping your number, Adam. You will see me again.”

Littleton, now wearing a key lime Masters hat, hands me his own four badges.

“If someone goes and takes a shit in a sand trap and I lose these badges, I will find you and I will kill you,” he says deliberately.

“Okay, guys! Take care!”

I text Brian said information and he immediately calls.

“Was that quote verbatim?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did he seem when he said it?”

“He’s a fucking diva. Some high-strung New York City motherfucker. He won’t do shit. Fuck him.” 

“Alright. Thanks for dealing with it, bud. Talk soon.”

Classic Brian farewell, no matter the circumstances. Would’ve said it to Littleton’s face, but the man has an international phone number, no moral compass (one assumes), and enough money to make me the southern Hoffa (minus the union powers). Of all the people I’ve encountered this week, he’s the only one who tried to bring me down. Happy I rose above/no regrets. And yet I kind of want to give one of his badges to Gin, secretly put castor oil on his naan tonight, and see which bunker becomes home to a Seattle steamer so I can test The Universe’s need for my corporeal presence.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Happy to report that today’s ride through Boy Scout Road involved zero just missed head-on collisions, but I did spot the first Fat Retard bumper sticker of the week! Whoever had the over on 0.5 days—I have a photo of $30,000 for you. I’ve admittedly avoided the news this week, not once checking Reuters, CNN, or the two dozen Twitter accounts I follow, and it’s been refreshing to see people having a mask-free good time. People wear masks but the sense that little to no judgment’s occurring about it is terrific.

Back at the house, we have a delectable Indian feast: baby eggplant masala, mulligatawny soup, veggie pakoras and samosas, and garlic and Peshwari naan. After dining alone at the bar—couldn’t watch Jeopardy!so the television, which I’ve watched literally none of this week aside from golf, didn’t matter—Gin and I spend three hours sitting in silence…talking. About being a decent person, Andre Agassi’s autobiography (he brought it up, another synchronicity since I finished it less than a month ago), his playing competitive tennis in Japan from ages 5-17, how Coca-Cola’s worldwide presence was birthed at The National, Ryuichi Sakamoto, energy (like we had a choice), and the list goes on. 

“Have you ever been to Japan?” he asks. 

“Nope. But I’m going to visit before I die. I need to go to that island where you can pet and feed deer. To be able to pet and feed the most beautiful animal on this planet without it feeling any fear might as well be The Masters of Animals.”

“You would love Japan. That’s what I meant to say! The level of respect afforded people inside Augusta National is extremely Japanese. There’s a ‘don’t be a dick’ vibe that’s felt once you walk in there, which is inferred by how you’re treated.”

“Who doesn’t love and respect Japanese discipline? There’s a pronounced Asian influence on the course itself too. Look at the first hole. Tea olive is an eastern plant. As is camellia. And Chinese fir.”

“The fact that the holes are named for plants is blatantly Japanese.”

We stop short of positing that pimento cheese sushi would be a welcome addition to the concessions menu. I ask for Japanese pop and cinema recommendations (Ozaki Yutaka and Love Letter, respectively) after sharing my list of favorite movies.

“You’ve seen more great Asian cinema than any non-Asian I’ve ever met.”

“What can I say? I love subtitles.”

“I want to thank you for all the hospitality these past two days. Running around, taking care of everyone, making me feel at home, the course tips. It made coming here even better.”

“My pleasure.”

*director shouts cut*

Quite the Chick-fil-A commercial, huh?

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Ready to call it a night (“Hey! You’re a night!”), Rick sends a link detailing how John Hinckley, Jr. is playing a concert in Brooklyn on July 8th. Earlier this week, I would’ve been ready to ask him to assassinate Ron Jr. Now it only seems fair to let Ron take his best shot at John. Junior vs. Junior. Let’s get Ahnuld and Devito involved for marketing purposes.

It's technically Sunday morning and the sillies are setting in. Today offered three important things: relaxation, edification, and my first experience with the genuine threat of murder. Brushing my teeth and looking in the mirror, I think of alternate ways the conversation could’ve played out but realize how insane I may have come off by being so chipper about my imminent demise. When I get his four badges back tomorrow night, the barcodes will be treated to a healthy dose of residual masala farts. That’s how it goes in games without frontiers, war without tears. Brian’s right: We should all be Gabriel guys.

SUNDAY, APRIL 10TH – AUGUSTA
It's a gift waking up at 8 on Masters Sunday since there are people who’ve been at it for three or more hours prepping breakfast buffets at the private clubs decorating the neighborhood. Gin sits at the table eating the last banana (friendship had a good run) and slurping laxative tea (stabbed him in the neck). He’s headed out at 9:45 to Savannah for two days.

“I admire people who can drink their tea piping hot,” I tell him.

“Are you someone with cat tongue?” he correctly inquires.

“You’re gonna miss today’s round, huh?”

“No way. I’ll watch the final pairing onward. I’ve got enough time to see Savannah.”

Brian emails me labels (UPS/monitors and FedEx/his forgotten toiletry kit and pullover) and asks me to drive, not walk, two blocks to meet a client named Sterling. Of course, I prefer to walk and forget the kicker: The man greets me by shaking my hand with a wad of 35 $100 bills in his palm. For one of the few times I can recall, I sense a pleasurable smell in the air only to realize it’s a lawn being mowed, a fragrance I typically find nauseating. *AHF plays the hits about energy* Wish I’d walked the neighborhood during a lazy afternoon: across the street is a house with beautiful flower beds and an adorable long-eared rabbit sculpture. Azaleas are in bloom, it’s going to be 75 by early afternoon, and being here reminds me why I consider Masters Sunday the greatest day of the year.

Suddenly, I recall Brian comically explaining to someone on Friday why phones aren’t allowed inside: “Nobody wants to be taking a life-changing putt and get distracted by my dad’s Snoop Dogg ringer.” If Tiger were putting today, despite being out of contention, and “Bitches Ain’t Shit” began blasting? That’d be one to tell his secret grandkids.

The remainder of the morning is split between a plastic bag party that might give Brian a stroke—trying to figure out how my shit’s making it home along with what food/beverages to take for my stay at the Marriott two miles away tonight—and enjoying my time alone. All thanks to Sue for putting the fucking lotion in the basket.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Cram the vinyl, golf swag, and everything that came from Connecticut into the bags I brought, a task I wished to avoid tomorrow. However, I should’ve known that deconstructing Brian’s monitors would be a severe patience-tester. Not only do I slice my right thumb—steak knives aren’t recommended as screwdriver substitutes—but fitting them back in the shipping box proves fruitless. Lingering an hour later than our bnb departure time, my back hurts from three nights on a cot and the 5.5 hours of sleep is already demanding more caffeine. I would chalk this up to a shift in the wrong direction, but it’s more Brian’s fault for returning monitors that aren’t defective. To quote The Godfather of Soul: It’s the big payback.

While cashing out for a coffee and ham, pimento cheese, and veggie sandwich, my card’s chip won’t scan nearly as many times as the door wouldn’t open yesterday.

“Same as it ever was,” I say after the smiling cashier huffs and puffs.

“What’s that song called again?”

“‘Once in a Lifetime’ by Talking Heads.”

“Oh, thass right. I used to like them, includin’ their movies. What was that one where John Goodman wound up marrying the woman who never left her bed?”

“Uhhhh…True Stories? Man, I haven’t seen it in ages.”

“Me neither. It’s a good’un.”

True Augusta Story: If technology’s involved, this guy’s a goner. Pays to make the most of it though. *rimshot*

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Since I can’t check into the Marriott until 2:30, I head downtown one last time to visit the city’s other record store named Grantski. Much like my recent idol, Michael Weldon, said, it’s okay but heavier on new records and far bigger than it needs to be (with a surfeit of wasted space). The staff are friendly—one clerk chats about this season of Atlanta with a regular, another with a rasta dude about Augusta State being runners-up in this year’s Division II basketball tournament—but I can’t convince myself even a cheap item is worth buying and leave to a warm farewell.

Arrive at the Marriott to be greeted by a brunette in the parking lot with straight, shiny, flawless long hair. Unsure if she works there, I’m more tempted than ever to issue a platitude but she’s gone when I return to the SUV for my stuff. The clerk hands me a complimentary gift bag containing blueberry popcorn and a copy of Augusta Magazine (the boring bridal issue), among other items.

“Thank you, sir! By the way, is this the slowest afternoon of the year in here?”

“Pretty much. Everyone’s out watching golf. I’m leaving at 3 so they can come back at 3:01 for all I care.”

“Well, you enjoy your night.”

“You and Brian do the same.”

If only, that non-monitor-packing-indirect-thumb-gashing motherfucker!

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Worrying that my energy is tapering off and The Magic may be exiting early, I settle into an immensely soft bed with six sizable pillows and select CBS—who knew televisions could still access The Redstone Group’s jewel with the click of a button?—to see Scheffler teeing off. The final round, a cup of coffee and some cherry pie, and the chat box with Brock. All conditions feel right for a fitting farewell from the 86th Masters.

“Tiger and Rodriguez [Jon Rahm] played together? We coulda followed them, had one green cup [aka beer] per hole, & wound up in National Prison,” I text Brock.

We’re both disdainful of Jon Rahm choosing an Americanized name to play on tour, never mind his generally dickish demeanor. Then CBS’s chief interviewer appears on screen.

“Say it, Brock! SAY IT. CALL HER WHAT SHE IS. TELL ME.”

“Butterface HOF!”

Both Brock and Moore—I refer to one as Cuzzin Moore whenever talking to the other—are enamored with the avian-faced Amanda Balionis’s body but shun her kisser.

“Scheffler is gonna Greg Norman this round at his pace.”

“He has had some extensive convos with rules officials the last 2 days.

“Probably just ordered some Pampers to the 4th tee box. Third green’s a bitch. He’s gotta lose a shot here.”

Then he hits the greatest chip-in you’ll ever see on the third hole, home to a terrifyingly difficult green. Brock issues his first joke about how grown men shouldn’t be called Scottie unless the surname’s Pippen. “Come to Scottie Scheffler’s Surprise Super Sixth Birthday Bash!” he said in jest the other day. Spot(tie) on.

“U know what you will never hear in coming years? ‘I’m a huge Scottie Scheffler fan.’”

“Because he has the personality of a table?”

“Si.”

Upon completion of the fourth hole, Scheffler’s up by four strokes and Brock declares the tournament over! Immediately flip to The Indian Doctor on PBS and take a nap.

“For victory dinner, Scottie will have Elio’s pizza, a brownie, a glass of whole milk, and a bedtime story powered by Hansel and Gretel,” I say as Cam Smith chips a ball that inexplicably landed between the two fairway bunkers on the fifth hole. There’s a visual you’re never likely to see here again.

Disappoints me to applaud Rory McIlroy playing well from far behind on Sunday because he’s who I root for more than anyone else each year in hopes that he wins a career grand slam. Will Lil Scooter find a way to piss away his lead? Let’s put a LEGO set or Nintendo DS on the ninth green to distract him!

“He ain’t gonna make mistakes,” Brock says after a sublime approach shot by Nottie Pippen.

“Duddin’t feel like it.”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

See a gray cat in the Marriott parking lot, the first cat I’ve seen since leaving home aside from a couple photos/videos my mother’s shared showing Miss Franklynn being a dumbass. Harry sends an update from the Veg Fest she’s attending: “There were 3 white people and me!” 

Anyone know if my mother darkened her skin this week?

Paying sporadic attention to the second nine, the tournament ends as soon as Cam Smith plops his tee shot in the water on the twelfth. Brock and I each offer the same two words about Crash Camdicoot’s demise: “Fuckin’ 12.” When Rory and Morikawa hit back-to-back bunker hole-outs on 18 it marks another good-luck-seeing-that-again moment from today even if it may end up being largely forgotten due to the round’s “over-ness.” Will Mary J. Blige belt out “No More Drama” as Scottie dons his green vest and eyes a box of Fruity Pebbles?

“Wtf did Verne just say?” Brock asks me.

“Fuck, I missed it.”

“It had nothing to do with anything.”

“In Verne’s defense, that seems fair given where we’re at in this round.”

It’s hard to believe that Verne Lundquist, age 81, can call two par threes with the grace that he’s maintained throughout the years. If you’re familiar with Verne, you know he’s at his best when he says less. Upon reviewing the tape, he clearly remarked, “Scottie has requested dinosaur-shaped nuggets, Dunkaroos, and a Capri Sun before he heads to the jungle gym tonight. His movie of choice afterward is The Land Before Time.”

CBS zooms in on Scottie’s spousie: I expect his face will grow red and he’ll run away from her with his hands behind his back after the final putt. Maybe blow a raspberry at her or give her a noogie. Seriously though: Congrats to this guy! He’s on a tear and locked this fucker up on Friday. Will he win 19 times this year to set the single season record? Tough to rule it out. One more? Fine. Next year’s Champions Dinner will be catered by Charlie E. Cheese.

Scottie’s wife is wearing a delightful sundress. Luckily, he doesn’t give her a slap hug—patpatpatpatpat embrace, his signature move—but he may use said move to spread her ass cheeks tonight.

Time for the green vest presentation in Butler Cabin, home to décor obtained directly from an Ocean State Job Lot half-off sale. For all the majesty at The National, it’s the one thing where they skimp. Seeing highlight reels of previous champions tearing up gets me every time though.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Take a panic-stricken ride to a private club where this morning’s client is patiently waiting for me. Anthony, the guy who helped me earlier, said he’d likely be leaving then ghosted my texts and calls. Luckily, Sterling couldn’t be bothered because he just “had the time of [his] life.” When he asks for a ride to his hotel, I immediately say yes then realize my backseat’s literally full of computer monitors and parts.

“It’s okay. We’ll just Uber.”

“Sorry. The surge prices are gonna kill ya.”

“Eh. After today, I don’t mind.”

What’s another $100 after handing me $3,500 twelve hours ago? Uber’s a goober, but Masters will lasters. Yeah, yeah, fuck me, I know. I’ll go eat my green bell pepper like an apple in shame now. Full circle, y’all!

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Get to see Peter, the broker who introduced Brian to the ticket business, at his hospitality house. The street’s dark but the rocky driveway’s an abyss. Brian had said to tell the man who I am, but I bet he’s yet to forget our first meeting. When Brian exited on Sunday afternoon in 2015, leaving me alone without a car, Peter visited the house that night to find me with 100-plus badges spread amongst the living room table.

“How are you able to manage this?” he asked, genuinely worried for my sanity.

“Because I have to.”

As I approach him on the deck, he looks at me and says, “Picking up for Brian?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good to see you. Same time next year.”

It wasn’t a question. The man’s as gentlemanly as the ticket industry makes them.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Since it’s broker reclaim night, it’s time for a final visit with Fletchdog. I’m fond of letting these guys tell me all they’re willing to spill, but he asks what I do, and upon finding out I’m a music nut—after picking my brain about how I’ve journaled every day for two decades, which he has a helluva time processing (“In the morning or right before bed?”)—instantly questions if I’m a Swifty. He proceeds to tell me that he met TayTay and she was sweet, he thinks she’s hot, and loves her music. Alone in the house together, it becomes a running Q&A of country music artists.

“You like Maren Morris?”

“Listened to her new album. I prefer Kacey Musgraves.”

“I’d leave my wife for Maren Morris,” he says.

“Wow.”

“But she’d leave me for Will Hoge. She said she wanted to meet him for her 40th birthday, so for her 35th, I spent $12,000 to get him in Stillwater to play a private concert for us and friends.” 

My tongue’s bleeding because I think Maren Morris’s face is “off” and the act of watching other people’s personal videos is maddening (a 90-second rambling speech by Hoge didn’t particularly sell me on his songwriting skills), but Mike’s been too kind for me to do anything but acquiesce.

“So, you coming back with Brian next year?”

“Well, are you two going big like you talked about?”

“Oh yeah! I expect to see you back here.”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

As I’m talking to Jaybird at the StubHub table, I look to my right. This cannot be happening.

“Rob. Bacon. No. Shit.”

Emotionless trademark Rob Bacon stare.

“The last time I saw you was outside Madison Square Garden on February 3rd, 2014. Day after the Super Bowl in Jersey. Rick Dubin [Rob raises his forehead in a manner indicating he recalls Rick too] and I joke about it all the time. ‘In a city of six million people, there was Rob Bacon.’ You gave us tickets to see Billy Joel. You remember that?”

He takes a moment.

“Actually, I do. How ya been? You still in tickets?”

“No. I wrote a book though. You’re in it.”

“I’m in it?”

“The Billy Joel concert’s in the book.”

“I ran into Jay in the course today,” he says to both of us, then looking at Jay unveils a howler referencing the chance meeting eight years ago: “You could get in too.”

I walk away from the table to recover from the laughter.

“Ya know, I’ve got a friend doing deals in Latin America who knows somebody that wants me to do a tell-all about the ticket business. I dunno, I’ll burn too many bridges.”

“Not sure I’d write it with whoever that is, but definitely change the names. Or write it once you know you’re getting out of the game.”

“They’d still know who it was about. Like if I talked about Jason Nissen asking a guy from Wisconsin for a quarter million dollars to buy U.S. Open tennis tickets.”

“Rob, I am ready to write this book now. I’ve got your email address. You want mine?”

“You remember my email address?” 

“Oh yeah: robwski@redacted.com. You were one of our favorite brokers.”

He fumbles through his camera roll for ages before landing on a shitty image of someone, not him, water skiing at 6 a.m. on a lake outside Madison. Then he summons his contact card and I’m there under Adam Fry, my alter ego when I’m not Adam Harrison.

“You really wanna write a book with me?”

“Yes. Text me your number and I’ll send you my website. Read some stuff and if you’re interested, we’ll go from there, huh?”

There’s small talk about his UConn basketball tickets, how Ticketmaster fucks brokers, how he hates journaling (after I explain my writing process), and how the 1993 Rose Bowl turned him into a broker. What I didn’t tell Rob is how Rick and I have talked about writing a tell-all ticketing book since we left StubHub in 2014. Now there’s the possibility that it was birthed into existence during what has been arguably the greatest week of my life (not even sure recency bias matters). I can see it on the shelf now. Wet, Wild, and Waylaid: How One Wisconsin Engineer Water Skied His Way to Millions as a Ticket Broker. They’ll know who it is, sure, but they’ll also never forget his legend.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The final stop is in the Hooters parking lot where I meet Colleen, hand her 15 badges and $3,600, and mention how I met her dad. She tells me how he embellished stories as he aged, but he did run a major hospitality house years before they were the rage in Augusta, managed hospitality for cabins on The National property, and explains how she wound up taking over for him. Affecting his accent has me repeatedly laughing—“Geeshus feckin’ Christ, Colleen, whudda fuck yah do dat fore?!” was a gem—when she explains how, riddled with colon cancer, he insisted on attending Super Bowl LIV only for her brother to not hold his hand en route to their seats. He fell and lived the next three months in bed until he died at 82, mentally aware for those 90 days that he was slowly withering away, which he treated with his unending humor. (“You killed dad!” she told her brother.)

Prior to the fall, he’d visited Portugal, Ireland, and South Africa while sick. He told her to rely on Brian for assistance once he was gone, and she credits Brian with helping her avoid financial ruin after several badge holders whose inventory she received died due to contracting Covid. Important to note that Colleen’s incapable of relaying these stories with anything but smiles and humor, an optimistic Georgia schoolteacher who inherited her dad’s Irish charm. As she thanks me for my aid this week, a flatbed truck pulls beside us.

“Sorry to bother y’all, but I’ve been in this lot for a half hour and thought y’all were cops. Then you kept talking so I figgered it muss be a drug deal. But drug deals don’t last this long. Anyway, I dunno if y’all partake in mare-a-hwana, but I’m ‘bout to smoke some and wondered if you’d like to join me.” 

We naturally decline, but the smiling weedman says it couldn’t hurt to ask and drives away. That’s our cue.

“Well, Adam, will you be back next year?”

“That seems to be the plan.”

“I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Same here. It was a pleasure to meet you,” I say while shaking her hand.

Time to race to the Marriott for a pull on the robot weed dick.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

I’ve struggled with how to end recapping a week so cathartic and sublime, especially in advance of having time for reflection. Sue’s text from earlier tonight is part of what I’m chasing: “So excited you’re coming home tomorrow but, in a way, I wish you could/would stay even longer. You deserve to feel this level of happiness every day for the rest of your life. It fills me with such joy knowing the extraordinary time you’re having & I wish it could keep going forever!”

Harry and I attended a Mariano Rivera (my favorite athlete) speaking engagement four days before my flight south. When he was asked—for the gajillionth time—how he threw his cut fastball the way he did, the deeply Catholic Panamanian claimed there was no other explanation than “divine intervention.” That’s why he showed anyone who asked how he threw it, fully aware that nobody could replicate his technique unless they too had the deity within them. My mother and I chatted about the idea on the ride home: the atheist in me politely said that he could chalk it up to eating a mango each morning and fans would accept his reasoning.

Mo could tell me that I deserved to burn in hell for my take and my love for him wouldn’t decrease. His statement, however, developed greater significance as this week unfurled. I repeatedly questioned if whatever Masters spirit I first felt in 2013 has remained within me since. Not simply because I wear Masters-branded gear constantly or am obsessed with its history or will talk about it with anyone anywhere any time, but because of the general joy thoughts of it bring, particularly after having been inside that course. Waiting six years to get back here—reunited with a man whom I once traded some of the most foul and disrespectful shit I’ve ever spoken to a person—allowed me to see it all again, enhanced and richer than it was the other times, in part because of my altered perspective of Masters week. Will it be better next year? Maybe. I’m not sure I care. Hoping that it will be is certainly a waste of time.

When I wrote my blog post a few weeks ago answering the Proust questionnaire—“Where and when were you happiest?”—I won’t lie: I hoped to write a follow up paragraph stating that a revision had to be made after this week. Did I will that into existence? Was it simply energy, good fortune, He Who Shall Not Be Named, or even my daily apple? I’ll never know. I don’t need to know. What I do know is that by choosing to only put out good in the world this week, it seemed like someone or something wanted my wish to come true. There’s no joy without pain, they say, but if they were to read the previous 20,000 words, I’m not sure how they’d explain The Universe’s sparing me from its valleys but offering me peaks upon peaks.

Talking about literature with Gin last night reminded me of a favorite quote I repeat to myself often, usually when sitting in traffic or enduring a lifeless cashier or any mundanity where my mind attempts to make sense of why whatever’s happening must happen.

There’s been time this whole time. You can’t kill time with your heart. Everything takes time. Bees have to move very fast to stay still.

Digital detox or not, I spent this week savoring every fucking second. The great mysteries will linger until our time here ends, but in the time I’ve had thus far, nothing has made me better realize how joyless it is to merely kill time. With a little necessary luck, you’ll have your own Masters week that forces you to love time with your heart the entire time. Amen.