Funny how an impromptu offer from the Devil regarding a lifetime of glory at the Masters could make finishing my bucket of range balls seem so utterly trivial. But, my Devil Bobby Jones apparition (and I had a hunch he was just one of the Lucifer's regional reps) said I could finish my bucket while I mulled over his offer. Who was I to argue for more time?
I raked another striper onto a clean patch of range turf, and resumed my practice session with my head awash in the possibilities. The Masters. For the rest of my life! The "full monty," with tickets! A chance to make the cut. Chillin' in the Crows Nest. Shmoozing with Arnie, Jack, Tiger and the fellas. Every golfing buddy I have ever known, or ever will, could just kiss.. my... butt!!
The first half dozen or so of my remaining range balls were spent dreaming the biggest of Masters dreams. A flushed 7 iron took dead aim at my target flag, and nearly knocked it down. I starting thinking of how that puppy would look on #16 at Augusta. The huge amphitheater of fans. The excited roar welling up through the pine trees. Me taking that incredible walk along the pond, putter in hand, gently tipping my cap to the gallery. It wouldn't matter if I were 10 over at the time. I'd be the gritty, gutty, "everyman amateur" trying to make the cut again this year. Why, I'd be like the Jack Lemmon of Augusta!
Swhwick! Another crisp 7-iron as the Devil sat and watched. Hell, I could make the cut there, why not? I'm an 8 handicap now, why can't I get to scratch with 2 years of hard work on my game? Gary Player made the cut at Augusta in 2000. And he's almost 70!! How hard can it be? No disrespect, of course, but if I'm not bombing it past Player by 40 yards, we've got bigger problems.
Schpruck! Crap. Caught one fat. My dying quail of a 7 iron fell limply to the range at perhaps only 128 yards. Thoughts of making the cut disappeared as quickly as you could say "Greg Norman."
Ok, Czaban, let's not get carried away. You'll probably never make the cut, but it would still be one hell of a week, eh? I mean the three days of practice rounds alone, would be worth it. Maybe even better than Thursday and Friday. Damn straight I would be idling my car outside the Magnolia Lane gates at 5:59 a.m. on Monday morning every year. Probably laying on the horn to let me in.
I could easily play 36 those days if I got out early. And how cool would it be, to just plunk some balls down around the greens, and start trying to recreate some magical masters moments? Mize's miracle chip at #11. Freddie's ball sitting on the bank at #12. Sandy Lyle getting out of the bunker on #18. Besides, practice rounds are loose, fun. This is where I could chat up the other players. Even get a nice little nassau going (although would I dare ask for strokes?).
Schcrunk! Jeesus! What was that? This 7-iron was even worse. A bleeding heel shot that ballooned to the right some 15 yards off line. Now a new fear hit me. What if never got the hang of Augusta? What if I never got down to being a scratch golfer? What if playing the Masters got me so hyped up every year, I never found a way to relax? Besides, living in a cold weather city, my game is never prime by early April. How am I going to keep from making an ass of myself, I now thought?
And what about the steep cost for the other 51 weeks of the year? Was I truly prepared to "slum it" everyday at muni courses in exchange for a week in golf's version of nirvana? I realized I might as well cancel my subscription to Golf Digest. It would only depress me reading about the latest killer resort layout in Michigan. Or a new daily fee course in my area voted one of the "Top 100 You Can Play."
My golf ball rack in the basement, filled with some very nice "trophy balls" from places like Blackwolf Run, Scioto, Congressional, Robert Trent Jones, Sherwood, Harbour Town and others, would have to be put in storage. Forever. I might get physically ill looking at all the places I could never visit again.
The challenge and excitement of meeting people who have "an in" or "a hookup" at famous and exclusive clubs would be gone. The anticipation of these kind of rounds almost equal the fun of playing them. Not to mention the bragging rights afterward, as you see your golf buddies the following Saturday and say casually: "Yup.... just got back from playing Pine Valley last week. Nice little track."
I always maintain that for married men, finding and playing great golf courses is proxy for new sexual conquests. A great course is like a fine woman, and the courtship to get yourself on a blue-blood US Open track can take years. The great thing about golf (unlike one's marital fidelity) is that you can "cheat" on your home course by having a randy three day "fling" with Pinehurst #2 while on vacation. Yeah, baby!
Of course, the deal I was being offered was more like taking a vow of celibacy for 51 weeks out of the year. Granted, playing the Masters would be like stranding yourself with Cindy Crawford for a week on a deserted tropical island. But would that week with Cindy (or your babe of choice) make up for the long wait until next April? Would you get sick of Cindy? The first few times I'm sure would be great. But after a few years, would you be like "Oh, hey Cindy, it's me again."
I regained my form with the 7-iron, and resumed hitting some very professional caliber shots, although not hardly the 185 yard bombs we saw this past April by Tiger, Phil and "Double D" into Augusta's par 5's. My appetite to make this deal with the Devil began to rebound. So what if I had my rough outings at Augusta? Unlike just about everyone else in the field, I could always say with 100% certainty: "there's always next year!" And while I would be subjected to the muni course misfits every other weekend on the calendar, I would walk among them like a god! "There's Czaban. He plays in the Masters every year!" I could gather the Sunday regulars around the patio picnic table, and hold court on my yearly exploits at the Masters over a dog and a lemonade. I could almost hear my stories now...
"...so I blast one 45 yards by Langer on #15 and say 'looks like another layup for you, huh Bernie?"
The balls began to dwindle in my bucket, and I knew that there was precious little time left to stall the Devil for my decision. The thoughts came fast and furious. What if I found out that Augusta National and the Masters wasn't nearly as great as everyone says it is? What if I came to find the course boring and predictable after the first few years? How good could I ever really get anyway by only playing muni's for the rest of my life? I'd go from putting on greens about as fast as Augusta's tee boxes, to marble staircases for one week every year. What a circus that would be! And me getting chummy with the other pros? Please! What world was I living in? Did I really think Nick Faldo was going to invite me to his house for Thanksgiving because I shot 86 in a practice round with him and told a few mildly funny jokes?
"This is insane," a voice called out inside my head, louder and more clearly than all the others. "Don't do it. Why do you think it's the Devil making an offer like this? Because it's a good deal for him?" What's the old adage? "Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it." Now my wish of playing in the Masters for the rest of my life, and having 4 credentials at my disposal was just one range ball, and a simple "yes" away from becoming a reality.
Click! The final 7-iron took off like an arrow, as a perfectly shaped divot flopped down just in front of me. The ball hung in the air, just hung there, for what seemed like forever. I thought I detected a gentle draw flight to the shot, but it was so subtle you had to almost look for it. It took dead aim at the target flag, and landed with a soft hop and a skid no more than five feet away. They say it's these kind of shots that "bring you back" when you are hacking around on the weekend. For me, it was the kind of perfect shot that was going to give me access to golf's magic kingdom, Augusta National. Screw the doubts, I thought. I'm gonna pull the trigger.
"Well, I tell you what," I said out loud as I stashed my 7-iron and began to turn to the Devil Bobby Jones. "After one like that, all I can say is 'see you on April..."
The words stopped dead in my mouth as I found my furry-red, horn-tailed Bobby Jones was now gone without a trace. Stunned, I stood staring in disbelief. I walked slowly over to the bench where he had just watched me hit. The only thing left was the butt of his cigarette, and what looked like a small hoof-print where he had smashed it out. Evidence that what I had seen was indeed real, I suppose. But who else would believe that a butt and a funny divot was "proof" of such a fantastic and delusional story?
Why did he leave before I could make my decision? Was he doing me a favor? Did he know that I would soon regret a lifetime decision based on the fleeting fancy of a flawlessly struck 7-iron? Maybe he would indeed come back next week, knowing I could use some more time to think it over?
I returned to my bag, and pulled out my car keys to leave. I desperately needed a cold beer, air conditioning, and a chance to forget everything I think I saw and heard the last 30 minutes. So did the Devil take my partial statement as a "yes" and leave at that instant? Would I be getting something in the mail with Augusta National letterhead next week? Or worse, do I dare tee it up again at an upscale daily fee facility? We didn't discuss what the "penalty" would be if I took the deal, and then tried to sneak onto a forbidden course. I am sure, with it being the Devil (capital "D" thank you) we are talking about, that it couldn't have been very pleasant. I envisioned me hitting a drive off of #1 and then having my playing partners watch in horror as the ground opens up in a fiery chasm to swallow me whole, Big Bertha in hand.
As I slung my shoulder into my bag strap, and began to lift, I immediately noticed that it weighed as heavy as a bag of cement.
"What the..."
Putting it down, I noticed the bulging belly cavity where you normally stash your extra towels and windbreakers. I bent down to unzip the pocket, when suddenly a flood of pearly white golf balls spilled onto the range.
I picked one up and read the logo. "Muirfield Villiage." A grabbed another: "Troon North." And another: "Doral." And on it went. Dozens of pearly white Titleists, all with a different logo from a great course in America. I got the picture. The Devil had spared me my mistake. And like a parting gift, I assumed the logo balls were "mine to keep" as they say on the commercials.
Just out of curiosity, I wondered if perhaps by some miracle I had been granted both my wish, and the chance to continue to play any course I liked. I frantically dug through the belly of my bag, and looked at every logo ball in the pile. Looking, looking, searching....
Finally, I plucked out the last logo ball in the belly. Already, I had seen the Golf Digest list of America's 100 Greatest Courses spill out in front of me. Except for one. Please, I thought before looking at that last ball. Let this one say "Augusta National."
Nope.
It was just a range ball. Red stripe, with the name "Range Burner" and the number 666. It seemed like a great addition for the golf ball rack in the basement, but then I'd have to explain. So took out my driver, teed it up, and launched it into the deepest part of the range.
It's been almost a year now, and I haven't seen that ball come up in any of my buckets so far. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't at least keep an eye out for it.
Steve is a native Washingtonian and has worked in sports talk radio for the last 11 years. He worked at WTEM in 1993 anchoring Team Tickers before he took a full time job with national radio network One-on-One Sports.
A graduate of UC Santa Barbara, Steve has worked for WFNZ in Charlotte where his afternoon show was named "Best Radio Show." Steve continues to serve as a sports personality for WLZR in Milwaukee and does fill-in hosting for Fox Sports Radio.
