Monday should have been a scrapbook day. Instead, it turned in to one of the more hellish days of my life. A day at The Masters should not include downpours, locksmiths and close encounters with a jail cell.
The Masters is one of those events in my family that is holy. My dad is a near-scratch golfer, as are my uncles, my sisters, and I'm … well, I'm nowhere near scratch, but I love the sport.
So this week in Augusta is as important as The Super Bowl, especially for my father.
If you're one of the rare folks that don't know the lore of The Masters, it starts with the music.
Jim Nantz's intros have become legendary, leading to many imitations - this one, better than most …
Magnolia Lane, Amen Corner, the azaleas in full bloom … a setting is painted and sold on television each year that creates a lore. Each year the tournament, with the players and the magic they create on the course, often backs up the backstory.
PHOTO: The mystical Masters leaderboard on a misty Monday morning. (all photos by Tim Wood)
For 20 years, I have tried to show my dad The Masters in person. Whether it be my work assignments, family ailments or just life getting in the way, it just always was a near miss.
This year, I was determined to make it happen. I got the tickets, got the hotel, got him on a plane down from Maine. He wanted to go to the Monday practice round, as it's the best up-close access to the players. Done.
I should probably blame Verne Lundquist to start. When I interviewed him last week for TravelPulse, the legendary sports announcer and Masters veteran voice said it never rains on Monday at The Masters. Oh, Verne.
For 50 minutes, Verne was right. We fought the early crowds, got on the course 20 minutes after the gates opened at 8 a.m.
The first golfer we saw was one of the best in the world, Rory McIlroy. Fourteen hours after finishing the tournament in Houston, he was one of the first players on the practice green.
PHOTO: My dad, Barry, within earshot of Rory McIroy at The Masters practice area.
We were stationed between the green at Pink Dogwood and the tee box at Flowering Peach (or as normal people call them, Nos. 2 and 3, but again, this is The Masters) and we could have stayed there all day.
PHOTO: Proud father and son near the green at Pink Dogwood.
And listen, I could focus this whole column on the other 45 good minutes we got. There is enough visual proof to evolve this into a positive in time.
And for those 45 minutes -- despite my dad's hip and breathing issues as we fought the hills to get from the parking lot to the gate to the course - it was exactly the Ned Beatty scene from "Rudy" that I imagined for my dad:
And I did capture him in a moment where I really saw that look in his eyes.
It's just that the other eight hours were so regrettably miserable.
About 9:15 a.m., the rain began. The horn went off at 10:05 a.m. The most serene setting you'd ever imagine suddenly turned into a police state.
Epic loudspeakers rang out around the course. "There is a severe weather warning. Serious storms are in the area. All spectators must clear the grounds."
The mob scene to get off the course was awful. This hadn't happened since 2003 and it was clear the staff was largely unprepared for it. Chaos ruled as 20,000 people were hoarded through a narrow walkway to the main gates.
People were trampled or knocked silly by umbrellas. Kids were separated from their parents. And all the while, the staff blocked all patron services - the bathrooms, the concessions and the gift shop.
At least at a baseball game, you can get food or souvenirs during a rain delay. Not at The Masters. They want you off the grounds as quick as they can shoo you away.
As one official said to me, "They already got their TV money, they don't care about customer service. It's more of a hassle to let all the paupers through the pearly gates."
Even worse - the grounds are the only place you can buy Masters merchandise. So the chance for my dad to be a hero to the family up in Maine? Gone.
And we didn't have an umbrella. We were stupid there. We just didn't want to buy into the idea that there could be rain. So we got drenched walking down the hill to our truck.
And on that walk, I realized I didn't have my truck keys.
So we waited in the downpours another 30 minutes until the onsite locksmith (nice touch, Augusta) got my truck door open masterfully (yes, pun intended).
But the keys were sadly not in there, as I'd hoped. They must have slipped out when I pulled money out to buy a badge holder right after we parked. In the excitement, it didn't even hit me.
At least we had shelter. I called Dodge roadside assistance, who set up a tow to the local dealer to get a key cut. I asked the parking lot attendants if any keys had been reported. No luck. So I called my wife.
My dad, who stayed oddly calm and didn't rub in the keys thing, suggested I call Augusta National lost and found one last time.
And boy, am I glad we did. They had found the keys. They refused to drive them via golf cart to me, but no worry. I walked up the hill from the parking lot to the gate in the Noah-esque downpour.
As I went to cross the street to the gate, a Richmond County sheriff's deputy yelled at me.
"You're not crossing the street! The course is closed for the day!" Hmmm, new information. Good to know.
I explained to him the club had called me and had my keys.
"I don't care! No one gets in my gate! It's not happening."
I asked him to speak to a supervisor and started to cross the street. The officer got in my face, shoved me and said, "You're not getting your keys today!"
Thankfully, a trio of officers intervened as I pushed the officers hands away from me. He was going for his cuffs.
One of the officers listened to my story while another reprimanded the officer. They called inside and soon, I was escorted in to get the keys.
Much thanks to the deputy who escorted me inside. He apologized, saying all officers were told repeatedly that in representing the county and Augusta National, they were told first and foremost to be nice instead of militant.
We started up the truck and drove the three hours home in, fittingly, non-stop thunderstorms and hailstorms unlike any I'd ever seen.
I wrote a column recently on cruise lines needing to address customer service issues in the moment. The Masters, like Royal Caribbean and most cruise lines, are attempting to make things right with ticket returns and access to next year's event.
The way we were handled in the moment, it has ruined not only a memory, but a lifetime of idol worship of an event. Even if he's in good enough health to come next year, my dad has already said, "No thanks."
The TV tagline for The Masters is "A tradition unlike any other."
After my day in Augusta, thank God for that.
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