Trip of a Lifetime?
I used to think so, but I’m repulsed
I’ve been dreaming of coming to watch The Masters golf tournament in Augusta Georgia for 30 years. It’s actually a shared dream between us and another couple. We’ve been best friends for over 20 years.
Why the melancholy? I ask myself?
It’s 5am and I’m trying to get a grip, but every knob in my brain is slippery. There’s no way to hold on or control my fleeting thoughts.
In the early days of our friendship, taking a trip like this was economically out of reach. Most years we would watch the Sunday final round together at home, sipping mint juleps and snacking on pimento sandwiches, swept away by the beauty and the grace on the television. Then some dude would walk away with a green jacket, snotty kid in tow, chased by a weeping wife. The guy was usually white, or some version thereof.
Let’s do it! Let’s do it! Let’s go there to view this legendary tournament in person. Let’s smell the coifed grounds, politely cheer good shots, and cower at the bad shots as the world looks on. Let’s be four of the lucky ones in the crowd.
I meant to say WHITE crowd.
I never thought we could. I never thought we would.
As life would have it, our fortunes turned and we find ourselves here now, for our maiden “foray” to the masters golf tournament. For me, it doesn’t feel right — in fact, it feels terrible.
Traveling here by car, we stopped in Charleston, South Carolina, ground zero for the African slave trade, which ended not even 200 years ago. We walked through a voluminous modern tourist trap which previously had been the largest human auction house on American soil. There where human lives were sold, now micro-capitalists sell jewelry, baskets, t-shirts, and other nice but unnecessary things. At one end there is a haunting visual of slaves laying side by side and head to toe in the ships. How could humans do this to other humans? I wanted to sit down and scream next to the dish towel vendor in the very spot slaves screamed for their lives.
I tried to clear my head of these visuals during the next 4 hours while we drove to Augusta. The sights were beautiful, and to me, the countryside appeared race neutral. But, I’m sure those soils bear stories of human brutality that have since been buried by the bounty of the crops.
We rented a beautiful house in the heart of the tournament town. A property manager was there, and he proceeded to watch the finals of the women’s NCAA basketball tournament with us. As the game concluded, he said the star player —
Wasn’t black enough.
Did I just hear that correctly? Oh my.
This gentleman then proceeded to try to talk us out of going out for ethnic food, suggesting a Bar-B-Que place.
As he left, he mentioned that two golfers, one black and one white, were residing on our street. I began to realize ethnicity was an adjective in these parts.
When can I click my heels and go home?
As we set foot on the grounds of Augusta National Golf Club, my already altered, fragile reality took a huge blow. Thousands upon thousands of people were wandering around in search of their favorite golfer. While the crowd continued to grow, the universe of golfers appeared to shrink. Very few players were practicing on the first day; we walked miles to watch just a few.
The grounds are absolutely beautiful; a Disneyland for golf. Not a piece of trash could be seen anywhere; most all single use plastic was green, to mix in with the grass just in case someone littered. I was pleased to see they used earth friendly green wrap for the thousands of pimento sandwiches which were wolfed down with beer chasers.
The most grotesque sight was the lines of people seeking to buy the iconic Masters tournament merchandise. Police-regulated queues controlled hours- long lines; and people emerged from the shop with stacks of shirts, and dozens of caps; spooned together for efficiency. When the lines became too long, the authorities shut them down; left with a couple thousand folks waiting in the queue.
I’ve never been shy about taking advantage of a shopping opportunity, but I lost my appetite to spend a few bucks amid this frenzy. Or should I say a few hundred bucks?
To be transparent, I did relent to the queue, only to buy two gifts I had promised to friends back home. I couldn’t fathom wearing any of this shit or supporting what it stands for; the Masters tournament logo is iconic worldwide.
Here we are at a tournament around which a “golf club” has been built. There is no semblance of this being a golf club; it’s a contrived enterprise steeped with memories of ugliest times of American history. Hundreds of thousands of worshipers make a pilgrimage here each year.
I don’t get it.
They call this The Masters golf tournament. While the tournament founders intended for it to be a competition of “Masters” of the game, all I can think about is the master-slave relationship. To name a tournament with such an ambiguous name is a reminder of the inequality we bestowed upon each other less than 200 years ago. The club only allowed African American members beginning in 1990. Women were permitted to join in 2012.
After a long day of walking, I was able to sprint when I learned we were leaving. I turned my back on the contrived homage to golf and racism. I couldn’t look back. I just wanted to return home to silence my mind.
The owners of our house had obviously done a lot of maintenance preparing for our arrival. Four inches of pine straw neatly surrounded the mature trees in the front yard. There, adjacent to the front door was an imprint in the flower bed. A heavy object had been recently moved. Had a lawn jockey statue been removed?
Lawn Jockey Statue: source Wikipedia
After staring at this obvious oversight in preparing the flower bed, I decided maybe, indeed, a jockey statue had been there. I wonder what color his face was?
