The worst part of Augusta National tee time

It turns out that there is one The worst Part about winning the lottery.

That moment (that bad part) can only last instantly, but it cuts you deeply.

It arrived long before spending. Before celebrating text and phone streams. Before the first person seeks favor. Before you have a complete grasp on your own.

It arrived on the morning of April 12, 2024, with Dad’s voice fifteen seconds after it appeared on the speakers on my phone and thirty seconds after I received the most unlikely message of my life.

“Yes?” Dad said, my phone call in the middle of Master Week was confused.

“I have some news,” I said.

“Yes? ? ” He said again, his eyes widening.

I reminded him of Master Media Lottery, a tradition that gives a few writers the opportunity to play Augusta Nationals in the morning after the Masters. I told him every one of the last four years, including this one, but I was always unsuccessful. Then I threw the hay factory.

“Dad,” I said. “I won.”

“f, you.” He said in pure surprise.

Then he started crying.

The only one Then It hit me: the worst part of winning the lottery.

The craziest gift of my life will be me alone.

Like most lottery winnersMy journey to Mulan Lane is a long-term vision.

For a Long Island family proud of their working-class roots, the Master is a literal dream: short-lived, glorious and illusory in some important way. We don’t have the means to watch the game through any lens other than the CBS camera, which is OK. Distance only amplifies our desires.

This mindset was shaken when I was accepted as a prestigious journalism program for a long time in the spring of 2015. This is a lifelong opportunity – a career as a sports worker, and even a master in the flesh. But there is a problem: I can’t afford it. Tuition alone will make me owe tens of thousands of dollars in debt.

A few days before the deadline, I received a call. My grandfather wants to see me. Can I have supper?

Joe Boyle – or “Poppy” I know – is one of my best friends, while being stupid and rude, smart and generous. His nickname comes from the trash man he gave to his car, and evidence shows that his inherent kindness includes paying for and installing brand new roofs on the home he sold a few days ago. (Poppy is a New York City contractor and carpenter trade, fired from just one job: as a volunteer Human habitatafter he found that their construction habits were not qualified and stink. )

Golf is the last love of poppy, a later hobby that turned into a mature obsession. When I drove to see him, cancer had ended his game day, but he still devoured his favorite newspaper games, New York Post.

When I arrived, he was straightforward.

“You can really do that once you graduate from the program,” he said. “I’m serious.”

I moved uncomfortable in my seat. I said, I’m not sure I’m accepting this offer.

“What do you mean?”

“What if I’m not good enough?”

He paused for a second and stared into my eyes. Then he delivered the boundaries that changed my life.

“James, sometimes you need to be gambling,” he said. “It’s one of them now.”

That’s the end of the conversation, and although neither of us knows it, it’s the end Our dialogue.

The poppy died a few weeks later, which is essentially poor, but rich in important ways. His funeral was a limited extramarital affair.

When we arrived at the church for service, grandma approached me.

“Poppy wants me to give you this,” she said with a smile. “Think of it as your inheritance.”

She reached into a plastic bag and retrieved a small circular object: an ancient red and white poker chip from one of the Atlantic City casinos.

My voice grabbed my throat.

I stuffed the poker chip into my suit pocket and stuffed it tightly. A few minutes later, I stood in front of a packed house and delivered the eulogy of poppy.

I ended the speech with a line I shared with me in the last few seconds of my life a few months ago. This is a famous quote from the famous golfer Ben Hogan.

“When you walk along the fairway of life, you have to smell the roses because you can only get one round.”

“Not Augusta,” I said. “But congratulations to Poppy for doing a good job.”

It’s not What When you walk through the pearl gate into golf paradise, you will think of it World Health Organization.

You will be shocked by the overwhelming feeling of watching as you stroll down the Magnolia driveway under the window and get under your feet from the accelerator. Not (must be) snipers or high-tech cameras hired by clubs, but by the original force selected by the Masters Champions every April. Golf god, maybe. Maybe there are others.

Some drive along Magnolia Lane into the illusion of golf greatness, while others are filled with club dreams. But I bet at least some people are like me who think of the people who give everything at this moment and get nothing back.

The kick-off time at Augusta National is a journey of life. Sometimes, it’s several lifelong journeys. Your village cannot witness you playing in the flesh, but as far as I know, there is no rule against spiritual observation.

“We’ve got you built in the championship locker room this morning,” Magnolia Lane said at the end, interrupting my daydream. “If my memory serves me, I think we have given you a good one.”

A minute later I put it upstairs at the most sacred locker room of golf, where I found the first evidence of my flexible visitor. In the back corner of the room, I found a plaque with my name – James Colgen – Under the plaque with someone else.

Ben Hogan, 1951-1953.

After a few minutes of the og rope, I sat down again and headed from Hogan’s locker to the first tee in Augusta Country. As I walk, I wonder how many people in golf history can say that they are the same.

I couldn’t feel my grip when I hit the first T-shirt ball, but seeing it high and straight, I was relieved to cover perfectly on the tree to the right of the fairway. I felt equally relieved when I walked down the serving box and heard the man joining me in the flesh, New York Post I know the writer very well. His name is Mark Cannizzaro.

As we approached the green, Mark watched me reach into my pocket and carefully retrieved a ball marker.

“Good poker chips,” he looked down at the red and white clay I placed on the surface of the push rod.

“Thank you,” I said, unable to suppress my smile. “This is my inheritance.”

Mark didn’t notice our gallery in the clouds that day in Augusta, but I knew our gallery noticed him. Always like this: our two writings and poppy readings.

As always, we offer a lot of entertainment. Although my putting performance seemed to turn my caddies into an ulcer, I stretched out some nervous swings to impress the first nine. I turned around and came to nine to prepare to challenge the score in the 80s, and it actually seemed like a possibility until I reached the 13th hole.

As I stared at a birdie putt on the 13th, I allowed myself to celebrate quietly: Somehow, I managed to avoid the thunder stream around Amen Corner. Then I put the push rod towards the stuffed Sunday flag hair Too solid, watch the ball drip from the hole, drip from the green into the water, into the water. It was difficult for me to laugh and almost forgot to play cards for Double Waves.

Thankfully, my less cautious 87 produced at least one highlight. It reached the right side of the 15th fairway, as I stared at the horrifying second shot. I debated to the bottom of the top of the mountain, like I’ve seen countless players doing all week, but then something happened to me. I grabbed the hybrid.

“gamble,” I heard myself whispering so loudly.

So I did it, I played hard and waved all year round. A few minutes later, I made an audible laugh as I was doing a birdie putt on Augusta National.

That’s Poppy’s favorite hole.

It took me twelve months Trying to understand how my life led to Augusta National on the morning of April 15, 2024.

I have debated metaphysics, questioned the existence of higher powers, and consulted the golf god. Everyone provides a compelling case for the unknown, but none of them feels right. (Although I’m still attracted to the phenomenon of “quantum tunneling”, and despite the lack of classical energy, the particles have gone through major obstacles.)

Then one day it hit me. The path from childhood dreams to the fairways of golf paradise is not a solo trip. Never. Achievement is not during serving time, golf course or a heavenly place, but at all the moments before it. It was a gift for me literally, but it belonged to a much larger group than me.

It is the ones who have won this moment – those who have given everything, ask for nothing, and believe it when they say I can do anything. Their history is mine. My serving time is not to put my stamps on golf paradise, but to place them Their.

The road to Augusta National does not start with the gate to Mulan Lane, with tickets to the Master or in the classroom. It starts with a dream that becomes a promise: take up a big swing, push the chip into the center of the table, and go all out.

When I arrived at the Augusta country, I didn’t know, but I would definitely do it now.

I won the lottery and golf has nothing to do with it.

You can contact the author at james.colgan@golf.com.

“>