First Time Patron

Take me down to the garden city where Freddie skips the 4 iron and a beers $1.50

There’s always a little chill in the early morning April air, as the car blinker silently clicks in the dark. The next right and following lights are the hole shot to an unpredictable finish line. One that leads to a giant field where headlights form an organized chaos. Augusta has been calling for the last few weeks. Creeping into our minds at work, orwhen the warm breezes kick up in the Georgia afternoons. But today I am in uncharted territory. I am a new patron. Firstquarter zip chill in the grass parking lot, First nod to the attendant as he
returns my scanned badge, first Crow’s Nest brew before noon.

I am here to leave it all on the line. I vow to crash the merch “tent” with the fervor of a Seal team extradition. I am here to BS with JD at Hooters, to smoke a cigar under a magnolia, consume all the salad sandwiches God created, all while watching a real world cinema that's played in my mind for decades. We breeze by the merch area with a promise toreturn after our feet have traveled the miles required. The action is already live as a group tees off over our head on 1, the balls cresting the hill, the groupingalready marching up the dew on the first fairway. Our first hill climb leads us to the putting green for a calm beginning. I audibly voice my astonishment as I watch the sunlight gleam off of the golden eagle at the Eisenhower cabin entrance. My mind is already starting to drift to Amen Corner. With that our group pivots to the “Second Nine”, a moving herd chasing good swings and the next food stop.

 I trundle down the rolling bermuda, camera in hand, dew soaking my shoes. The sun peeking above the pines starts to unveil the pinestraw’d shadows. The striking green abyss starts its decline along the spine of 10, gradually easing its way down to the back of number 11 green - The low point of the property and the best elbow of golf. I watch the cigar smoke drift above 12 tee while the white-bibbed loopers try to decipher the Augusta gusts. I smell the sweet concoction of a southern spring drifting around me. It's so quiet this morning I can hear the gurgle of Rae’s Creek on 13 amid the hushed patron convos. It is at this time I shake myself from my pollen and nostalgia-induced trance. It’s time to track down a group. Before I know it I'm watching Tiger, Freddy, and JT skip it across the pond on 16.

I left my worries at the North Gate on the way in and now my chest is rising and falling with the crescendos of applause around the famed ponds. It washes over me how this place is so special - almost removed from the world beyond Washington Road. After daydreaming around the back 9 the time has come for another round of grub and the elusive peach ice cream sandwich, as we dash our way back uphill. The afternoon is spent sauntering the pristine grounds, with no intentions of making our way back to the real world beyond the Gates.

Ballstriker Soul

In a new golf apparel landscape, the noticeable artistic lean is streetwear collaborations meshing the laid back nature of modern
apparel with the stiffer aesthetic of golf. Nostalgia and historical styling has been lost, even though some of the more influential designs hail from decades prior. Lost in this push for modern fabrics and edgier outfits, is the rural aesthetic of the sport. The true backbone of golf’s historical appeal.

I personally grew up hitting golf balls on my grandparents’
property to the row of corrugated steel boat sheds about 150 yards away. In the path from my strike to the dilapidated destination were tall pines, stubby magnolias and other foliage that made a straight shot irrelevant. From my newfound love for the sport, and at the mercy of some Georgia crabgrass, I
started to weave a fabric of shotmaking skills that carried my game for years to come. I would roll the forearms for a low bullet hook that wormed below the oak branches and smoked shed #4 with a resounding bellow. I would hike the left shoulder like Mickelson and rip a high cutter over the tallest pine, waiting
for the sound of success on the old tin roof. Line the feet at shed #9 and hit a slinger into #2 with a force that signaled simple compression on the firing end. It was decades ago but I can still smell the dogwoods and feel the weathered cords as I launch another one into the Lincoln County sky.

Welcome to a wandering mind, and a ballstriker soul.

Calloused Hands

After the heat of the evening subsides and the
toolbox locks, he puts the Ford on the path both have been longing for. The two-lane Georgia asphalt that lays between the job and the driving range.

His leathered mitts pull away the tanned UGA headcover and toss it on the sun-bleached turf. The head cock before he pulls the trigger is a nod to Jack, his strong left hand is a Penick lesson, and the slight wrist turn on the way back has Hogan smiling from the skies. A flick of the Marlboro from the ungloved left hand, his go to shot is the one that beckons when he’s dormie on 18. Calloused hands wrap around the coffee mug the way they wrap the old Lamkins. Both worn at the fingertips, for a feel that's earned not given.

He travels light with a vintage one-strap Ping and his quick wit keeps you thinking while he rolls in another grainy 15-footer. His calloused hands are well versed in digging the dirt to climb the ladder. The summer sun has tanned his hide on the back of the range since dreams were just dreams. Now his daytime hours belong to a salary. But his heart belongs to the dirt. The crabgrass patch where a golfer became much more.

Here's to those that found it, and to those that
never stopped searching. Long live calloused hands.

Another Mizuno Spring

Cold Georgia mornings have a way of making the Monday mind wander to the rejuvenation of spring, of better days around the corner. Down here shaking the frost is
not a welcomed, but more of a dreary chore, and we yearn for the sun to come around the bend. When the thermometer finally rises, spirits ride the tide and the world around us explodes with renewed life. Grays give way to greens, and the turbine of our solstice starts to turn once again. The coming season breathes into the air an energy that can be felt as the days get longer and nights get more laughter.

Grill smoke, baseball softly playing in the background, and orchestras of
birds signal that the time has come for renewal. Spring is here. I peek into my shop at my trusty blades, my putter I snagged on a deal back in the fall,
and the driver that begs for another bump on the cart path as we careen towards the back tees. I toss the weathered strap over my shoulder, feeling the deep cold of my Mizunos as they get ready for another season by my side.
Right behind my wife and children are these forged faithful beauties, I bought ‘em when I was caddying at the National right after college for a steal at Bonaventure.

They were in my hand for a hole in one back in ‘14, they hit knockdowns in Colorado, and my 8 has hit the green on 12 at Augusta. They were there when the cold beers stopped showing up in the cart, and they've rattled around a truck bed a time or two. They were in my bag when I played golf
before my wedding, and just the other day my son hit one in the back yard.

A few yards and a jumpier face isn’t going to replace the feeling I get when I hit a trap draw that
snuggles against the stick.

When I pinch one just right on a summer day I just look down at that hunk of metal and think, thank god for clubs with a soul