Dear, Mr. Payne…

One of my friends recently asked me to write a letter petitioning The Masters to allow my grandfather to pass his tickets down to me. This isn’t a real thing, but if it was this is what I would say….

Dear Mr. Payne,

I am writing this letter to you to petition your club’s favor in letting my grandfather will his Masters tickets to me, his grandson.

First, I want to thank you for having me as a patron on your grounds over the last 4 years. Each has been magnificent in a different way and that is a tribute to the consistency with which your club handles the minute details of the most famous golfing tournament in the world.

Contrary to a lot of the media, I want to tell you that I appreciated the modern day  fire and brimstone sermon you rained down on one of your club’s greatest champions. I think Bobby

Jones would have been proud of that speech. Champions aren’t just supposed to win green jackets, they’re supposed to win with integrity. They’re also supposed to live with integrity. Tiger is a winner, a great one even. He’s not a champion though. Zach Johnson is a champion. So is Mr. Jones.

We always sit on the 16^th hole, redbud. It fully encompasses everything your tournament is about. You have an unobstructed view of the power unleashed from the fairway on the 15^th hole as players vie for precious eagles. Then you can watch as they fire with precision at the pin on 16 in each of its four daunting locations, each seemingly more difficult than the last. Finally you can see the long, majestic drives on the 17^th hole as players start thinking about what score they can (or want to) post. It’s the perfect spot on 16. I’ll never sit anywhere else.

This year we experienced a new bit of Masters magic on Sunday as Phil played the 72^nd hole of his weekend. My friend, Matt, and I made our way over to the fairway on the 8^th hole to watch the festivities from afar. As we sat there discussing the weekend a pair of 40-something twins walked up, sat down, and pulled out their binoculars. They proceeded to watch the sweet Sunday story unfold while giving us a color commentary of the whole thing. We giggled as they spoke of Lee Westwood not being able to have his mettle forged late in the tournament and grew somber as they spotted Bones weeping at Phil’s side. They charmed us with their witty golfing phrases and awed us with their knowledge of the game.

We gazed at Phil’s triumphant 3^rd Masters victory and proceeded to speak with our friends for a minute or two. We decided to follow them up towards the 18^th green a ways but lost them almost immediately. We had absolutely no idea where they went. It was almost as if they pulled a modern day Field of Dreams, walked right into the azaleas, and disappeared until next year.

OK, enough with the quips…there are two reasons I believe I should be willed Masters tickets. Here’s the first.

I get the Masters. I mean I really get it and what it’s all about. I won the genetic jackpot when I was born into a family that has had access to two tickets for the last 18 years and I’d like to think I’ve taken full advantage of that. My favorite part of the entire Masters experience is getting to the course before 6 AM and standing in line in hopes of getting on the front row at my beloved 16. That experience was a bit sullied this year by a gaggle of youngsters and rookie Masters patrons who don’t understand the dignity with which you operate your club.

If you choose to give my family’s tickets to another person you run the risk of exacerbating this issue rather than working to solve it.

I recently told my girlfriend “The Masters is the only sporting event around that I genuinely feel like the money spent to make the trip is absolutely justified by the experience each and every time.” I truly feel that way. It’s the reason I keep coming back. That and the $1.50 pimiento cheese sandwiches.

There’s something about strolling the grounds at daybreak as the hum of the lawnmowers lulls you into a semi-conscious state of euphoria and wonder in anticipation of what the day holds. As soon as you start fading into this world, however, you are immediately snapped back into reality by the startling beauty of the botanical sanctuary Bobby Jones envisioned as Augusta National.

That’s my favorite part, the strolling. I enjoy the golf but to exist in a place that was very literally dropped from the heavens is to enjoy a spirituality that other sporting events cannot offer if only because their domains are man-made. Bobby knew what he was doing.

When we got back home this year I dropped some Masters gear off at a friends house and he sent me a message thanking me for my efforts. I sent him a message back saying that it was absolutely no problem and I thoroughly enjoyed spreading Masters love. I love The Masters. The only person I’ve ever known to love The Masters more than I do is Jim Nantz. And you personally know how much he loves The Masters.

I also love letting other people love The Masters.

The first year I attended your tournament was in 2007 with my dad. It’s the quintessential father son cross-country sojourn and despite the frigid weather it will probably always be my most special experience.

The following year I went with both of my parents and we probably watched more shots on 16 than anybody else who came to that tournament.

In 2009 though I gave four of my friends a late 2008 Christmas present and took them through the gates. You’ve never seen a group of five 20-something males more giddy than we were that entire week. I promise.

This year, as I mentioned, I got to attend with my girlfriend and some of our best married friends. We switched badges and swapped stories for four straight days. I actually missed Lefty’s second-9 barrage on Saturday afternoon but it was more than enough for me that my friends got to experience it.

As we walked through the gates last Thursday my girlfriend looked at me and said “I feel like I just stepped back in time.” That’s all you ever wanted wasn’t it Mr. Payne? You just wanted for all of the patrons to enter your gates on Thursday of The Masters and to feel like they stepped back to a time when competition was rawer and beauty more pure. Let me be the first to congratulate you because you have undoubtedly accomplished that. For us, the social media generation, to attend an event without our phones or computers or cameras is to check a portion of our selves at the gate. Deep down though we really love it.

We long to look strangers in the eye and understand what they understand without saying words: that this one week in April is how sports should be played. They should be played sans the greediness, hype, and lust for self-aggrandizing. We long to be inside a place where handshakes still mean something and tipping one’s cap says everything. We say we want riches and fame but we really want relationship and the chance to belong to something bigger than ourselves. And that is something Augusta National definitely is.

If you allow my grandfather to will me his tickets I promise I’ll spread the word and keep bringing people in who appreciate the way you do things here at “The National.” I tell everyone it’s the grandest place on Earth and they rarely believe me for how can one understand a beauty one has never experienced elsewhere? You, Mr. Payne, should recite Lou Gherig’s famous speech every day because you are the luckiest man on the face of the Earth. You get to preside over an event that harkens to yesteryear whilst dually upstaging everyone else in the present day.

It’s been an honor Mr. Payne, to be a patron at your event and to carry on the vision Mr. Jones so eloquently put before us all: that sport is not ultimate but when it is played it is meant to be played majestically and with honor. That’s The Masters, majestic and honorable. A place where the selfishness and materialism we are drowning ourselves in is tucked away for a week as the gentle Georgia pines sway overhead and the magnolias bellow wisdom from the hallowed ground of one of the most Southern cities the United States will ever know. The Masters truly is unlike any other place in the world. May the tradition continue.

Sincerely,

K. Goodwin Porter