Though I am a native of South Carolina (Aiken), I grew up in Augusta, Ga., and I think of it as my hometown. I haven’t lived there in years, and even if I wanted to move back there, I know that you can’t go home again.
That is particularly true in my case, but, no, it’s not because the Statute of Limitations has yet to run out on the antics of my misspent youth. In fact, I was nearly an altar boy. (May it please the court: let the record show that I said “nearly.”)
No, I can’t go back to the old home-place because the old home-place isn’t there anymore. It was bulldozed years ago. Urban renewal was the villain.
Even more poignant (to me), the whole neighborhood, 15 inner-city square blocks known as Frog Hollow), was razed to make way for an ever-enlarging University of Georgia med school and University Hospital. Gone! The whole neighborhood!
A cousin of mine, an electrician, from that same neighborhood, different street, was wiring a circuit board on hospital grounds recently when it dawned on him that he was standing where his old bedroom used to be. He said the realization buckled his knees.
So, long story longer, I can’t go home again, no matter what.
But I do miss the old hometown from time to time, and never so keenly as at this time of year each year: Masters Week.
If you’ve never been to the Masters Tournament, put it high on your bucket list. But don’t just watch it on TV; go! I know of no other spectacle in all of sports that is its equal. Not baseball’s World Series. Not college basketball’s Final Four. Not professional football’s Super Bowl. Not – but you get the picture. And I’m not even an avid golfer!
The course, in spring’s full bloom, is beautiful beyond words; the drama is riveting as the suspense usually grows with each round; and if people-watching has a better venue anywhere, I’ve yet to see it.
I saw my first Masters Tournament as a lowly gallery guard while a student in high school – and when I didn’t know one end of a golf club from the other. No matter. Working, if you can call it that, on the second hole, I was free for the rest of the day after the last paring played through, and I took full advantage of the opportunity.
The great names in golf in that era included Ben Hogan and Sammy Snead, and hot on their heels was Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus. In my free time, I could follow anyone I chose, and see up close some of the greatest golf ever played. I’ve been a fan ever since.
My own golf game? Sad story, that. In total frustration, I quit the game one day years ago on the third hole of a south Georgia country club course, having found golf to be radically different from other sports.
In other sports, I had displayed a bit of athleticism and found that with practice I could get better.
For reasons beyond my ken, this was not true of golf. At least, not for me. And I have heard many another person make the same lament.
But I still love the game, especially the Masters Tournament, and this is the week!