Aloha From Augusta

Greetings, sportsfans. The Showman here. Today I’m coming to you from the cozy confines of Magnolia Lane. The good folks at SportsPage.com were kind enough to let me borrow the company biplane to fly down to Augusta National, one of my many stomping grounds back in the late ‘50s.

I remember the very first time I steered my Caddy off of Washington Road onto Magnolia Lane. It’s an amazing feeling, and one some players will experience for the first time this week. Coming up that tree-lined path, I got a feeling I can only describe as warm. A feeling I’ve only experienced on stage at the Copa…and in saunas…and on really hot days.

The first round I ever played at Augusta featured myself and Ike Eisenhower versus Sam Snead and Bob Hope in a $50 Nassau. Now, the Slammer hates to lose more than anybody I ever met, but somehow the ex-Commander in Chief and I managed to get three strokes a side.
I shot a 35 on the front, but spent a little too much time in the halfway house at the turn and carded a 48 on the back. If you know Ike, you know that we pressed the hell out of Snead and Hope down the stretch, but the sun wasn’t shining on us that day. And when you’re trying to putt with the shakes, it ain’t pretty.

Our biggest problem came on 17. As usual, Dwight hooked his drive smack into the big ol’ tree that sits off the left edge of the fairway. I’ve seen the General knock that tree so many times, I told Mamie after the round they should just call it Eisenhower’s Oak. Well, one of the members overheard me, and said it’s actually an elm, not an oak. That irked me something good. I was about to give the guy the old 1–2 when he said it was actually a pretty clever nickname. A week later, the board passed a resolution, and next thing you know, the members are advising each other to avoid Eisenhower’s Tree on 17.

That wasn’t the only thing I named at Augusta, though. The little place where they try on those green sportcoats used to be called Bumpers Cabin. One night Grantland Rice put away a little too much rye whiskey while writing his newspaper story and misstyped it as Butler Cabin. Unfortunately for The Showman, the name stuck. But those are stories for another day. I tell you what folks, when I look back on the life The Showman has led, all I can say is "wow" and "ouch".

Yes, I’ve had some great moments at The Masters over the past 40 years, and I expect the great moments to continue in 2001. Everybody’s saying Tiger this and Tiger that, but if you ask me, watch out for Parnevik this week. That Swede may wear some funny pants, but he’s got a swing smoother than cold buttermilk.

Oh, I almost forget. In 1962, I wrote a Masters haiku for a Japanese fan of mine that came over to watch the tournament. I don’t know what it is about the Island of the Moon, but those cats love my act. The haiku goes a little something like this:

Watch Amen Corner.
Avoid water on the left.
Green jackets? Yes, please.

Here’s a little tip from Uncle Rory. Find yourself a television, grab some Cutty Sark with ice and watch as much of the coverage as you can. See if you can spot The Showman. I’ll be the handsome fella in the blue shirt.

On a final note, for those of you that say The Showman’s best days are behind him, I just wrapped up a voice over session. It’s for an animated show called Castoway, and it debuts in a few weeks. Keep an eye out for my name in the credits.

I’m winkin’ at ya, and thinkin’ of ya.
The Showman