Why I will (probably) never go to The Masters

I’m not sure I will ever go to The Masters.

Don’t worry: this isn’t going to be some sanctimonious article about Augusta National’s history of exclusion or anything in that realm. I am sure I would enjoy being on property, pushing my way through the merchandise tent before gushing tearfully at the sight of Golden Bell.

That’s partially why I don’t know if I could handle it. I’ve hyped up the possibility of going too much in my mind and I’m terrified I’ll find something I don’t like about the experience.

I know that sounds weird. I hope all of you rolled your eyes reading that sentence above. But I know myself better than anyone else, and I am conditioned to find something negative about pretty much everything. It’s a curse I’ve honed ever since childhood, which is another story for another day. But it’s true, and sometimes it makes me miserable.

One week a year I try my hardest to find enjoyment in the professional game, reserved to this week in April where the course on TV looks more like a heavenly playground instead of a golf course. The players look different; their eyes seem wider, putting strokes more shakey, and bogies more excruciating. When a camera pans to a player’s face standing on any tee box, it’s as if the viewer can imagine the emotions swirling in that player’s brain as they consider what’s next. That golfer is experiencing something all golfers wish they could, including me, and I’m engulfed by the mystery of their emotions while somehow knowing exactly how it must feel.

Last year I wrote about how I rediscovered my love of The Masters, partially due to my friend and colleague Nikki Dunagan’s stories and admiration of a tournament that is quite literally a part of her life. Her excellent Memoirs from Magnolia Lane miniseries continues to impress while reigniting the intrigue of a tournament through the eyes of former patrons. Everyone loves this tournament so damn much and it never gets old or stale.

You won’t understand this: but those feelings are exactly why I might never go.

I literally have the opportunity to attend every Masters Wednesday if I choose to do so as a member of the Golf Writer’s Association of America (assuming I can secure a first-come-first-serve ticket) since the GWAA’s dinner is held the same day each year. That’s how deep my irrationality has burrowed into my mind. I think I might actually be terrified to book the flight, hotel, and rental car. Does the old adage “never meet your heroes” apply to an entire piece of property?

If I’m being completely honest, I think I’m most terrified about how I would react once I step on property. I know I will cry. I know I will need to be alone because that’s how I prefer to be most days while wanting nothing more than to be with someone. Only those closest to me understand that I am incapable of managing my emotions on most days, let alone on a day where I’ll be at the place I’ve only seen in my dreams. Yes, that is corny as hell to admit; but it’s also true.

I turn 42 this year. Some of you reading that will suggest that’s still young, and you are right. Others might think the opposite. I think about how much my life has changed over the years and — depending on the day — I jostle back and forth between how I feel about the age. Every day I struggle with some odd level of cherophobia that has programmed me to say “No” to most things that will likely be enjoyable. I don’t want the hassle, even when the payoff would be more than worthwhile.

If none of this makes any sense to you, consider yourself lucky. If you can relate to what I’m trying to express, I’m sorry. Because I know exactly how you feel.

In reality, there’s a very strong probability of me attending The Masters one day. I’ll likely only tell a few people, hope that my wife is with me, and I’ll just have to see what happens in my brain. I might write about it. I might not. It’s going to be something kept private not because I won’t want to share my happiness with others, but rather I’ll be terrified if I do. It doesn’t come natural to me.

Regardless, I’m going to enjoy this week the best I can and hope for a fun tournament. I’ll play the course in my mind, just as I do every year, imagining where I would want my golf ball to land on every green to catch a slope or leave an uphill putt. We’ll all eagerly await that second shot on No. 2, the swirling wind on 12, the pine straw on 13, the slope on 16, and the sand saves on 18. There will be roars, amplified by a soundbar emitting from my TV, just like every year.

And maybe that’s enough.