His own dad was a tough man with unfulfilled boyhood dreams. He loved his favorite places to eat beyond any normalcy and the sound of the ocean and the hum of late-night conversation. He loved to be the loudest guy in the room, and he loved telling stories, and hearing them, too. Many of the traits my friends would recognize in me came from him. had grown up in the Mississippi sticks with three brothers. There was never even a discussion of what I would be called. When I arrived, before my mother even cleared her head, he had already filled out the birth certificate. He called me his son, with daughter written each time in parentheses, just in case. On the day I was born, he sat down and wrote a letter to himself, cataloging his thoughts as his first child came into the world. We were a father and son in my dad's imagination before my parents even knew I was a boy. I see myself in that boy, standing with his father, both thinking they have all the time in the world. The boy is a half-head taller and growing. Me, a 30-year-old man, who failed in my promise to bring Daddy to this place he longed to visit, unable to control my emotions when I see a father and a son standing by the first fairway. This, too, is Augusta: me, needing a daddy more than ever, finishing the chipped beef on toast, walking the grounds in search of fatherly wisdom. And when he walked off the green almost a decade later, and Earl Woods was no longer there, Tiger remembered that shoulder and he mourned. They hugged, Tiger's head cradled on his father's shoulder. When Tiger Woods won for the first time, his eyes searched the gallery near the scoring shed for Earl Woods. He glanced at his son, who was caddying for him, and repeated his own father's last words, "Don't think it ain't been charming." As Jack ended his relationship with this special place, he looked at his son and thought of his father. When Jack Nicklaus finished his final round ever at the Masters, his eyes welled on the green. "Look out, Dad," you'll hear them say softly. Strong arms tenderly steer stooped backs. New fathers carefully hold toddler hands. Davis Love III navigates the same fairways as Davis Love Jr. Indeed, for all of us lucky enough to actually walk through these gates, we cannot leave without having thoughts of our daddies, for Augusta National is a place for fathers and sons. He dreamed of attending just one, and he's always on my mind when I come here for my job. "No," I say, turning away.ĭaddy watched the Masters every year. "It was my dad's favorite meal," I explain. As we talk a bit, bundled against the chill, he looks at the empty space in front of me. Soon, another lucky diner asks if he can join me. The crowd stands on Washington Road, waiting for the gates to open. I've learned in the past three years that I did many things solely to tell Daddy about them later. Only, the excitement of incredible moments like this is muted for me now. To do it from the veranda with a plate of chipped beef? Hotty Toddy, brother. I'm sitting at the corner table on the clubhouse veranda, waiting for Arnold Palmer to hit the ceremonial first shot of the Masters. Most everything makes me think about my Daddy, and this morning, of all the stupid reasons to fight back tears in public, it's chipped beef on toast.
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