A caddie and two turtles made my once-in-a-lifetime round at Augusta National

But then dread washed over me. I hadn’t thought through the valet part of this fantasy day. My humble Honda CR-V looked like someone had been living in it for a week, right down to my pillow in the backseat. I realized I hadn’t washed off the dollop of bird poop crusted to one of the backseat windows as I’d intended to do. And then the valet had to wait to take my car because I couldn’t find my wallet. I vainly rummaged around my car and checked my pants pockets over and over like it was the newest teen dance craze.

Finding new ways to embarrass myself — a tradition unlike any other.

All you needed was the hushed tones of a golf announcer:

“Looks like he’s found trouble right at Founders Circle. I’ve been covering this tournament for 30 years and have never seen bird poop that enormous. And it appears he forgot his wallet. Back to you, Jim.”

(Those who know me well know that this was not done for effect, that this is not at all an embellishment of actual events and, last, that there probably were additional social blunders. I attest that all three, regrettably, are true.)

Thankfully, though, the day ended much, much better. Like many Masters comebacks, a caddie made it possible. Unlike many Augusta legends, it also involved two turtles.

I arrived at the course Monday in something of an alarmed state. Growing up outside Chicago, I played regularly with my dad and my friends, but the opportunities grew increasingly sporadic in adulthood. Before Monday, the last time I’d hit a shot was three years ago.

I went to a driving range Sunday morning before the final round, but it actually only served to heighten my anxiety. I started off hitting the ball better than I expected, particularly considering I was using clubs I was borrowing from the family whose Augusta home the AJC rents for Masters week. But I fell into a pattern where I was hitting only ugly ground balls and hard-curving slices and had no idea how to fix it. A day before presumably my only chance ever to play the course that most golfers would give their right arms to play, I had developed a bad case of the shanks.

For an experience like playing Augusta, I know it shouldn’t matter what you shoot. But the idea of trying to make it through 18 holes when I had no ability to make the ball go where I wanted was maybe not horrifying, but certainly not the experience I had in mind.

Credit: Photo by Ken Sugiura

Credit: Photo by Ken Sugiura

As requested, I showed up at Augusta National on Monday precisely one hour before my 12:23 p.m. tee time. I was thrilled to share a foursome with my AJC colleague Stan Awtrey and two Chinese journalists, Dening Chen and Mark Zhang.

We left our stuff in the champions locker room — we were assigned Phil Mickelson’s locker — and headed first to the pro shop and then the driving range, where I met my caddie, Kemp Hooper. I desperately hoped I could reassemble a semblance of an effective swing before going to the first tee.

Alas, I continued to spray balls across the driving range like one of those rotating sprinklers. It was not lost on me that I was putting on this appalling display on the same range where only the previous day the likes of Masters champion Rory McIlroy, Justin Rose and Bryson DeChambeau had effortlessly lofted beautiful arcing shots. The word “desecrate” would not be too strong.

In full panic mode, I asked Kemp to please step in if he saw something to fix. Without hesitation, he diagnosed my problem and suggested a fix. It started a pattern. I hit one or two decent, then resumed my shanking and Kemp had another drill or idea. Eventually, it felt like I’d figured out what I was supposed to be feeling with my swing. I owed all of it to Kemp. It was the essence of teaching — explaining the same lesson in different ways until the student understands.

With minutes left, he handed me my driver — the longest-hitting club and one I never use because I don’t hit it with any consistency. I hesitated, but he insisted. I swung and got the ball in the air, with some distance and reasonably straight.

God bless this shaman in white coveralls.

My drive on the first tee was rushed and screamed off to the left, but at least I felt what I’d done wrong. It was a small positive. And off we went.

And something amazing happened. I started hitting some decent shots with some consistency. I didn’t care about the score; I was just glad to get the ball in the air and feel good about how I was playing.

On the par-3 sixth, I hit a soaring iron shot that went at the pin. It didn’t stay on the green, but it was a huge rush, and the congratulations from the caddies and the rest of the foursome sounded like music. With a great read from Kemp, I putted the ball from off the green close to the pin and parred. Especially considering how the day had begun, one par at Augusta National was about all I could have asked for.

As we descended the hill down to the sixth green, Kemp told Stan and me a story about how a member he was caddying for hit a tee shot on that hole that ended up going onto the adjacent 16th green, nearly went into the hole and had Kemp howling in laughter.

“I made him go putt that sucker out, from six to 16,” he said.

I could see why PGA Tour pro Kevin Kisner has had Kemp on his bag and why Augusta National and other prominent clubs in the region have him among their caddie ranks. Beyond the basics of carrying my bag and tending the flagstick on the green, he had quickly diagnosed my swing flaws, knew the course inside and out, made observations about my game that gave me confidence and seemed to take genuine pleasure with the way I was hitting the ball, clapping for me and giving me five after good shots. He told jokes, made easy conversation and put me at ease.

I think it was on the seventh hole, I made one of my favorite shots of the whole day, an escape from a greenside sand trap that had to be strong enough to get up and out of the bunker but barely any stronger than that, lest the ball go speeding away on the downhill green. It was a shot I had no business making, especially given that I hadn’t played in three years. After it came to rest, I lingered in the trap, marveling at what had just happened.

“What did you think about that?” Kemp said, raking up the sand. “But you do have to leave the bunker.”

After putting out one hole or another, I asked him how “we” scored on that hole and meant it. This was an absolute team effort. I was having so much fun playing about as well as I could, and it wouldn’t have been possible without Kemp.

And then, this might resonate with anyone who has played at least a few times. Kemp showed me my score on the front nine — a semi-miraculous 46. (We’ll talk scoring later on.) When I’ve played, breaking 100 generally has been my goal, and I’ve usually failed. But now I was on track to do so — with room to spare — at Augusta National?

And that’s when I started becoming consumed with my score and not blowing it, and you know what happened next. On 10, I pulled my tee shot into the trees. On 11, I hooked a fairway shot into more trees and then put the next shot into the pond in front of the green. The spell was broken.

And then came 12. It’s the iconic par-3 fronted by Rae’s Creek. It’s the signature hole on the course and the one I most wanted to not screw up. I desperately wanted to be able to cross Hogan Bridge, putter in hand, and walk up to my ball on the green.

I stepped up to my ball. A strong breeze blew in my face. And … I swung way too hard, chunked my tee shot, which dribbled up to the creek. And then my chip shot plopped in the water.

Dream, meet reality.

I did make it over with the next ball, which Kemp had fished out of the creek with my club before I set up to take my first shot. It was a pretty impressive trick, balancing the ball on the flat club face and carefully lifting it out of the water without it falling off. I was so caught up in this show of caddie skill that it wasn’t until later that it dawned on me that it also was maybe a sign that he wasn’t super confident that I was going to get my shot over the water. For as soon as I dumped my first chip into the creek, he handed me the ball he’d just rescued from the watery depths.

(I should point out that Stan parred 12, playing it like a pro — a safe shot to the back middle of the green and a putt that cozied up to the hole for a tap-in par.)

After botching 12, I realized what I was doing and made a point to forget about scoring and enjoy the rest of the round. Time was running out. It was now late afternoon, the absolute best time of day to be on the course. The air was golden, the shadows grew long and, because we were playing rather slowly and we were the last foursome of the day, it felt like we had the entire course — Augusta National! — to ourselves.

On the par-5 13th, I listened to the rustling trees on the right side of the fairway and the gurgling stream on the left. And, somehow, I hit an iron shot from the fairway onto the green for a chance at birdie. It was very hard to believe.

“This is as good as it gets,” Kemp said at some point on the hole. I completely agreed.

He gave me another spot-on read on where and how hard to direct my putt on the undulating green, and I came home with a par on the same hole that McIlroy had double bogeyed the previous day. I looked at Kemp and flashed an “I don’t believe this is happening” grin, something I did a lot that day.

I think it was on 14 that Kemp pointed out a turtle that was crossing a nearby fairway, unfortunately heading the wrong way.

“Look at him stick his head up in the air,” he said. “I feel bad for him.”

On the 15th fairway, we saw another turtle, this one making its way to the pond in front of the green. I was on the green with our foursome with my back to the pond when I heard a splash. I looked at Kemp, who smiled back and mouthed, “He made it!”

It’s funny. I think I’ll remember that moment as much as I remember playing 12 or hanging out in the champions locker room — privileges only the tiniest percentage of golfers ever get to experience — or a couple of drives that I hit just about perfectly.

I’m not sure what it says about me — that I like turtles? — but I think the memorable part for me was sharing a truly once-in-a-lifetime experience with someone very good at his job who totally bailed me out and made my round at Augusta so much better than I could have hoped.

Kemp, who kept score for me, was ecstatic when my par putt on 18 rolled close enough for a tap-in bogey, as he said it meant I broke 100.

I was in disbelief and perhaps a little skeptical.

I’m not positive, but I think he may have been a little forgiving in applying rules for balls hit out of bounds and chosen to overlook some tap-in putts that I actually missed.

Regardless, the score really doesn’t matter to me.

I know this much. Should I ever get invited back for another round — which is a little bit like saying “Should I ever win Mega Millions in successive weeks” — I’m positive of two things: