Try to sneak back onto the course.
There are poor ideas and there are terrible, horrible, no good, very bad ideas. This one qualifies as the latter.
Obviously not thinking with a clear head, you come to the ludicrous conclusion that since you’ve already been tossed from Augusta National, you are somehow immune to further ramifications. Walking toward Washington Road, you hatch a plan so outrageous that it wouldn’t make a Hollywood script: You’re going to Uber to Augusta Country Club, sneak on to that course, walk to the back end of the property and try to wriggle through some potential hole in the fence and return to Augusta National.
When the driver picks you up, you decide to make her an involuntary consultant on your idea.
“So, are you from Augusta?” you ask.
“Lived here my whole life,” she replies.
“Don’t tell anyone, but I’m planning to sneak on to Augusta Country Club.”
“Good luck with that. It’s private and it’s packed this week. But maybe you’ll blend in more with fewer recognizable faces there. Where are your clubs?”
“Oh, I’m not going to play there. I just want to sneak on there, so that I can then sneak through the fence to Augusta National.”
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With that, she slams on the brakes. Right in the middle of the road. She then turns around to look you in the eye.
“You’re kidding, right?” When you shake your head, she laughs and offers, “Good luck with that!”
When you arrive, there’s enough hubbub at Augusta Country Club that nobody questions you and nobody stops you. You start walking to the far edge of the course, toward the eighth hole, and other than a few quizzical looks from golfers, nobody says a word. All of the munis you play back home have a few open spots in a fence somewhere that you can sneak through. Granted, this place is a bit fancier, but you figure, there’s gotta be something.
Not exactly.
Once you start sniffing around – like, 30 seconds after you start sniffing around – a club employee pulls up in a cart and asks what you’re doing. When you try to confide that you’re trying to watch the Masters, the employee laughs.
“I’ve heard about people trying that,” he says. “But I’ve never caught one until today.”
He’s nice enough, explaining that not only is there no hole in the fence, but anyone else who found you could press charges on grounds of trespassing. He drives you back to the clubhouse, where you wait for another Uber. Takes a while, as by this point, the tournament is finishing up.
By the time you finally get a ride, you hear on the radio that Rahm didn’t win, you lost all of your bets, you didn’t get to sneak back on to Augusta National and you missed the whole damned thing.
But hey, at least you didn’t get arrested, so the day wasn’t a total loss.
