A lone voice howls, “Get in the bunker!”
The ball still in mid-flight, a thousand heads turn in the direction of this wail. That includes Reed himself and his caddie, Kessler Karain, who was reportedly involved in an altercation with an unruly spectator during the recent Presidents Cup.
As if only to intensify the situation, the ball does indeed fail to turn over enough and catches the lip of the giant fairway bunker on the right side of the hole. It would be one thing if Reed hit a perfect drive, maybe the powers-that-be would shrug off the situation and allow everyone to continue on their merry way without incident. The ball landing in that bunker, though, meant that there was a guilty party besides the guy who hit it there, and they’d need to be castigated for their actions.
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A few older gentlemen in green jackets immediately appear, as if they were beamed to the first tee through a silent bat-signal when something went awry. They’re quietly trying to identify the culprit, while all of the surrounding patrons are pointing in a single direction.
Your direction.
“This is the guy,” a woman tells one of the green jackets, her right index finger jabbing you in the chest as she makes her accusation. “I saw him do it.”
Before you can start pleading your case, your mind is already racing over the possibility of getting kicked out of the Masters. What happens? Do they literally throw you onto Washington Road like one of those movies where a drunk customer is physically removed from a bar? Do they put you in jail? And if they do, when would they let you out again? These are some powerful people running this golf tournament. If they want to teach you a lesson, they can teach you a lesson.
In the whirlwind two seconds that it takes for all of those thoughts to permeate your mind, a half-dozen fellow fans come to your rescue.
“No, it wasn’t him,” says one guy, who looks ridiculous wearing not one, but two brand new Masters hats atop his head. “It was the guy behind him. I’m positive.”
You turn around and lock eyes with a man wearing a University of Georgia pullover. His look is almost empathetic, as if he knows he can’t let you be the fall guy for his crime.
The man gestures to the four Augusta National members now seeking the perpetrator and meekly raises his hand to take his medicine. “It was me,” he says.
There are no questions asked, no threats levied. Not immediately, at least. The men simply whisk him away and seconds later they all disappear into the crowd.
It takes you a minute to grasp what just happened: A guy yelled during Reed’s swing, you were almost blamed for it, and now you’re free to roam the grounds once again. You make your way down the right side of the first hole, getting a good look at Reed’s troublesome lie in the bunker. As he sets up, a voice pierces through the air.
