Matt LaWell (6)
Dark skies. Morning drive.
The border line blurs right by:
Welcome to Georgia.
Peach trees still to bloom bracket the roads.
The fields recede miles and miles out,
and the asphalt and concrete spring up.
Sun-crisped folks open shop on the edges of gas stations and restaurant tree lawns:
BADGES FOR SALE! they shout in all caps.
How many thousands are tucked secure in those pockets?
Another mile down the road, a Hooters hawks John Daly —
safe to say tribute can be paid with cash or cigarettes.
And then the gates.
Park for free.
Is this the nicest lot in the country? In the world?
A sod farm sits protected from tires and soles,
safe behind the ropes.
The early birds walk back to their trunks with shopping bags stuffed full.
The gnome this year is a patron. Light blue shirt. Navy shorts. Cups stacked in one hand. Green chair over a shoulder.
Hottest gift on the grounds.
Well, hottest gift on the grounds for normal patrons.
Writers gather for a meeting and a photo.
Old business, new business, motion proposed, motion sustained, see you at dinner.
Out to the course.
Past the scoreboard, spot the Tree,
to the first tee.
This vista is somehow the same and different every year.
We are blades of grass, all of us, here for a moment, until we are cut down, our spot filled by our descendants.
Twenty green jacket winners are gone, Seve the youngest among them.
He will be remembered by the end of the week — by his countrymen, by the gallery, on his birthday.
But nobody knows that yet.
Another Spaniard will win, a legend will withdraw in pain, a young hopeful will head into surgery.
But nobody knows that yet.
For now, grass everywhere.
First cut, second cut.
So many trees. Not all of them will be standing by the end of the week.
But nobody knows that yet.
Three pimento cheese sandwiches, bagged in green.
Two Georgia peach ice cream sandwiches.
One Georgia pecan caramel chocolate cluster, one sweet tea, one lemonade, one bottle of water, one bag of Southern cheese straws for later.
Twenty dollars and fifty-two cents.
Masses move toward the short course,
where aces and families await.
So many aces. So many families.
A model covers up in the familiar white coveralls.
Roars.
Quiet.
More roars.
The course is next to empty throughout the afternoon.
No players, no caddies, volunteers next to open ropes.
(They come from everywhere, the volunteers,
trading a week of their life for a round. Seems fair.)
Perfect time for a walk.
Five miles or so, tee to green.
Feels longer with all the hills. No waits, though.
Was this tree here last year? Pretty sure not.
Thirteen really does look longer.
Two more pimento cheese sandwiches.
Two more bottles of water.
Seven dollars and fifty-six cents.
One patron full of Crow’s Nest packs an armload of sandwiches for friends back home against his chest and pleads for a garbage bag to carry them.
Another patron sells him a Golf Shop bag for a dollar. Seems fair.
A security guard climbs out from under a grandstand.
He cheered for Bobby Plump, real life Hoosier, as a boy. His father watched both of Johnny Vandeer Meer’s no-hitters.
Wait. What happened to golf?
The minutes tick down, then the seconds.
The walk back feels longer. How is that possible?
Thirty-two thousand or so steps, perhaps, every one of them
atop a blade of grass soon to be cut down.
Nobody wants to leave. Nobody ever wants to leave.
How much to come back tomorrow? What does the secondary market look like?
Oh. Oh. Well, I suppose we can just watch the rest of the tournament on television.
We skip Hooters. Maybe we can bring Daly Marlboro Special Blends next year.
Matt LaWell is Golf Course Industry’s managing editor and resident poet.
