Gnome Way! Way.

An outsider's guide to the Masters

Greg Byrne, enjoying his Masters experience

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The toonamint is heah.

The Mourning Man is grief-stricken, because he’s not there for what would have been his silver Masters anniversary. But he’s a pro and the show must go on. So. . .

Wednesday’s Masters gush-o-rama begins in 3, 2, 1. . .you’ve been warned.

Today’s TML is (unofficially) sponsored by the Masters garden gnome, a 1-foot-tall ceramic statue that retails in the Golf Shop for $49.50, if you can find one. Which, by today, you cannot. Additional recognition must go to whoever is charged with making all those sandwiches (pimiento cheese, egg salad, on the whitest white bread ever, $1.50). Attendance on practice days is estimated at 40,000, though the club never announces the numbers.

Let’s assume that they all need to eat, some more than once. Let’s also assume they’ve heard of the famous sandwiches. Even if only half in attendance choose to partake, that’s 20,000 sandwiches a day, Monday through Sunday. That’s a lot of mayonnaise, Bubba. Which makes one wonder:

How many workers are needed simply to smear a glob of cheese spread between two pieces of Wonder? Over and over. How long does it take? I’m picturing some giant, hangar-like structure in an undisclosed location, where bread trucks arrive on the quarter-hour and dairy farmers imported from Wisconsin come bearing giant vats of cheese food. I envision workers making sandwiches like Ford linemen put bumpers on F-150s.

Worker assembling sandwiches in Augusta, GA

We’d be remiss if we didn’t mention the kindly gentlemen charged with making the men’s room lines run smoother than the green on No. 12.

I’m not kidding. Masters efficiency is no grander than in those lines. One guy wearing green stands outside the building, keeping the line straight. Another guy wearing green keeps watch inside the building. Whenever a urinal/stall opens up (there are maybe 10 of each), he signals to the outside guy, who then lets a patron through. Finally, a third guy wearing green stands at the exit, ready to hand you a paper towel. Have a nice day.

There is no wasted movement (no pun intended), there is no unused urinal. If you don’t think this is important, you’ve never had a couple beers or been one of the lucky ones passing through the earthly pearly gates at 8 in the morning, no running please. You simply can’t be wasting precious time in a pee line.

What about the gnomes, Doc?

Classic example of creating an irrational need where none existed. The Masters wheeled them out in 2016. They’ve sold out every year, usually by Monday afternoon, three days before the tournament begins.

Gnome way!

Way.

Golf Digest:

The full-size gnomes retail for $49.50, the smaller versions for $29.50, but to judge their true value you might want to hop on eBay and see just what these guys are going for on the open market. As of Sunday morning, there were 113 listings, mostly of the 2023 model, with bidding prices ranging from $100 to upwards of $300. A "vintage" 2019 edition was going for $480. And a set of 2019, 2020 and 2021 offerings were set at $1,000 or best offer.

This is a side-door way of suggesting that the Masters has gotten too big. It’s being loved to death and if the Lords of the Toonamint aren’t careful, they’re going to live the Yogi-ism:

Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.

That won’t happen, of course. People have never stopped visiting DisneyWorld (aka Hell on Earth) or Yellowstone (BearWorld for amateurs) because the lines stretched across three states.

What the overselling of tickets (especially for the practice rounds) has done is reduce part of the appeal of the Masters, the part that relies on natural beauty and serenity. At Augusta, beauty is part of the essential point. It’s being obscured by the patrons who clog the borders of the 18th green like bacon on arteries.

Simply put: When the scene around Amen Corner starts looking like Woodstock in 1969, you might have a problem.

Amen Corner on Wednesday morning

Augusta National is less special when the crowds are NYC subway-like. When walking from the 11th fairway to the 13th fairway is like navigating Best Buy on Black Friday, something essential about the place is lost.

You’re as elitist as the fuddies who run the place, Doc.

Maybe. But seeing as how I’m likely never going back, the observation is not self serving. This isn’t, “I got mine, screw you.’’

It’s out of affection. I’ve always said if I had my choice between watching the Masters for the week, or visiting Augusta National for one night when the tournament wasn’t happening, I’d take the one night.

Give me a room in Butler Cabin and a 5 AM wakeup call. Allow me and my camera to roam the full 365 acres.

I can tell you for certain, having been to my first Masters in 1983, that they’re selling a ton more tickets now. Every greenside is shoulder to shoulder or folding chair to folding chair. Combine that with the fact that 365 acres (only 90-some of which contain the actual golf course) isn’t generous for a place hosting a major.

Just walking from the green at 1 to the fairway at 3 is a pack-your-pimiento-cheese experience. Forget it if you’re trying to follow a big name. Wanna see Tiger? Turn on your TV.

And we haven’t even talked about the Golf Shop. It’s Grand Central all the time. Golf Digest estimated that patrons spent $850,000 in the shop last year. An hour.

The club does a great job funneling folks through the shop and to one of the 64 — count ‘em! — cash registers. But the sheer number of people wanting to take home a piece of the place makes line management no different from killing time in The Beast line at Kings Island.

It’s worth it, apparently. Maybe you’ll score a gnome.

The tournament doesn’t need the money. So why diminish the experience?

Now, then. . .

Mobster JP offered a few questions Tuesday. So much of the affection I have for the event has nothing to do with the golf itself. The places I’ve stayed, the friends I’ve stayed with, the towns I’ve called home for a week all mean as much as the Back 9 on Sunday. But this is about golf, so. . .

Things I will miss: The ritual walking. Same path for me, every year. TV does no justice to the dips and hikes. Walking from the 12th tee to the clubhouse is like walking the church steps at Immaculata on Good Friday. Only longer.

Standing at the crook of the 13th fairway, where Phil hit The Shot that won him his first green jacket. From there, you can see players tee off and, of course, decide whether to lay up or go for it. It’s simply my favorite golf hole, anywhere. Great azalea spot as well.

Watching tee shots at #2, using the crosswalk in the middle of the fairway to pass through a grove of pines to #3 green and #4 tee. Ignoring #5, walking to behind the green at the par-3 6th, admiring the precision it takes to land your ball in roughly a 6-foot square area, to give yourself a reasonable birdie try.

Things that bothered me: Nothing. Truly. Laugh all you like about the elitism in effect at the Masters. But those folks have fostered a culture where civility still matters. Simply, nobody’s an a—hole. The lords don’t wield a big stick. They don’t have to. The patrons know what’s expected of them and behave accordingly.

Have I ever, um, liberated something from the course? A couple years ago, a guy scooped a cup of sand from a bunker at #10. He got caught, arrested and ended up paying $20,000 in fines. You need to know your place at the Masters. That said, I might or might not own a couple loblolly pinecones lifted from just right of the #1 fairway.

Best advice for someone lucky enough to win the lottery and attend a practice round (a 1-in-200 shot): Get there early, wear sturdy shoes, go shopping on the way out, see as many holes as you can (don’t get hung up on The Corner), watch the skippers on 16, research the fabled spots and go to them: Where Tiger chipped in on 16, where Bubba escaped the straw on 10, where Nicklaus in ‘86 dropped The Putt, where Freddie’s putt somehow stayed dry on the bank at 12.

Eat a cheese sandwich.

Near wild heaven

TUNE O’ THE DAY. . . Another good part of Masters Week! is, I get to visit my personal heaven on earth. Montreat is 15 miles east of Asheville on I-40. I stop there on my way home, hike Lookout, eat some BBQ at Luella’s in Asheville, maybe get an Iron Rail IPA beer at The Wedge brewery in the River Arts District.

Mr. Creature of Habit also has a playlist of sorts for the drive, and it does not deviate. A few:

Van Morrison’s Allan Watts Blues, on I-40 as I cross over into Carolina from Tennessee. Cloud hidden, whereabouts unknown. Yes.

Dickey Betts’ Long Time Gone on the mountainous stretch between Allan Watts Blues and the exit for I-26 near Asheville.

Charlie Daniels, The South’s Gonna Do It Again, somewhere near Columbia, SC. Dave Loggins, Augusta, as I pull into my home for the week, for many years in Evans, GA, lately in Aiken, SC.

Sigh.

Here’s Dickey from a monstrously great and underplayed solo album, Highway Call.