My friend Carlton called in early January 2005 with the oddest opening sentence ever: “Dock, I don’t know what you were planning to do on Tuesday, Feb. 8, but I know what you are doing now.” This was how I was invited to play Augusta National Golf Club.
In case you are wondering whether I have a connection, the answer is “no.” A member of Augusta National had a good friend, now deceased, whom he invited once a year. The friend was free to choose the other two lucky golfers.
He had been through his list of kids and in-laws and neighbors and work buddies until one day, in his late 70s, he invited his pastor, Carlton. Carlton was free to supply the last name in the foursome, which is how I got the magical call.
Let me digress to establish my four objectives in submitting this article. First, of course, I want to brag and declare to all North Georgia that I played Augusta National. Second, I want to chronicle some of the experience as a keepsake for my children and grandchildren.
Third, I think there might be some insider interest among the golfers who are reading this—and last, Melissa has made it clear I have to take a break before I can pick on her again in my Smoke Signals’ articles.
Driving down Magnolia Lane…