Article by Mark Huber - 20 Year PGA Tour Caddy

BIO - Mark's Kaddy Korner

 

Not all of the action is behind Augusta National’s clubhouse and between the ropes in this sleepy southern redneck community. Driving down Washington Road any other week but this one, you would never know there is a major tournament held every April. There are a collection of fast food restaurants, motels, chain stores, shopping centers, and there used to be some gentleman clubs across from Magnolia Lane. It’s not exactly an area where you would expect corporate leaders, presidents, and the best golfers in the world to gather on a regular basis.

President Eisenhower retreated here often but played the course less than fifty times. Many major political and corporate decisions were discussed, launched, and deliberated behind the entrance gates. The membership list is short and exclusive; a power lunch in the dining room packs a Mike Tyson right.

Augusta National doesn’t quite fit with the surrounding area, and the locals hold a touch of resentment, but they make a bunch of money off this week. A mom and pop motel jacks up their rates to $300 per night with a five night minimum and local home owners bring in a good portion of the mortgage renting their house to players, fans, corporations, or even caddies. The Motel 6 used to keep their rates reasonable but I think even they have given into the greed.

There are parties everywhere. Tailgating is discreetly allowed; every restaurant, corporate house, and yard has an outdoor cocktail hour each afternoon. John Daly parks his bus at Hooters, sells T-shirts and memorabilia, and joins Darius Rucker for a concert or two. You can walk into most restaurants; T-Bonz Steakhouse is a caddy and player favorite, and find a celebrity or golfer dining in cognito. It’s pretty laid back but can get out of hand at times.

The locals and Masters invaders have been known to clash, especially on Friday nights when caddies are oiling up after missing the cut. The Post Office was our lubricating station years ago, and some of the local boys didn’t like us around, especially when we were talking with their women. My buddy Al, Steve Pate’s caddy, innocently created a minor disturbance in the late 80’s.

We missed the cut, met at the bar, and proceeded with the festivities. Al would always wear his hat backwards after missing the cut; it was his signal to us that he was in a bad mood and not to mess with him. This was a long time before the backwards hat fashion was popular. The local rednecks weren’t aware of the signal. Al was a gregarious sort, lively and not afraid of an altercation; it got a little tense.

We had been there quite awhile, introduced ourselves to a couple of local gals, and were enjoying their company along with some dancing. During a band break we looked up from the table and noticed a rather large young man cowering over the table. He tapped Al on the shoulder and bellowed, “Down here boy only two kinds a folk wear their hats backwards, Negoes and gays (I cleaned it up), which one are you?”

Well, it was fight or flight time, but Al’s quick psychotic behavior saved out northern asses. He jumped up, started salivating, yelling, and waving his arms challenging the entire group surrounding us. It was tense for a brief moment and I was looking around for help but there was none. The locals backed off, determined Al was crazy and didn’t want to mess with him. They left us alone and we danced the night away without further incident.

Over the years that was my only difficult situation. The parties usually welcomed caddies and the volunteers would take us under their wing, escorting us around town to their favorite watering holes and greasy spoons. My volunteer buddies who gathered in the parking lot every evening would take me along to a hole-in-the-wall or there would be a home cooked spread at their rented house. The hospitality never stopped if you were connected with the Masters. I had to get out of town Sunday so I could rest.

Masters week could be enjoyed outside the gates without ever stepping on the grounds; there is that much happening. Corporations fly in clients and employees for private golf outings, meetings, and parties. Many PGA pros not in the Masters can set up a week of corporate appearances and make a pretty penny. Tee times at the surrounding courses are booked far in advance, and the invitee list too many of the parties is a who’s-who. Super Bowl week has nothing on the Masters.

Granted, it’s nice under the ancient oak tree behind the clubhouse, and that is the place to be seen if you are one of the important people. Augusta is a blue collar town and is very enjoyable if you know where to go with the right people. The atmosphere outside the gates is still crowded but less pretentious. You can find golf fans in tee shirts and blue jeans, down to earth folks who are here year round. They are glad to have everyone there for the week, but I think most are glad to see the throngs leave on Monday.

Even though we were at best second class citizens Augusta has always taken good care of the caddies. There was always a locker room, shower, and a grill for the caddies. No other tournament provides us our own indoor place to hang out. A stack of sandwiches in the fridge, cold beverages, and we had our own locker room staff; it was a respite from the crowd, paradise before and after the round. They took real good care of us and we’d slip them a little gratuity.

A few years back “Hootie” Johnson passed away. He was Augusta National’s chairman for about ten years and Carl Jackson, Crenshaw’s caddie, was his regular caddy whenever he played. “Hootie” left Carl a million dollars; that is taking care of your caddy. The members and the local caddies have a special relationship, their camaraderie is difficult to explain, but fun to watch. Raymond was one of the caddy favorites; I guess he used to hang with them years ago, and took very good care of their pockets when they carried his bag.

Every Masters week there is an interesting collection of all walks of life; golf is the magnet and the common denominator. The most prestigious tournament on American soil brings them together, that’s pretty cool. Augusta National is still cloaked, elitist, and slightly mysterious, but every golf fan maintains a reverence for the tournament and the course. Every fan needs to go there once; it’s on the bucket list, experience the course, the town, and the people; it’s a must.