I Have a Confession to Make.

I've been in love with someone for over 50 years.

Well, not exactly someone but something.....The Masters Golf Tournament at the Augusta National Golf Course in Augusta, Georgia.

As I recall, the romance began when I was about 10 years old. It happened while I was sitting in front of my family's old black and white TV. This was so long ago you actually had to get off your butt and walk over to the television to change the channel to one of the three available stations. The image on the screen was mesmerizing to me. It was of a place that couldn't possibly exist because of its beauty and pastoral setting. I was watching The Masters for the first time. Even in black and white it was spectacular. It only got better with the advent of color television.

The year was 1958 and I had only recently become enamored with the game of golf. There was an old set of golf clubs in the closet and I used to haul them down to the beach each day after school. Since it was early April, there weren't too many people on the beach, so I had the entire “golf course” to myself. I'd dig out a cup on one end of the beach and another cup at the other end. It was probably half a mile from one end to the other. With the tide low and the sand firmly packed, off I'd go on a seemingly endless loop back and forth from one end to the other of King's Beach, hitting ball after ball. There was no use keeping score since the “holes” were titanic in their length but the process of swinging and hitting the ball, rarely straight, was exhilarating to me. Back and forth, back and forth, goodness it was fun. I was careful not to hit the ball near the occasional dog walker but at that age the distance and the direction of my missiles were most times completely out of my control. All I knew was that this was fun. Each day after school, I looked forward to going to the beach with my clubs until the day when I showed up at my “course” and high tide canceled any golf play that day and for a few days to follow. Fortunately as the moon did its trick, the tide slowly moved out and I had my “Augusta National” back.

And so I turned on the TV and watched these brilliant golf pros, Arnold Palmer leading them all, thrilled and amazed as to what “good” golfers could make the golf ball do on grass instead of hard packed sand.

I'll always remember the 16th hole at Augusta on the 1958 broadcast. The hole was a par 3 and the shot required the ball to carry over 170 yards of water. There was water and there was a green. The hole looked impossible to me since most of my shots were grounders or pop-ups that would have found the water hazard at Augusta on each swing.

But the pro's shots carried the water and landed on the green with such frequency that I thought they must truly be magicians.

Augusta, on TV, looked like heaven on earth. Even in black and white, you could see the perfectly manicured grass and the phenomenal growth of flowers and shrubs that lined each hole. As I read about Augusta, I learned that the property was originally a nursery for flowers, shrubs and trees in the late 1800's and early 1900''s. Bob Jones and Clifford Roberts, the founders of Augusta National and The Masters, looked to build a golf course in the early 1930's and the former Fruitlands Nursery became the setting for the course and the tournament.

I was excited each year after 1958 and looked forward to the playing of The Masters. Since the tournament was played each year in early April, it coincided with the advent of spring in New England. That was another reason the course seemed so beautiful. While the grass here was still dormant and just receiving the warming spring sun, August National, located in sunny Georgia, was already in full bloom. Again I wondered how could this place be so gorgeous when New England seemed so dreary?

The years passed and my golf game improved to the point where I was essentially able to hit the ball in front of me some distance and occasionally executed a successful shot that thrilled me with the potential of my game. In like fashion, my love and anticipation for The Masters increased each year with great eagerness.

I came away, during those years, with the longing to someday be able to attend The Masters. But I had heard and read that spectator tickets were very, very difficult to obtain due to the ever growing enthusiasm The Masters was creating because of the outstanding TV production that CBS would provide each year.

And then one day in 1982, I got the call from my friend, a fellow golfer. A friend of his, who lived in Georgia had an extra badge (not ticket) to The Masters and would I be interested in going? His actual words were, “How much would you be willing to pay to go to The Masters?” I think l I lost consciousness for a few moments and when I regained it, all I could think to myself was, “how much could I afford to make my dream come true?” I sheepishly asked how much it would cost and he said, “$325 for a four day badge.” That means I could attend all four days of the tournament for $325. Now back in 1982, $325 was a fair amount of money and with a wife and three kids, $325 wasn't just lying around in our checking account doing nothing. But I thought to myself that I may never get this opportunity again, so I said yes to the purchase. Now came the hard part: getting approval from the bride. The Sunday of The Masters and Easter Sunday coincided. She said, “You won't be home for Easter?” And I said, “We've been married for 10 years and 9 out of 10 Easters together isn't a bad percentage.” She knew how badly I wanted to go and she was only giving me a hard time. She enjoyed every minute of it.

The next thing to do was to make plane and hotel reservations. The plane reservation was no problem but when I called the Holiday Inn in Augusta, they laughed at me. They told me that they were booked for Masters Week for the next 20 years. So I did a little research on my own. (This was before the days of Google and such.) I found out there was the Masters Housing Bureau. This was for people that needed rooms for The Masters. Homeowners in the Augusta area would rent out their homes or rooms in their homes to people who were attending the Masters. I called and got a room in a woman's house for $12 a night. The woman, it turns out, grew up in the same town that I presently lived in. What a small, small world. And a lucky one at that. So now all I had to do was wait for the time to go by for me to actually see Augusta National and The Masters first hand. My plane reservations were for me to leave on Tuesday April 6th, 1982 from Boston to Atlanta to Augusta. Why do I mention the day, you ask? Because on April 6th, 1982 Boston was hit by 14 inches of snow and Logan Airport shut down. Clearly, there was no God. I had to change my plans and book a reservation that wouldn't get me into Augusta until 2 AM on Thursday, the first day of the the tournament. I called the woman, at whose house I was renting the room and informed her of my change of plans. Since I wasn't arriving until 2 AM, I told her I would sleep at the airport and hoped that she could pick me up in the morning. True to southern hospitality, she came and picked me up at 2 AM against my wishes.

I can hardly put into words what it was like the next morning to walk upon the grass of the course I was introduced to on television 24 years previously. It was heaven. TV, even color TV, simply could not do justice to the beauty and majesty of this golf course. The experience was truly a dream come true and I savored every minute of the four days I spent there.

My love for Augusta only grew in the following years and each year's TV broadcast only enhanced my love for the place. I purchased many books about Augusta and read each with great gusto. Was it too much to dream that there would ever be a chance to actually play Augusta National?

Clearly my marginal golf game left me woefully short of any hopes and dreams to qualify for The Masters. And the hope of being invited to play the course was non-existent since you had to play with a member. The members of Augusta National were the likes of the chairman of the board of Exxon, Bill Gates and former Presidents of the United States. I thought it highly unlikely that Bill Gates would call out of the blue and say, “Hey, Mike, you don't know me but would you like to come down to Augusta and play a few rounds with me as my guest?” Only in my dreams.

But then a funny thing happened. I had a good friend who was a local investment banker and an avid golfer at the time. I won't go into all the details but one day in September, 1998 he called me and asked me what I was doing on November 7th, 8th and 9th of that year. I consulted my blank calendar and said, “Nothing.” He said, “Good. Because you are going to play Augusta National those days with me.”

What do yo do when your wildest dream comes true?

All I could do was tell him I'd call him back and, I'm not ashamed to say, I broke down into racking sobs.

I called him back and thanked him profusely. (I'm still thanking him today.)

And on those days in November, 1998 I played Augusta. This time I rode up Magnolia Lane, the entrance to Augusta National, as an expected guest. The member we played with was an executive from North Carolina with whom my friend had a business arrangement. The gentleman was one of the nicest people I ever met. He was 67 years old at the time and had a golf swing for the ages.

Standing on the first tee, driver in hand, was an event of biblical proportions for me. I instantly flashed back to all the years in front of the TV watching this hallowed ground and now I was standing on it ready to experience something that very few people in the world would ever experience.

I'd like to tell you that I played like a lion that day but it was more like a lamb. The fairy tale would only carry me so far.

The year 1998 was probably my worst year of golf I ever had. My failing business and lack of funds didn't allow me to play much golf that year. I played so few times and so poorly that I hadn't made a single birdie all year. And here I was at Augusta. My caddie, while walking down the first fairway, handed me a scorecard and asked me if I wanted to keep score. I told him that I didn't and just hoped to get around the course before the sun went down in a reasonable amount of strokes. My heart was thumping and my brain was devoid of most rational function and somehow I had to turn and swing and hit a golf ball on these most hallowed grounds. I just tried to breathe. Hole 1 was soon over and since I hadn't thrown up or passed out (I was close on both accounts) I considered the the rest of the day might be most manageable. Hole 2 seemed uneventful until I rolled in a 40 foot putt for a birdie. A birdie on my second hole at Augusta National. Could this be truly happening? What had I ever done to be so lucky? Not a single birdie all year and now a birdie on my second hole at Augusta.

I'd love to tell you that the rest of the round and the rounds to come were chock full of more birdies, heroic sand saves, masterful chipping and lights out putting but reality set in and I played like a person who hadn't played much or very well for some time. But that didn't matter to me. It was the journey that was important to me, not the destination.

I played 4 rounds of golf in 3 days at Augusta. I'm a lucky guy.

It was a long way from my golf course on King's Beach in Lynn, Mass. to the Augusta National Golf Course in Augusta, Georgia. From Death Valley to the summit of Mount Everest in just over 50 years.

It's an amazing thing when your wildest dream comes true.

And now you know about my “other” love affair.

Enjoy The Masters this week. I know I will.

Until next time......