Grant Me This: Remembering my first Masters

Our esteemed columnist Grant Boone harbors many memories of covering his first Masters, not the least of which was Greg Norman's epic crash and burn among the azaleas. And no, he still can't get you tickets to Augusta National.

By Grant Boone, Special to PGA.com

First off, the answer is no: I don't have any extra Masters tickets. Thanks for asking.

It's a tradition unlike any other: The Masters Mooch.

Actually, I don't blame you for trying. If you care at all about the game -- which, excepting my mother, would presumably include everyone perusing these pages -- you absolutely must make it to The Masters at least once. Go for one of the four days of the tournament, a practice round, the Par 3 Contest, the draining of the port-o-johns the morning after. Anything. Whatever it takes. Just go.  

Historians remember 1996 as my first year to attend The Masters. There was also the small matter of Greg Norman's come-from-ahead loss when he turned a six-shot Sunday lead into a five-shot defeat with 78 waves of his 14 magic wands.

I was there covering the tunamint for USA Radio Network, which at the time boasted 1,600 affiliates around the world. Of the approximately three stations which carried the hourly sportscasts I anchored on a daily basis, all were in cities with names like Moose Jaw or some other random animal body part. That didn't stop me from horn-swaggling a precious media credential from the tournament and permission (plus expenses!) from the network.

I flew into Atlanta on Private Jet Airlines. Remember that low-fare carrier? Of course, you don't. They were in business for all of about two weeks. Fortunately for me, the '96 Masters began and ended during Private Jet's ephemeral existence. I landed in Atlanta, drove the two-and-a-half hours down I-20 to Augusta, and made a beeline for the sacred sod.

Nothing can prepare you for your first experience on the property. The green is greener. The hills hillier. A lot more. The 18th is almost at a 45 degree angle. The concessions are cheaper. A buck-25 for a sandwich. What'll it be? Egg salad? Pimento cheese? Turkey? Sure. Lunch: $3.75. Scarfing down one of each in approximately four seconds: priceless.

Among the many discoveries I made in my initial foray onto the grounds at Augusta National, one would not only change the way I covered the event but ultimately redirect my entire career:

Pay phones.

Dozens of them, clustered in three or four different places on the course. There were so many, in fact, that I was convinced I could follow Norman and Nick Faldo in Sunday's final round and never be too far to get to a phone and call in a 45-second report for that hour's sportscast.

Listening to those sportscasts in succession a few days later illuminated just how precipitously and ignominiously Norman fell. Norman Fell, himself -- Three's Company's Mr. Roper -- might've had a better chance of defying destiny that day.

2:45 p.m. -- "Greg Norman is 18 holes away from his first Masters victory as he prepares to tee off in less than five minutes with a six-shot lead on Nick Faldo ... "

3:45 p.m. -- "Greg Norman leads by five in the final round of The Masters after playing the first five holes in one over par while Nick Faldo is even for the day ... "

4:45 p.m. -- "Greg Norman's six-shot lead is down to one!!! He's just bogeyed the 10th hole, his second straight, and there's an eerie silence among the crowd here at Augusta National ... "

5:45 p.m. -- "What seemed like an insurmountable lead is, incredibly, now gone! Greg Norman, who led by six when the final round began, now trails by two after three-putting the 11th and a double bogey at 12. 

6:45 p.m -- "Nick Faldo has won The Masters ... "

Even as I listened to the recording back home two days later, I couldn't believe what my ears were hearing my own voice saying from those Augusta National pay phones with the crowds gasping and groaning in the background.

To fully comprehend the magnitude of what happened, you have to put those events in context. Remember that this was all pre-pro Tiger Woods, who that year was merely the two-time defending U.S. Amateur champion. Greg Norman was easily golf's brightest star circa April 1996. He was not only number one in the world rankings but also one of the few who could put casual fans' fannies in the seats, both at the course and in front of televisions.

As many majors as Norman had lost by charity or chance, he seemed invincible that week. He took control of the tournament from day one when he tied the course record of 63 and followed it up with rounds of 69 and 71 to build that six-shot advantage.

I remember in the media crush following Saturday's third round, Jimmy Roberts -- then of ESPN -- asked Norman what his dinner plans were that night. Norman, completely comfortable in his game and in the moment, joked in that familiar Aussie brogue, "I don't know, Jimmy. Are you buyin'? If ya are, it'll prob'ly be McDonald's, you buggah!" We all cracked up.

This was Greg Norman's time, a right remuneration for all of his almosts. Fate would be jumping the Shark (www.jumptheshark.com) to write a script so impossibly cruel as the one that the actors Norman and Faldo would read that next day. It was excruciating to watch and to report. And I wasn't even a huge Norman fan.

But at that point of his star-crossed career, no one on the premises wanted to see Faldo actually jump the Shark on the leaderboard with the possible exception of Faldo, himself, and the two women in his life at that moment -- caddy Fanny Sunesson and his paramour-du-jour, Arizona State co-ed Brenna Cepelak.

But it happened. I saw it with my own eyes, and I still can't believe it. The patrons certainly couldn't that day. Never has a Masters winner birdied the 72nd hole to a more muted ovation than the one Faldo received at 18 when the last of his 67 strokes that Sunday fell in. Nothing against the winner. People just didn't know what to do.

I've heard the argument since then that Faldo's final round was underrated in light of the carnage of Norman's 78. Here's where I disagree: I don't think Faldo shoots 67 if Norman shoots something solid on the first nine, a 35 or even 36. Anything but that twitchy, nervous 38.

Faldo knew from the first hole, when Norman missed a short par putt, that his opponent was playing like a man trying not to lose, which is so often the recipe for not winning. So Faldo kept stacking par on top of par, figuring the skeletons would come tumbling out of Norman's closet yet again, which, of course, they did.

Make no bones about it: Faldo's final round was tactically brilliant. But he needed Norman's cooperation for the tactics to take effect. He got it.

I got something completely different for my tactics. A gig. In January 1997, upon learning of an incipient venture called PGA TOUR Radio Network, I immediately forwarded the appropriate parties a copy of that series of on-site radio reports I'd filed from The Masters. The tape earned me an audition. The audition earned me the job. And that job would eventually earn me a play-by-play position with GOLF CHANNEL and, later, a role with PGA.com, which includes this column.

So to all my faithful fans out there, I say two things:

1. Thank you.

2. I still don't have Masters tickets.

And to all you GMT haters out there, quit complaining to my editor. Blame Greg Norman.

(Now that's jumping the shark.)