The hardest ticket in sports

If St Andrews is Notre Dame, a cathedral accessible to the masses, what is Augusta? Perhaps the Sistine Chapel, a golfing shrine open to a select few.

The venue of this week’s US Masters, as it has been since 1934, has acquired a spiritual aura that touches both golf’s great champions as well as the commoners who trek there every year – some, the anointed few, go every year while others make just one trip like pilgrims to Mecca.

Being anointed means you have a precious ticket. They’re not sold any more and haven’t been since 1972.

The worthies of the Augusta National Golf Club however do not refer to such vulgar items as tickets and spectators. They talk of badges and patrons.

The tournament first sold out in 1967 and the patrons list was closed in 1972 at an estimated 30,000 to 40,000 badges – the tournament committee does not reveal the exact figure.

A waiting list was closed in 1978 as the list “grew to such proportions that any additions would not be able to receive tickets in the foreseeable future,” according to a committee member quoted in the Augusta Chronicle.

By 1995, overcrowding at the practice rounds forced Augusta National to start a yearly lottery for tickets to the three days preceding the tournament. Those who have not previously attended and those from the local area are given priority in the lottery formula.

A notice on the Augusta Chronicle’s website states: “Tickets for practice rounds are pre-sold for the third straight year. Gates open at 7:30 a.m. If you don't have a ticket already for the Masters Tournament, you're out of luck. There are no ticket booths open for the tournament.”

Small wonder a ticket to the Masters is known as “the hardest ticket in sports.” In 1998 I had the good fortune to cover the Masters for the Sunday Times and at dinner one evening came across a typical Masters story.

Our waitress, a Georgia belle who punctuated her sentences with a typical southern “y’all”, revealed that she has four tickets to Augusta left to her in his will by her grandfather. That year she had sold them for $2500 each to finance her studies at Georgia Tech… and then some!

Ticket touts desperately search for badges that big corporates will buy for fabulous sums while plots to forge them have been uncovered by the Pinkerton guards (security company) who keep a taut grip on proceedings.

I ran foul of them on my one and only trip in 1998 – or Mark O’Meara’s year in the patois of Augusta patrons.

A Press ticket is like gold. Seriously first-class. It allows you to go anywhere. Inside the ropes in front of the clubhouse where the players are interviewed under the great old Live Oak tree and where more business gets done in a week than anywhere else in America. You can book a glorious Augusta breakfast – eggs double over or sunny side-up, with hash browns, pancake and maple syrup, bottomless cups of coffee – or dine in the grillroom. A Press ticket gets you into the player’s locker room, into the exclusive members’ pro shop and onto special stands down in Amen Corner and alongside the 18th green.

In fact, just about the only place you can’t go is into the Champions’ locker room and to the Champions’ dinner – probably the most exclusive gathering anywhere on the globe.

It was in the pro shop that a friendly, and incredibly familiar looking, American, who had read the details on my Press card, approached me to express surprise that I had traveled from South Africa to watch the Masters.

He introduced me to his pal, an exceptionally tall bloke (I think they said 7ft 1in) who they claimed was the tallest professional ever to win a tournament, suggested we have a drink and a chat and, when I agreed, casually asked, “where shall we go.”

Still troubled at how familiar my new friend looked I suggested the pub in the lounge in the clubhouse; just a short walk from the pro shop. My new pal ordered a Margarita (they make great Margaritas at Augusta) and the other two of us Budweisers.

Waiters came up to ask my talkative friend for his autograph and when he repaired to the men’s room I was able to ask his golf pro mate, “is he who I think he is?”

Next thing though a tough-looking, bald-headed and very muscular Pinkerton guard, the spitting image of Lou Gossett in “An Officer and a Gentleman”, with a few others in tow had surrounded us and he was hissing: “You’re out of here. Now!”

Needless to say I was panic-stricken. From innocently browsing in the pro-shop I was now faced with being ejected from Augusta National. Sergeant Major Pinkerton was in no mood to play, too. “Put down your drinks and come with me now or we’ll have to use force,” he commanded, “you know you’re not allowed in here.”

“But my friend Danny invited me for a drink,” said the sociable one. “Your friend Danny can’t invite anyone anywhere,” said the cop, “and if he’s not careful we’ll withdraw his Press credentials.”

In no time at all we found ourselves outside the clubhouse, outside the rope around the oak tree with the man from Pinkerton warning my friend with the receding hairline that if he tried one more funny thing he would be shown the gate, and snarling at me not to abuse my Press privileges.

When he left I angrily confronted the forward one and scolded him for nearly having had me thrown out of Augusta. “I’m sorry, man,” he replied, “but I just had to prove that I could have a drink in that bloody clubhouse.” And with that Kelsey Grammar, Frazier in the TV sitcom, because that’s who he claimed to be, went off chuckling while I rushed off to apologise to the Pinkerton man and make sure that he didn’t report me to the man in charge of the Pressroom.

I still wonder whether it really was the actor or an imposter – some Pinkerton guards thought he was the real deal and others agreed with me that he was too tanned and too trim – but one thing’s for sure – if I ever get back to Augusta I’ll not talk to any strangers!