Augusta

Caitlin Johnston said I should post this essay in honor of Father's Day. Great idea. Here's Wright Thompson:

Most everything makes me think about my Daddy, and this morning, of all the stupid reasons to fight back tears in public, it's chipped beef on toast. I'm sitting at the corner table on the clubhouse veranda, waiting for Arnold Palmer to hit the ceremonial first shot of the Masters. Man, my father loved watching Arnie. To do it from the veranda with a plate of chipped beef? Hotty Toddy, brother. Only, the excitement of incredible moments like this is muted for me now. I've learned in the past three years that I did many things solely to tell Daddy about them later.

The crowd stands on Washington Road, waiting for the gates to open. For a moment, the course is quiet. Birds chirp. Mowers drone. Soon, another lucky diner asks if he can join me. His food arrives first. As we talk a bit, bundled against the chill, he looks at the empty space in front of me.

"What did you order?" he asks.

"Chipped beef on toast," I say. He laughs. "Breakfast of champions," he says.

"It was my dad's favorite meal," I explain.

"Did you ever bring him here?" he asks.

There is a silence. "No," I say, turning away.

Daddy watched the Masters every year. He dreamed of attending just one, and he's always on my mind when I come here for my job. Indeed, for all of us lucky enough to actually walk through these gates, we cannot leave without having thoughts of our daddies, for Augusta National is a place for fathers and sons. Davis Love III navigates the same fairways as Davis Love Jr. New fathers carefully hold toddler hands. "Can you see?" you'll hear them say. Strong arms tenderly steer stooped backs. "Look out, Dad," you'll hear them say softly. That is Augusta.