Family Tradition Unlike Any Other

After 40 years, few memories from second grade linger, but I’ll never forget the April morning when my dad showed up in the doorway of my classroom to take me to a round at the Masters Tournament.

Though all our Robinson family lived in the Augusta area, we lived an hour east at the time in a little town where Dad was the Baptist preacher.

By the time we got to Augusta that day, we nearly ran out of gas on Washington Road as Dad passed several gas stations because he thought their prices were too high. Now, in his late 70s, he’s the same. “They must think a lot of their gas,” he might say.

Washington Road, then as today, was lined with chain restaurants, strip malls and parking lots, identical to the suburban sprawl of any mid-sized American city. Some of the development looks a little nicer in 2024, but the main difference is that Augusta National has bought up significant acres of surrounding neighborhoods and bulldozed the old ranch houses into a manicured pastoral setting that serves as parking for Masters patrons one week a year.

Living across the river in North Augusta, my dad’s parents became Masters ticket-holders in the years after World War II when you could buy a pass on Broad Street for a few bucks and when most patrons were locals.

Dad followed that tradition and became a patron sometime during the mid-1960s – one of the smartest moves he ever made, as I doubt he’s missed many tournaments in the past half-century.

I’ve benefitted from that decision, too. I’ve gotten to go to the majority of the tournaments since that first time I went in 1983.

As the setting sun sprinkles a golden hue on the pine trees and flawless green grass while I walk to the exits, I’ll marvel that this most perfect patch of Earth is here in my beloved state.

I assume Dad did eventually give up and buy expensive gas before we pulled into the Masters parking lot, a plot of land that has since been converted into the world’s most beautiful driving range.

Master’s, Augusta, GA, 2023 | Photo credit: Kelly Courtney.

Just shy of 8 years old, I’m sure I didn’t realize that day that walking into the National isn’t just passing through a gate; it’s like entering into another dimension. You turn off a road that’s Anywhere America and enter the Garden of Eden.

I remember what we did that day in 1983 as well I remember the 2023 tournament. We sat alongside the fifth hole for a while, because Dad nearly always does a stop there.

To this day, I go to hole five every year to see at least a handful of groups pass through, even though it’s a tough par 4 where you don’t get to see many exciting birdies.

For lunch, I had a Coke, a Castleberry barbecue sandwich and a Snickers, which we ate sitting on the ground along the rope line of the 11th fairway. I think of that moment every time I pass that spot.

Over time, I abandoned the barbecue sandwich for the delicious club and at least one pimento cheese sandwich. I’ve found that folks from other parts of the country are fascinated but sometimes disgusted by this Southern delicacy, but I tell the friendly strangers that they must at least try it. It’s just $1.50, for goodness sakes. Or is it $2.50 now? It’s a deal either way.

Later that day, walking along a pathway, we came across a strong stench that overpowered my young senses, and I had to rush to a trash can with a sick stomach. I asked Dad what that terrible smell was. He told me it was spilled beer. For years I believed him and wondered why any sane person would drink that.

As a teenager, I discovered that smell was actually fertilizer. I don’t know if Dad just didn’t know that or if, as a Baptist preacher, he saw a chance to warn me off adult beverages. In any event, his ploy didn’t work, as the stack of green Masters cups in my house attests.

This month, I’ll return to Augusta National. I’ll sit alongside the fifth hole for a while. I’ll eat a sandwich in a green wrapper. I’ll drink a beverage from a green cup.

As I walk to the exits while the setting sun sprinkles a golden hue on the pine trees and flawless green grass, I’ll marvel that this most perfect patch of Earth is here in my beloved state. And I’ll think once again, as I always do, of a buck-toothed, freckle-faced second-grader creating lifelong memories with his dad.

Next year, my only child enters second grade – a fitting time for her to become a fourth-generation Robinson patron of the Masters Tournament.

Brian Robinson is co-host of WABE’s Political Breakfast podcast.