So on Masters Sat. in '86, my brother calls from Augusta with an extra badge for that day, but the call isn't until about 11 a.m. I wouldn't even get there until 2 or 3, so I beg off. However, he has the same badge for Sunday, so I head on over from Atlanta Sunday a.m. It's the first time I've ever been to the Masters.
We watch from the dogleg on 13 for awhile, then move over to the tee on 16, and gradually work our way toward the ropes, and I'm about 15 feet from Nicklaus when he hits the shot that almost holes out. By then, the entire place is crazy, for lack of a better word. The only thing that I've ever been live that was remotely comparable was the Braves-Pirates 7th game when Bream scored from second on a single to left in the bottom of the ninth, but that didn't last nearly as long as the back nine at Augusta.
And that's how I became Forrest Gump for one Sunday in April, long, long ago...