As another break from the great debate, here is a story by another reporter who won the Monday lottery. Seems the very difficult greens can be putted by amateurs with good advice from local caddies.
"In caddies we trust
Playing Augusta day after Masters a lesson in just how tough greens are
Apr. 12, 2006. 01:00 AM
DAVE PERKINS
AUGUSTA, Ga.Here's the first rule for playing Augusta National Golf Club: Always trust the caddies.
Or put it this way: If Fred Couples had putted like a certain Toronto typist did Monday, following the lines and directions of the man on the bag, he would have won the green jacket.
Yours truly won the annual lottery to play the National the morning after the Masters with a handful of other press types. Same Sunday pins, but only (blessedly) a few of the back tees. Granted, it's a hacker having fun and not the grind of a Masters, but on those very same nasty and altogether wonderful putting surfaces, your servant did not three-putt once.
Correct. All two- and one-putt greens. Couldn't believe it myself. All credit to the caddie, a six-year Augusta veteran named Derrick, who earned his $55 fee and its twin, the tip, with a perfect series of reads and lines.
The bad news, for those demanding bottom-line arithmetic, is that even with a hot putter in this case an original Nicklaus Response that's old enough to vote the final score of 91-ish has an asterisk, which we'll get to in good time.
The talk among our four caddies was how poorly a number of the contenders had putted, especially in the final round. Not Phil Mickelson, though, who avoided three-jacking Sunday to most deservedly win his second Masters.
As one of our group's caddies said, "I saw a lot of bad strokes, but I saw a lot of worse lines. I could see on TV at home that they were getting some bad advice. I don't know why some of these pros don't hire the local boys when they come here."
It's a very good question. Those guys know every inch of every putt.
First, if you'll indulge more boasting, the highlight a wedge stuffed to a foot and a half at the final hole for a tap-in par, third par in a row. Thrilling. And it will need to do, possibly forever. After winning, media types may not enter their names for seven years (he said wistfully).
Our group, including my Golfweek pal Jeff Babineau, who was hitting it very well, played the back side first, so it was late in the round when pars arrived on the seventh and eighth holes, and rather easily, thanks. Which got us to the ninth tee, thinking, "Well, Jack Nicklaus ended his Masters career on the ninth hole last year, so if it's good enough for Jack ..."
Then came my drive ripped hard and reasonably far (which seldom happened) but into the left trees (which often happened). A punch out to the walkway at the bottom of the hill left exactly 100 yards straight uphill and a hard pitching wedge disappeared, flagbound, over the ridge, followed seconds later by some yelling from witnesses. Nearly holed it, they reported. What a site to walk up the hill and see. Not a bad way for a hacker to go out anywhere, much less Augusta National.
Needless to say, this was a tremendous experience despite greens as treacherous, challenging and occasionally weird as they appear on TV, only more so. But they roll perfectly and had a lot of grass on them, considering they had been pounded for a week. The ball went just where you sent it. No excuses there.
Without getting too gruesome, this was a day of excellent putts, but too many horrible shots, especially from bunkers; the sand, like sifted flour, was an overmatch for me. First five holes included four bogeys and a double bogey and that includes a secret mulligan. Lousy tee shots, every time, but as Derrick said, in his own way of cheering up the boss, "Well, you could be at a muni hitting bad shots, too."
Ah, but 15. Poor drive but a good second, followed by a nine-iron to 25 feet and birdie putt that stopped a foot away, but brought on a visit from Mr. Cohiba. (Babineau reached in two and made birdie; we applauded.) Plus, my caddie got out the ball retriever, which I had regripped especially for the occasion, and fished out Tiger Woods' third-round dunker it has his name and mark on it plus Darren Clarke's shamrock-marked Titleist from the famous pond.
Parred 16, too, after launching a five-iron from the back tees right at the flag, but a yard short into the bunker. Got up and down, a straight downhill tiddler of five feet started with a quarter-inch of putter backswing. We went up the hill and tried those 50-foot downhill jobs, with our backs to the hole, for "fun" if that's the right word. Caddy advice: Move it one foot and it went the other 49, and more, by itself.
After a bogey at 17 came three train wrecks we won't talk about, except to say that on the first hole, fearing for the safety of my helmetless playing partners because of back-and-forth skulled wedges, I had to pick up to keep pace. Shameful, sure, but it looks like seven on the scorecard. Next hole was a real seven after another tree experience. Then another bogey, a double, two more bogeys where par putts burned the edge I felt like Mike Weir briefly and then those three pars.
The seventh was a perfect example of the caddie's craft, a downhill 20-foot birdie putt that Derrick said to start at least two feet right of where I was looking and stroke it "like a four-footer back home." After it circled slowly down, missing the cup an inch right, the six-foot comebacker went straight up the hill and in.
Five superb hours after the round started, we lunched on the clubhouse terrace, hoping a member might come along and wish to adopt a middle-aged child. None did. Heading out, driving down Magnolia Lane, cued up Sinatra. "I've Got The World On a String" Frank sang and, even though this had been a, uh, working day, I knew what he meant."