Chapter 1: Hooked

“I’m home,” I called out as I came in the door.

Dropping my backpack by the door, I made my way to the kitchen at the back of the house. Glancing out the big picture window that looked out over the 3rd hole of the Wood Winds Country Club, I saw my buddies getting ready to tee off on the Par 4 hole. Grabbing an energy bar, a banana, and a bottle of water, I paused to give mom a kiss on the top of her head as she sat at the breakfast nook breaking beans for dinner.

“How was school, today?” she asked.

“Oh, you know, same old, same old.”

“Your math test?”

“It wasn’t a test, Mom. It was just a quiz.”

“Well...? She asked.

“Aced it!” I grinned. “As usual.”

“Homework?”

“Already done,” I told her. “I’m gonna go play.”

“Dinner’s at seven. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t, Mom,” I told her as I hurried to the garage to grab my gear. Then ducking out the garage’s back door, I made my way down the short path to the tee box on hole number three.

My name is Alexander (Alex to my friends) Masters. My dad, Darrel Masters, is a pilot for Delta Airlines, and in his free time, loves to play golf. My mom, Laura, is a stay-at-home mom, raising my two sisters, Kelly Ann and Jenna, and me. Five years ago, when Jenna and I were entering the seventh grade (Yes, we’re twins), our folks bought this home on the Wood Winds Country Club golf course. The green-side home is located in a fairly large upper-middleclass subdivision on the northwest side of the city and came with a one-year family membership to the Wood Winds Country Club, including the pool, the restaurant, and of course the golf course. My dad found me a rag-tag collection of used clubs and immediately began taking me with him to play golf on his days’ off.

I don’t know if it was having my dad’s attention for four or five hours or the excitement of being involved in an ‘adult’ activity with other adults. Perhaps it was just the warrior-like thrill of pitting my meager skills against others, but it wasn’t long before I was HOOKED!

Our Junior High School (grades 6, 7, and 8) did not have a golf team, but I still played almost every afternoon, weather permitting. For Christmas my eighth-grade year, I received a set of used Ping Irons and a older Titleist ‘Scottie Cameron’ knock-off putter. However, with my scores averaging in the low 100’s, the clubs didn’t seem to make that much difference.

Then, in the spring of my eighth-grade year, two things happened that affected me profoundly. First, my folks signed me up for golf lessons, which turned out to be group lessons from the club pro. And second, my dad took me to see the Master’s Tournament® in Augusta, GA.

No, we weren’t that rich, nor did we travel in those rarified circles. But dad’s big boss, the president of Delta Airlines, was a member of Augusta National and shortly after he was hired, began the tradition of providing tickets for the event. Then somehow, my dad’s name was drawn for two of the coveted Saturday/Sunday admissions to The Master’s Tournament®. After our visit to Augusta National that spring, I fell in love with pimento cheese sandwiches and I knew what I wanted in life.

I had watched The Masters on TV a time or two, but honestly, I thought watching golf was boring. However, after my all-too-brief visit to those hallowed grounds, I swore to myself that one day, I would become good enough to play in the Masters.

Not a bad goal for a thirteen-year-old-golf-prodigy-wannabe. So, I threw myself into my lessons and practiced almost every afternoon, developing a routine of an hour on the practice range, a quick nine or eighteen holes (depending on how crowded the course was), and then another two hours on the practice range.

My new high school offered two semesters of golf, but only the second semester (spring) had official league standings. However, our high school coach turned out to be the son of our club’s pro, and he had evidently talked with his dad about me. Coach Barnes encouraged me to try out for the fall semester. He felt that the extra time, and any additional growth I might have would only help.

Well, I did grow that fall and winter, adding almost four inches to my lanky frame, as well as adding another twenty-five pounds, but instead of getting better, I got worse. I was so clumsy, I was finding it difficult to walk down the fairway without tripping.

I added a couple of more inches that following spring and now stood six-foot-two and weighed in at 175 pounds, but still no significant improvement in my scores. My folks found a week-long golf camp for me to attend that summer, and it was there that I learned what was happening to my body. So, I quit worrying about being clumsy and awkward and just played to enjoy the game.