Guided by Moses

As we set off up the lane, the driver said: "You must be a very important man, sir, cos no-one is allowed in here unless he’s a president of something."
I could almost taste the excitement of what was coming. At the front of the Augusta clubhouse I jumped out of the taxi, straight into the locker-room where, the day before, the champions of the world had been changing their shoes.
It was an eerie feeling as I emerged onto the course. Gone were the 50,000 fans who were there the day before, now it was just deathly silence as I prepared for the greatest moment of my golfing career.
Didn’t anyone care, why was no one here to watch.
"Sir this is your caddy," said the starter. "His name is Moses."
I remember thinking, he parted the Red Sea. No problems with the water then.
"Help yourself to a card and pencil," said the starter. Fool that I was, I took just one pencil and one card.
Moses, the best part of 60 and dressed in a pristine white overall, picked up my little black bag. "You English," he said. Not a good start, ‘Irish’, I spat back. "Never mind," he said.
To be fair, we gelled like Mickelson and Bones as I scrambled my way round the course.
I relied on his advice on the greens, big-time. When he told me to hit the ball ten yards right of the hole, I did.
I finished with an 82, a nett 76.
The course was about 600 yards shorter than it was the day before but, that’s just between me and you.
Still, it’s something to tell my grandkids – and I have done, numerous times.
The reply is nearly always the same. "Where did you say you played, Granddad?"