A letter from Hootie

AS the Westwood contingent crossed to the 10th tee, I had another matter on my mind. On entering the foyer to the Media Centre, there were journalists scurrying about looking for a line, a word even, that would give them an exclusive the next day. “When are they doing the ballot,” I asked one of the Marthas behind the reception. “It’s already been done,” she replied, pointing to the wall behind reception. “The list of names is on the matrix.” I had wondered why everyone appeared to be looking up there. Now I knew. As I watched the revolving list of names move down the board, my mouth fell open. There it was, the number 101, with the name Eamonn Gavigan alongside it. Exhilaration, anticipation, trepidation. It was all rolled into one. I had to calm myself down. Not only was I on my first visit to the Augusta National, I was now going to play it. Who can ring, who can I tell? I wished my dad was alive. He would have loved this. “Our boy played Augusta, you know,” I could just hear him. There I was, in a crowded room, but on my own. I rang the office. I think the reply was along the lines, ‘You jammy bastard’. I approached the desk. “What do I do now?” I asked one of the many Marthas. “Can I see your card?” she asked. “101, that’s correct, here’s your invitation.” I struggled to open the envelope. There it was, an invitation from Hootie Johnson, the chairman of the Augusta National, inviting me to play his little ole course. Now, who was I to refuse an invitation like that.