The little blue card

There were signs everywhere. ‘No Mobile Phones allowed on the course, please check them in at a booth’.
As I got nearer to the main entrance to the Augusta National, the security corden got tighter.
I was filtered into a queue, it was just like the security at an airport – and this was pre-9/11.
I could taste the apprehension, the excitement, I was just outside the Holy Grail.
The gatemen pointed me in the direction of the Media Centre. I had to check in and get my accreditation for the week.
I was in, I could feel the adrenalin, and that was just from the fans.
As I approached the Media Centre, more security but I was welcomed through the doors into the foyer.
The history of the US Masters screamed from the walls. Pictures of all the great players since 1934, when it all started, were everywhere.
I noticed the interview room was to my right. Would I be in there with Westwood, I wondered.
I got a good, old southern welcome at the desk from a lady called Martha, I think they were all called Martha in that part of the world.
"Welcome to Augusta, sir, is this your first time?" I said yes and my details were logged into a computer.
"Do you want to go in the ballot to play golf on the Monday?" The answer was obvious, that’s why I brought my clubs but, I suppose, she wasn’t to know that.
She gave me a little blue card. It had the number 101 on it. "That’s your ballot number, sir. Look after it. The ballot will be done on Sunday morning."
I’ve still got that little blue card.
It was to open the door to an impossible dream.