Eamonn Gavigan

WASHINGTON Road is dead straight, and very, very long, most of it uphill.
I know, I’ve walked every inch of it. After an hour waiting for a taxi, I decided to set out under my own steam from Indian Creek.
I had no idea where the Augusta National was but I thought I’ll just follow the crowd.
Trouble was, there were crowds going in every direction. I had to ask which one did I needed to latch on to.
"You need to go in that direction, sir," said the Yank. What he didn’t say was there was another three miles plus to go.
As I trundled up the road, I couldn’t help thinking how big everything was, even the ants, they were huge, as big as mice.
But then this was America, it just wasn’t the mouths that were big, even if they were polite.
Still, I’m a journalist, all things come alike to me, that was until I got to the gates of the Augusta National, the one sign-posted Media.
Just as I about to step through, a big burley heavily-armed cop blocked my way. ‘Next gate down, sir’. I thought how polite he was. I cockily flashed my accreditation with my picture on.
"I go through here," ‘Not unless you are in a car’ he growled as his hand dropped onto his gun.
I could just see the headlines back home, ‘Gavigan shot in battle of Augusta’.
Front page stuff maybe, but my brief was to fill the back-page.
Tail between my legs I moved to the next gate.
I had already crossed the law, and I hadn’t even made it onto the course.