"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.
After camp, I noticed a slight improvement in my scores, but nothing really noteworthy. I decided to stick with fall golf again, and Coach Barnes said he could see some subtle differences, but I was still shooting double bogey golf (+2 strokes/hole) or scores in the high-90's to low 100's on our par 72 course.
During all this time, I was a decent student, thanks to some good study habits my folks insisted on. I had an okay social life, albeit it mostly centered around golfing. But there was the neighborhood and the pool at the country club for diversionary activities in the summer. I didn't really have a problem talking to girls, especially about golf. But girls usually wanted to talk about other things and go places and do things that always seemed to conflict with my practice or playing time, so I really didn't date that much.
I finally made the varsity golf team in the spring of my Senior year. Not because I was all that good, but there just weren't that many upperclassmen interested in being on the golf team. I came to realize that for all my love of the game, and as hard as I tried, I would never become a great golfer. I just didn't seem to have what it took.
Our first match of the season was the last weekend in February, at our home course, which happened to be Wood Winds Golf Club. With highs only reaching the mid 50's, and blustery winds, I had my best round ever, breaking 90 for the first time. Okay, 89 is not that much better, but it was my first sub 90 round. In a three-school format with 22 golfers playing, I came in 15th. So, it was my first time placing in a varsity tournament. All my buddies were clapping me on the back and Brandon dumped a can of Coke on my head.
A couple of weeks later, on a Friday in mid-March, we had an in-service day for teachers. That meant a day off for students. I celebrated by sleeping an hour later and was looking forward to playing golf with my buddies. But after making a few phone calls and not finding anyone to play with, I just grabbed my clubs from the garage and made my way down to the 3rd tee. It was overcast, but dry as I began my solitary trip around the golf course.
I completed my round when I got back to the #2 green and paused long enough to add up my strokes. Wow! I had shot a new course record, for me, of 88. But without any witnesses, it was a hollow victory at best. Then I headed up the short path to the house for a quick lunch.
"Anyone call for me?" I asked mom as she set a glass of milk next to my sandwich.
"Steve called and said he was on his way to Chattanooga to visit his grandmother," she replied.
"Oh, well," I thought, "Guess his parents are taking advantage of the long weekend."
"And your dad called from Munich. He sounded sorry that he wasn't here to play golf with you on your day off." Dad had recently gotten enough seniority to bid on and win a couple of European routes and seemed to really like it. We all liked that he was only gone for four days (two roundtrips) at a time.
"Thanks for the lunch, Mom," I called out as I headed back to the garage.
"Be careful, Sweetheart," she called back. "They're calling for storms later this afternoon."
"I will, Mom!" I yelled from the garage. Grabbing my clubs again, I looked to make sure I had my golf umbrella strapped to my bag and headed back to the 3rd Tee. The skies looked darker, and the winds were picking up, but no rain. I figured it was a good thing I was playing by myself because I might not get a complete round in if I was playing with a foursome.
After a decent drive on the par 5, 16th, I was walking up the 16th fairway when suddenly I heard the warning claxon that signaled that all golfers should clear the course. As I returned my club to the bag and picked up my ball, I was wondering if this was another tornado warning. In the spring, in Georgia, the warnings came regularly, but they never seemed to amount to much.
Luckily, when the claxon sounded, I was where I could simply cut through a small stand of pines that separated the golf course from Mayflower Street and then take the sidewalk about a hundred yards up to the clubhouse. I hoped I could make it before the rains hit, but it would be close.
The next thing I knew, there was a buzzing sound as the hairs on my neck stood up and I felt the ground begin to vibrate...
Then an explosion! And darkness!