2020 Masters Choose Your Own Adventure, Patrick Reed vs. Jon Rahm: Goodbye, Augusta
Harry Trump/Getty Images. Pictured: Patrick Reed, Jon Rahm
You are removed from the course and your badge is taken.
The NFL has been referred to as the No Fun League for its resistance to allow players to display any personality on the field of play. Through one brief interaction, its commissioner has proven to you that such an approach extends well beyond those stadiums.
All right, you’ll admit, so maybe the Tom Brady jab was a little crass considering the situation, but hey, at least you made Peyton Manning laugh.
Goodell grabbed your elbow some 40 yards right of the first green and doesn’t let go until he unceremoniously passes you off to a security guard who is waiting in a golf cart. The lesson, you quickly learn, is one of the following: Either don’t ever bring a cell phone into Augusta National or don’t ever get caught bringing a cell phone into Augusta National. You decide the former is safe without the latter ever taking place.
As the commissioner huffs away like he wants to charge you for the four minutes of his life you’ve ruined, the security guard steps on the gas pedal of the cart. You slowly start moving in the other direction as you yell back over your shoulder, “That clown nose doesn’t look nearly as big in person!”
You hear a cackle from one of the two men in green jackets and don’t need to turn around to know it wasn’t Goodell.
“So, where we going?” you ask the security guard, now full of piss and vinegar, shooting all your shots on the way out the back door. He doesn’t answer. In fact, he’s so straight-faced that you’re not even sure he heard you … or that he’s alive. He might be some cyber-security guard, funded by Augusta National money to look real and escort violators off the premises.
The cart finally comes to a halt on Berckman’s Road, outside one of the entrances. The guard abruptly rips the badge from your new Masters-green polo shirt, one of the lone remnants of your quick trip to the tournament, then points at the pavement.
He still hasn’t said a word, and that point makes it unclear whether he wants you to get out and start walking away or hit the deck for some form of crueler, more unusual punishment.
You decide to start walking as the cart turns around and heads back in the other direction. You’ve been successfully thrown out of Augusta National and not thrown in jail, which doesn’t feel like a total loss. Now you’ve got a decision to make: Make the rational choice of finding a place to watch the final round on TV somewhere in the greater Augusta area, or push your luck and see just how much trouble you can get yourself into by trying to sneak back onto the course.
Talk about a few divergent paths.