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2020 Masters Choose Your Own Adventure, Patrick Reed vs. Jon Rahm: Hot Water

2020 Masters Choose Your Own Adventure, Patrick Reed vs. Jon Rahm: Hot Water article feature image

Harry Trump/Getty Images. Pictured: Patrick Reed, Jon Rahm

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

A man clad in a green jacket is sternly questioning you as he charges closer from about 15 feet away. He looks so familiar that you almost instinctively stick out your hand to shake his, because you’re sure you know him from somewhere. Then it dawns on you.

That’s NFL commissioner Roger Goodell.

Augusta National doesn’t publicize its membership, let alone alert the public as to when it has offered invitations for new members, so we don’t know exactly when Goodell was bestowed this status, but it’s safe to assume it was sometime in the last few years, a fact only discerned when he started showing up during Masters week in the same green jacket that is heading your way right now.

“I … I saw that,” he spits out, gesturing toward your pocket. “You have a cell phone.”

“I, um, well, I, uh…” you start to explain, poorly, before you lose your train of thought. The other man — the taller, younger one, also wearing a green jacket — is now standing next to you and Goodell, looking on in bemusement as the commissioner makes his accusation. “Holy crap, you’re Peyton Manning.”

“Nice to meet you,” Manning says, sticking out his hand before seeing Goodell’s flinty glance and pulling it back.

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The commissioner isn’t having any pleasantries.

“That is a serious violation of the rules here at the Augusta National Golf Club,” he offers, as if reading straight from a rule sheet. “You’re coming with me.”

You try to plead your case.

“Wait, this is my first Masters. Please give me another chance. I don’t want to miss this.”

Again, Goodell won’t budge, repeating part of his line, “A serious violation of the rules!”

A hapless, lifelong New York Jets fan, you figure you might as well make the best of this situation. If you’re going to be ejected from the Masters, you might as well go down swinging.

“Jeez, man,” you say to Goodell. “I wish you were this stringent on the deflated football policy.”

Manning doesn’t only laugh, the sip of beer he’d just taken shoots straight through his nose and splashes onto the pine straw beneath his feet.

The commish isn’t nearly as enthused. He grabs you by the elbow and escorts you away.

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