It’s been one heck of a journey to get here. Did I mention I nearly died in a fire this morning? Well, not quite but the Yanks certainly don’t share the Irish lackadaisical approach to fire alarms.
Being on a first name basis with the fellas in the US Embassy in Dublin is one thing but to walk into the absolute palace that is the Augusta National Press Building for the first time and for the staff to already know who you are was quite the start to my first morning on the hallowed turf. Better late than never I suppose, I wonder will Rory McIlroy give me a shoutout on Tuesday.
After last year’s well documented debacle I expected a similar hassle at Dublin Airport once again this year – a tradition unlike any other. Anyone who listens to the Irish Golfer Podcast will know when Peter wasn’t lambasting five-time major winner Brooks Koepka as a ‘nothing player’ he was trying to get me hyped up for the Masters. But I refused to nibble. Out of fear that I would be turned away again. Even my best mate didn’t know I was going this year.
It wasn’t until I posted an instagram story of a fire breaking out at the hotel I am staying in near the golf course that people realised I was going to the Masters. I couldn’t bring myself to tell people in case I was left dejected again. I wanted a quiet time if I was denied progression through US Pre-Clearance.
Sunday was the big day, after about one hour of sleep both due to nerves and the plague I am currently dying from I made my way to Dublin Airport and arrived at the check-in desk at 7am for an 11am flight – full dad mode. But I was taking no chances, I made sure to give myself two hours of breathing room as I expected to be escorted through the double doors of doom behind Pre-Clearance. I also played with house money and decided not to eat anything beforehand in case I needed to drop a rusty, watery number in the toilets.
The moment of truth arrived, I was directed to the desk where it had all gone wrong before I had a double take thinking it was the man who turned me away last year, but it wasn’t, so my nerves were eased slightly.
“Where are you going today sir?” the man asked. “To Atlanta to cover the Masters.” I replied with as much conviction as I could muster with my blocked nose, sore throat and croaky voice.
“Okay, have a good day sir.”
Too f***ing right I will.
I bounced through the pre-clearance towards the gates, I didn’t care that I had over three hours to go until my flight, I was in, this was actually going to happen.
As for Monday morning… Sometimes you have to wonder as four fire trucks and about 20 firefighters tear through the front doors of your hotel accommodation “why does this always happen to me?
At just some point between 4-5am a fire alarm shocked me awake. Had I been in Ireland I would have most likely fobbed it off but this was actually serious business. So, I did what any sane human would do, got my clothes on and grabbed my room key. No, not anything I actually need like my passport or press credentials, my bloody room key.
Surely, having come so far I wasn’t going to have my Masters hopes literally go up in smoke? Not that I could smell it. What an omen though for a dud winner this year, Patrick Canltay and Russell Henley please don’t do this.
I feel like I have been through hell to get here and I’m sure there will be further incidents to come this week. But I’m here, finally and it’s worth it.
My excitement reaches fever pitch as the sun begins to rise and the iconic slopes of the golf course starts to take shape through the long windows of the Press Building.
Time to walk all 18.
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