I’m Still Hurting. Badly’ – The Agony Of Not Coming Out The Augusta Media Ballot

This is my opportunity. My Golf Monthly colleague, Mike Bailey, has been afforded one of the golden tickets: a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to play Augusta National courtesy of his name being drawn out of a hat (it’s not done quite like that) in the media ballot. He’ll be playing Dr Alister MacKenzie’s world famous creation tomorrow (Monday). Or will he?

I was not one of the lucky media bods to see my name revealed on the TV screen in the press building on Friday – and I’m still hurting. Badly. Mike has to attend a mandatory meeting in the interview room at 10.30am today to go through the dos and don’ts of playing the course (mostly don’ts, I reckon). Understandably, he’s buzzing, excited to complete the trio of of St Andrews, Pebble Beach and Augusta National.

His fate, though, is in my hands. When he leaves his desk, and his phone (you can’t take cell phones into the interview room), I’m planning on taking some photographs – loads, in fact, of all the places in the building you’re not allowed to, which is pretty much everywhere. Then, when we’re out watching Brooks Koepka and Jon Rahm coming down the stretch – when Mike’s telling me for the umpteenth time on how he plans to play Amen Corner – I’m going to discreetly deliver news of a Rules violation to the nearest marshal. Dream over.

I’m joking, of course. I’m absolutely delighted for Mike. We met each other for the first ever time this week and hit it off immediately. We’d even planned to go for a beer. No chance, now – I can’t look him in the eye. At this moment in time, I feel like it’s exam results day, where your best pal is dancing around with his ‘A’ in Maths and you’ve failed. Actually, it’s worse than that – way worse.     

When the announcement came inviting media to enter the ballot on the front desk, there was very little movement in the press building – too full of professionals, many of who have probably played the course the same number of times as Gary Player. I don’t exactly sprint up the staircase (not allowed) and down the stairs to reception the other side, but I’m fairly brisk – and I try to style it out in a casual way that makes it look like I’m just off to the gents.

I then get my ticket: number 004. This suggests to me that I’m the fourth person to enter out of what will probably be, so I’m told, a few hundred. I tell the lady on reception my sob story…