The Masters holds a special place for Cape May National Golf Club owner Bob Mullock and some of the long-time members.
The late Skee Riegel, who was the pro-emeritus there before passing away in 2009 at age 94, played in 11 straight Masters at Augusta from 1947 through 1957. He was the low amateur in 1948 and finished second to Ben Hogan in the 1951 tournament.
My how times have changed. This year’s winner, two-time champion Scottie Scheffler, received $3.6 million while runnerup Ludvig Aberg took home $2.16 million.
Hogan received $3,000 for his two-shot victory in 1951. Riegel, who finished two shots behind, earned $1,875.
Partly in Skee’s honor, Cape May National celebrated his achievement Saturday by holding its own version of the Masters. It’s a fun, unique event in which your 18-hole score on Saturday is combined with someone’s final round score at Augusta on Sunday.
Scheffler, Aberg and my new favorite golfer, Eric van Rooyen, played amongst the azaleas in warm sunshine and tricky winds.
I played in snow.
The flakes began to fall early in my round, which I opened with a double-bogey. It quickly melted through the next five holes, but an unexpected blizzard hit me on the par-5 seventh.
That’s when I built a snowman, plus an igloo for him to enjoy the day.
In golf parlance, an eight is nicknamed a snowman. My “Frosty” began to take shape when my drive veered right toward a row of hedges.
My second shot landed 10 yards behind my first shot after caroming off a tree root with a loud thud that sent my playing partners – who were standing behind me – ducking for cover.
Two shots later I was still closer to the tee box than the green. I reached it on my sixth attempt, then dug into my golf bag in search of a corn cob pipe and button nose.
Three putts later, I exchanged my Footjoys for galoshes, pulled out a shovel to replace my putter, scribbled a nine on my scorecard and began to regret not packing a couple mini-bottles of Fireballs to dull the disappointment.
It was apparent that Van Rooten could shoot 59 on Sunday – he shot 76 – and I still wasn’t winning.
In a weird way, it took the pressure off and allowed me to enjoy the back nine. I bounced back on the par-5 14th by curling in a 15-foot putt for birdie.
My mood brightened as I checked my phone and learned that my eldest grandson, Hampton, had gone 3-for-3 in his machine-pitch Little League game.
That took the sting away from seeing my tee shot on the par-3 17th land in the water, startling the two swans that were gliding along the surface.
In actuality, I didn’t play horribly. Despite my misadventures earlier in the round, I managed to shoot 93 with a few pars and the birdie for a net 81 that left me in the middle of the pack of the 50-player field.
Nothing that a post-round margarita at the Rusty Nail in Cape May couldn’t cure.
Dave Weinberg’s Extra Points 