Genteel. Charmingly southern. Party guests stopping to chat ever so politely and then quickly moving on to avoid the risk of conversation depth. Glasses of champagne and white wine held ever so delicately in the porcelain white, soft hands of women in wispy flowing dresses ruffled by the night’s breeze who, although living in a sunny, hot clime, appear to be have been far away from the sun. Alabaster skin. Men in brightly colored pants, some wearing take-a-look-at-me bow ties. Good bourbon.
It was Masters week at Augusta National Golf Club in Augusta, Georgia, mid-1990s, and the wealthy locals were sashaying about at a Friday night cocktail party, dropping the first names of famous golfers as if they lived next door.
“Freddy just can’t putt anymore.”
“Jack and Arnie look like they could still win here.”
“Phil’s got the game. No doubt about it.”
I loved being a guest amid the elegance and quiet pride of those hosting not just the party but the Masters itself, the most famous golf tournament in the world.
Wanting folks I talked with to know that Texas has a mighty fine golf tournament of its own, I was eager to show I was not totally out of my element, although, clearly, I was. Seersucker suit or not.
A magnificent brunette stopped to ask if I was from Augusta.
“No, ma’am – Fort Worth, Texas.”
“Have you ever had the pleasure of attending a major golf tournament?” she asked.
I was quick to respond.
“Well, I sure have. In Fort Worth, we have The Colonial.”
Her brow furrowed but she smiled as sweetly as the peaches in Georgia.
“Never heard of it,” she said abruptly, moving daintily but dismissively away.
And happy Ben Hogan to you, I wanted to call out, my feelings crushed.
Never heard of The Colonial?
I wanted to tell her that in Fort Worth the annual PGA event at Colonial Country Club was indeed a major tournament – as in major shenanigans. In those days, our tournament had more excitement and unpredictability than a slice at the first tee. There was just no telling what might happen at The Colonial, where much of the action occurred after the day’s round – either in the bar or, God forbid, on the greens at nightfall.
People in the old Colonial days wore clothes they could leave behind and look for the next day.
It’s a little-known fact that halter tops were invented at The Colonial. Just like the old Backstage Club at the rodeo, the place was basically a singles bar.
Sometimes the growth and sophistication of a city is not all good, if you know what I mean.
We had lots of hospitality but no tents.
Skyboxes were for Dallas Cowboy football fans. The Star-Telegram had one of the first ones at The Colonial.
“Why in the hell would I want to sit above the 18th green all day?” said one of the first persons I asked to join me there. It was expensive and lonely that first year.
Our tournament, in full bloom heading into Memorial Day weekend, has become gentrified and formal. The sushi crowd moved in among the cowboys and cowgirls who needed a day off from the ranch to let off some steam.
Last year I saw a banker caddying during the pro-am. In the old days, he would not have been carrying the bag. He’d have been in the bag.
Hats off, though, to the new sponsors of the tournament and to the folks who brung ‘em here. Never made sense to me why a specialty food chain, Dean & DeLuca, would sponsor a tournament in a city where it has no stores. Maybe they heard about the old days and thought they’d come here for some Wild West Texas fun disguised as a golf tournament. Whatever. They sponsored, they came, they saw, they bolted.
But the tournament goes on. After a fashion.
Sadly, for some of us, these days it’s just about golf. Great golf, mind you, with the likes of Dallas native Jordan Spieth in the field. But golf much better watched at home.
Richard Connor is president and publisher of the Fort Worth Business Press. Contact him at rconnor@bizpress.net