I love working the Masters. My first was in 1983, in the days when the caddies were such a big deal that we would walk across Washington Road in our white jumpsuits and get a good table at the Green Jacket restaurant. In 1990 I carried for Scott Hoch, who the year before had missed a little putt that would've won the playoff he was in with Nick Faldo. That putt was an elephant in his living room, and I didn't want it sitting on him all week, so after he described it at a pretournament press conference as 14 inches long, I told him he must think he catches some pretty big fish. He laughed, and we finished a respectable 14th. I haven't been jack to Augusta since then, although I deserve a Purple Heart for my reaction to the emotional victory in '95 of Ben Crenshaw, my current player. On that Sunday I was at home watching on TV when Ben birdied the 17th hole. I jumped off my chair and left a chunk of my hand on the blade of a ceiling fan.