"O.K., Tommy," Finsterwald said in a belittling voice of his own.
It was too much golf course for Stuart Wilson, the way he was playing. I had seen him play beautifully at Troon, which was hard and fast and breezy. Augusta National was long and wet, and the greens, which look so big, are actually tiny because there are so few places to land the ball. It was too much everything. Unless you have a certain innate golfing genius, as Fuzzy Zoeller does, you're not going to figure it out your first week there. Because of the rain delays, the days were long and slow.
"It seems like a long time ago you played in the Par-3 Contest," I said while we waited in a fairway on Saturday.
"It seems like a long time since I was home," Stuart said wistfully.
He shot rounds of 82 and 82, and when it was finally over, he huddled with his parents and relatives and friends and cried in the arms of his wife, Lesley.
I returned my jumpsuit to Gray Moore, the Augusta National caddie master with the rich Southern accent. Augusta National was once an indigo plantation, and the jumpsuit was once the uniform of plantation workers throughout the South. Caddies at Augusta National and elsewhere started wearing them years ago because the members didn't want to look at their raggedy mismatched clothes. I asked Andy Martinez, Tom Lehman's veteran caddie, if he'd eliminate the jumpsuits if he could. "I wouldn't," he said. "I like the tradition."
As I write this, far from Augusta, I have a clear image of the six members of our group--three players, three caddies--standing on the 18th tee late on Saturday morning waiting to play our 36th hole. The sound of a train whistle swept over the tee.
"That's such a quaint sound," Watson's man, Oxman, said quietly.
"Very Scottish," I said. In Scotland, as Ox would well know, there are often train tracks and passenger trains running alongside courses.
"Very Southern," he said.