Frank
He won’t remember it. He will be too young, and the most complex thing on his mind will be whether his next snack is ready as he is wildly running around. That’s fine. That’s exactly fine. Because I will remember every single second of it for both of us.
Kade was born October 3rd, 2024. My first grandchild. Lauren’s son. And the Masters Tournament is in April, which means his first one will land right in that window where he’s still small enough to hold in one arm but aware enough to look around at the world like it’s completely bewildering and also maybe wonderful.
That’s pretty much how I look at Augusta National too, so we’re already on the same page.
What Augusta Means to Someone Who Grew Up an Hour Away
I’ve said before that the Masters is practically a religious event in our house. That’s not hyperbole. Growing up in Milledgeville, Augusta is not some distant mythical place, it’s down the road. You grow up hearing about it every April your whole life. The azaleas. The roars echoing through the pines. The fact that it’s one of those rare things that is actually, genuinely as good as its reputation.
I’ve watched it on television more Aprils than I can count. I watched it with my dad. I watched it with William before we lost him. I’ve watched it with Kimberly, with Lauren when she was little, with Logan. Every generation in my family, whether they know it or not, has a relationship with that tournament.
And now Kade is going to be introduced to the Greatest Golf Tournament in the world, even if his contribution to the viewing experience is mostly sleeping or running around and occasionally needing a diaper change at the worst possible moment, like right when someone’s putting for birdie on 12.
The Thing Nobody Tells You About Being a Grandfather
There’s a version of this that I expected, which is the warm fuzzy stuff. And sure, that’s real.
But what I didn’t see coming was this specific feeling, which is more like standing at a long table and suddenly realizing there’s a new seat at it. A seat that wasn’t there before. And everything you’ve ever loved, every tradition, every ritual, every stupid thing you care about too much, now has one more person who might care about it someday too.
He’s going to watch the Masters with me. Maybe not this year in any meaningful way, but this year is the first year. That counts. You don’t get the twentieth time without the first one.
I spent most of my adult life grinding through hard things. Losing William. The trials, the appeals, almost two decades of that machinery grinding through us. Being diagnosed with Autism, ADHD at 55. Struggling through life, on `Expert Mode`, of course. Building a career from scratch. Raising two kids. There were years when it honestly felt like the good stuff was always just around a corner I couldn’t quite get to.
Kade is not around a corner. He’s right here. Born into a PopPop that’s going to sit him in front of Augusta National every April and explain things like why Amen Corner gets its name, and why the leaderboard on Sunday afternoon does something to your heart rate that no medication fully manages, and why the guy on the 18th green crying after a win isn’t embarrassing himself, he’s just being honest.
That’s a curriculum worth passing down.
This April Is Going to Hit Different
I don’t know who’s going to win the tournament. I never do, and the Masters has a way of humbling everyone’s predictions anyway. What I know is that sometime in that second week of April, I’m going to be sitting there watching it with a little boy (about to be two) who has no idea yet that this is going to be one of the things we do together for the rest of my life.
He’s going to grow up and think it’s just something they do at PopPop’s house every spring. He won’t know that the first one meant anything.
But I will. And that’s enough.
