In 2024, I spent a day at the Masters with my dad and my sister. I wrote about what the experience meant to me, and received lots of messages from other patrons who had similar fond memories from their time at Augusta National. This year, I wanted to help share those stories.
Working on a fun project for Masters week but I need your help! If you’ve been, I’d love to hear your story (big or small)! What it meant to you and what you remember most about that day! Would love any photos too!Dm me if you’re interested!
Over the last few weeks, my email has been flooded with deeply personal Masters memories. We’ve been publishing these stories throughout Masters week.
To everyone who wrote in and shared their favorite memories from attending the Masters: thank you so, so much! You brought this project to life.
My dream of attending the Masters had finally come true. It was Sunday and Rory McIlroy was in contention to win his first Masters and complete the career Grand Slam. I woke to my 4:30 a.m. alarm with a pit in my stomach — a mix of nerves, excitement, a couple too many glasses of wine at the Partridge Inn the night before and a genuine concern for how McIlroy would perform that day.
We gave ourselves 15 minutes to get out the door. No water. I popped an Advil, got dressed, and headed out the door. Augusta National was waiting. All four of us crammed into the rental car and within minutes, we found ourselves parked. Pitch black. Waves of people joined the queue in an orderly, polite fashion. There was a buzz in the air. It was fun picking up snippets of conversation along the way:
“Oh shoot, my leftover tiramisu from last night is still in my backpack.”
I chuckled at that last one and glanced over. She caught my eye and smiled. We started chatting to pass the time. Spirits were high. An hour passed. We all watched the sun rise over the vine-covered walls of the patron entrance, warmth beginning to embrace us. Birds chirping joyfully. Thirty minutes to go.
We were maybe 15 rows from the front when a commotion broke out a few rows ahead. Someone had fainted.
“He needs sugar,” she said as he began to rise from the hallowed ground, a look of bewilderment on his face. He hadn’t yet clued in to what had happened. Bewilderment turned to embarrassment once he realized he’d fainted. It was tiramisu girl to the rescue. She asked his friends if he’d like some tiramisu to help bring him back to life. By then, the paramedics had arrived. Everyone was okay.
My mind began to spin. I haven’t had a drop of water today, let alone a morsel of food, I thought. Excitement aside, I’m not feeling so great. I’m not entirely comfortable in tightly packed crowds. Maybe I’m next. Maybe I won’t even make it in.
Then, sure enough, my vision began to narrow and my body started to feel weak. I’d fainted once before, many years ago, but this was different. Everything was at stake this time.
“I think I’m going to pass out,” I blurted to my friend beside me.
“Want me to ask her for the tiramisu?” he asked, half-joking.
He returned a moment later with a takeaway container of the heavenly ‘pick-me-up’ (apparently a direct translation from Italian — couldn’t be more fitting). I began shoveling the sweet, creamy concoction into my mouth. Within seconds, a wave of relief. I was back.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Masters Tournament.”
I called my dad from one of the free phones on site and was truly lost for words. I had to call back once I could actually speak to tell him where I was and how unbelievable the entire scene was. Wishing he could be there with me. It was very emotional.
Ultimately it showed me how moments bring us together, regardless of what they are. The Masters has always had a special place in my heart, since I was a young aspiring professional golfer watching on TV every year with my dad, without fail. The four of us friends experiencing that Sunday together has cemented a bond that will never break.
What followed was a tradition unlike any other and truly the best day ever. – Mark Quinlan
I grew up in Augusta, and have gone to the Masters for most of my life. I would go to the tournament and practice rounds sporadically with my mom and dad. In 2001, my dad got four tickets to the tournament. I had to work that week, but he left me an extra ticket if I could get off early and meet them. I was never able to do that. My mom, dad and uncle sat on Amen Corner that day and watched everyone come in. My dad passed that summer from a stroke at 45 years old. We were on the waiting list for series badges and in 2010 my mom began receiving two annual tickets to the tournament.