The Road Rules

So here I am, on a seven-day roadie that's already started out in weird fashion (more on that later).

Because I consider myself to be an "interesting person" (translated: bored out of my mind with nothing but a laptop and some time go kill) I am often compelled to share stories from what I like to call, "A Sportswriter's Life." Often glamorous, never lonely (ha!), here's a snippet.

I like to rent the ugliest car on National's Emerald Aisle. Why? Because when you have to park in big parking lots outside of stadiums, arenas and golf courses, it's pretty easy to forget if you rented the charcoal gray Pontiac Sunfire, the black Chevrolet Impala or the silver Saturn Ion. I go for things like the PT Cruiser (got a royal metallic blue one for spring training once) or, this week, a black Chevrolet HHR. The other reason I go ugly early is because...I amuse myself.

Lack of water pressure sets me off. I'd rather stay in the Super 8 than the Ritz-Carlton if the shower in the S8 has a powerful shower head and the RC has a dripper. I bring this up because here in Augusta, I'm staying in someone's condo (lovely) for the week, and the shower does not produce enough pressure to remove soap from my body, much less shampoo from my hair. Speaking of soap, my host provided me a bottle of "body wash" instead of a bar of soap. I will be making a trip to Walgreen's later.

Jeff, Party of One, Your Table is Ready. So, last night, I had to break one of my Road Rules. I always eat at the bar when dining solo. And then you come to an event like the Masters and the bars are all packed with people in official Masters merch, and...you gotta eat. So, I had to walk up to the hostess and put my name on the list. "How many, sir?" she asked. "Just me," I said, staring her right in the eye, daring her to even so much as roll her eyes. So, just me, my Blackberry, some bread and a glass of wine. That's such a good look.

The Masters. If you have never been to Augusta and you are a golf fan, I encourage you to try and get here at least once in your life. Come on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, walk the grounds, buy a shirt or hat, eat a Pimento Cheese sandwich (I actually prefer the egg salad), take pictures and have pictures taken of yourself in all the usual spots, smell the fertilizer, then go home and watch the golf on television. Seriously, if you want to enjoy the Masters and see the shots that matter, it ain't happening out here, especially on Saturday or Sunday when the field has been cut.

Plus, it's hard not to get irritated by golf fans, dressed up to play, practicing their grip and putting stroke with their umbrella. Saying, "Nice swing" to Phil Mickelson after he's hit a shot. Or, better yet, "Good roll."

PS: My son Tyler is picking Geoff Ogilvy.

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