being a photo staffer at a newspaper in Augusta, Georgia, Masters Week is always looming in the future until BAM! it hits you. 14 hours a day, day after day hiking up the rolling luscious green hills of Augusta National with a 600mm over your shoulder.
my town changes. it's crawling with strangers asking for directions. traffic is backed up. restaurants have long waits to be seated. the golf gods are prayed to every night.
my routine changes. i wake up before sunrise every morning, my skin turns pink from the sun, my shoes become muddied with the rain, my shoulder aches from my monopod, i eagerly get to play with the nikon D3 all week, i'm surrounded by golf fanatics, an endless supply of free food and drinks and then there's that constant desire to get an even better photo at the next hole. and an even better photo tomorrow.
i don't even like golf.
well, as of tonight, with one day of the international competition to go, i've spent more than 75 hours on the course. i've actually learned what the numbers on the scoreboard mean (what??!?! red is good?). i've grinned at patrons after hearing the incredibly obvious "wow, that's a BIG LENS" countless times. i've eaten countless pimento cheese and eggsalad sandwiches (the vegetarian food options are few), i even found myself actually getting into the tournament this evening and secretly cheering for the guy who always celebrates and would make the best photo if he wins tomorrow on 18 green.
one. more. day. of grass and fans and polo shirts.