Fezziwig Press & Photography by Stu Jenks

"Bozette at the Bisbee 1000 Great Stair Climb"

"Bozette at the Bisbee 1000 Great Stair Climb" (c) 2009 Stu Jenks

[The first two images were taken by me. The bottom image of Bozette and I, participating in the Ice Man Competition was taken by Cathy Spann.]

"Li Ning and his flame spiraling upward..."

Chinese gymnastics champion Li Ning lights the cauldron of the Beijing Olympic Games during the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics held in the Bird’s Nest, in north Beijing, China, Aug. 8, 2008.
(Xinhua Photo)

[Spiral Boy cried again, watching the replay just a few minutes ago. It means so much to me, to see a flame spiraling upward. So much negative attention goes toward the idea of 'spiraling down', but I love the idea, and thrive on the mystical image of a flame spiraling upward, and now, billions of people worldwide, know that joy and wonder as well.]

Tucson Roller Derby: Night Two of the 2008 Season

Tucson Roller Derby: Night Two of the 2008 Season

    [The new season begins. FTW won their bout over The Copper Queens and Vice beat the IC. Good play, all around, from all four teams. New format this year: Two bouts each Game Night. All four teams play. It's tiring for the players I suspect but a joy for the fans. Below is a sampling of the action from last Saturday's bouts (plus some portraits of two new refs and one veteran.) Hope you enjoy the images, and I'll see you around the rink.]

"The Championship Bout" (c) 2007

"Tucson Roller Derby's Championship Bout: Furious Truckstop Waitresses vs. Vice Squad; 9/15/07; Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[All Photos by Stu Jenks except the below image of The Furious Truckstop Waitresses which was taken by Cathy Spann]

"The Passion of The Refs: The Semifinals of Tucson Roller Derby" (c) 2007

“The Passion of The Refs: The Semifinals of Tucson Roller Derby” © September 2007 Stu Jenks

       Odd thing being a photographer for TRD. I often have the best seat in the house, but, at the same time, since I’m working, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know which team is ahead or behind, or what the pack is doing. (I do know who the lead jammers are though and I do keep an eye on the pivots.) I’m basically a brain/soul/body/spirit connected to an eyeball, connected to a lens, connected to a little computer. I’m constantly looking for The Image: The jammer out in front of the pack; the clash between jammer and pivot and the other blockers; the small details that others in the crowd can’t see due to their lack of proximity. The announcers’ play-by-play and banter is just a drone in the background. I’m basically perpetually looking for The Shot. It’s what photogs do, I’m afraid. A blessing and a curse. One big eyeball.
       Luckily though, last Saturday, I was able to disengage from my eternal quest for The Shot and enjoy the bouts between Iron Curtain and The Furious Truckstop Waitresses and between Vice Squad and The Copper Queens. I mostly attribute this to my plan before I got there, of shifting of my focus away from the skaters at times, and more toward the refs, the timers and the scorekeepers. I shot the referees primarily because I knew I would have close access to them and they all have wonderful faces too. (Too close to the officials at one point. Sorry again, Johnny Crash, for getting in the way that one time. I am teachable if nothing else.) Again, I shot the game action like I had at other times, but how many more shots of Flo or Penny do we really need, leading a jam? So, on Saturday night, I shot those other hard-working men and women of The Derby, who, if it weren’t for them, it would just be athletic women in nice clothes, skating counter-clockwise.
       I was particularly struck by the passion of the refs to get it right. It’s a lot of work to record the points, to call the minor and major penalties, to keep order in the structured chaos. Also, the intensity in the eyes of the scorekeepers was striking as well. I’m guessing the light in their eyes is no different than those who keep score in Division One College Basketball or in NFL Football, for the expectation of absolute accuracy is the same: They need to get it right. Every time.
       So all hail to the Refs, the Scorekeepers, the Merch People, the Timekeepers, The Announcers, the Security People, the EMTs, the Derby Widowers, and the dozens of other unsung (or less sung) heroes of The Roller Derby. I know the women really appreciate you all, as do I and many others.
       And maybe next time, I’ll get a better shot of a dedicated Security Person, rather than a soft-focus image of them in the background. And hopefully I’ll get an image of an EMT at the ready, one of these days. And more shots of the Derby Widowers.
       I did get a nice shot of a big man in a pink boa, though.
       Gongala, Gongala. So I got that going for me.

       [Addendum: FTW and Vice advanced to the Finals. FTW beat Iron Curtain 113 to 82 (but it was closer than that), and Vice defeated The Copper Queens, 112 to 92, again, a closer match than the score reflects.]


       Other favorite moments from TRD’s Semi-Finals:

       1)      Sneaking up on the man with the pink boa, my attempt to be ninja-like, an invisible grasshopper, getting close enough to capture a candid image of this man.
       2)      Cheap Ore slamming into the Announcers’ Table, in the final seconds of her bout against Vice, and her then springing to her feet, smile on her face, dusting herself off, and being hugged by players and fans alike.
       3)      Chatting with Ruby Hellcat, at a break about this and that (I won’t tell), but once again, struck by how much shorter and more vulnerable Roller Derby Girls are, without their skates on. On go the wheels, and all of these women seem to become ten feet tall and bulletproof.
       4)      Noticing for the first time, that the ref, Strictly Bizniz, has a sticker of Mr. Natural on his helmet. I smiled as I took the shot.
       5)      And finally, being struck, over and over again, by the high level of professionalism by everyone involved. And I’m not being pollyanna-ish here. There is an dark underbelly, conflicts, stresses, sadnesses, disappointments, like with all things. But I just feel fortunate and grateful to be able to help as I can.
       As I was picking up some negs at Photographic Works today, talking about the bouts to the staff there, I said the below, and it ain't the first time I've said it to someone.

       "Roller Derby is one of the last pure sports. Played for the love of the game."

       Championship is this Saturday. Hope to see you there.

[Images from top to bottom: Pink, the New Black; Seven Refs; 1.17 seconds; Octet of Refs; Kali and Doe Pivots; The Doe and Flo Show; Flo on Turn Four; Bolshe and Doe; Ruby's Gaze; Downtown Dave and Che; Kay Boom and the Boy Scorers; The Two Scorers; The Scorekeepers' Eyes; Eeka's Wheels; Great Barrier Ref; Penalty Girl; Johnny Crash; Mr. Natural; Good Sports; Pink and Mista Miner; The Back Stretch; Ferocious, Kay, and Sami; Polly Graf; Polly, Carrie, and Kay Boom; Cheap Ore's Profile; Copper Blur; Penny Again; Cheap Ore in the End; & The Pink Boa. Prints available upon request, at a good price.]

"Stu & Stuart at The Masters" (c) 2007

"Stu Jenks and Stuart Appleby at the Masters, Augusta, Georgia" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks and CBS Sports

[The above image was taken off my television, from a videotape. Stuart Appleby drove off the 17th tee on Saturday and landed in a bunker below the green on the 7th hole. He had a hell of a time getting out of the sand trap. Good golfer. Bad hole. He ended up triple bogeying it. Stuart has on the white visor with the sand wedge in the crook of his arm. I'm just behind him, to his right. I'm wearing my Krispy Kreme baseball hat. I'm cold and I have my hands in my jacket's arms. I'm looking to the right. Hard to see with all the TV pixels but that's me. Stu & Stuart at the Masters]

“Stu and Stuart at The Masters, Augusta, Georgia” © 2007

           Let’s be clear about something right up front:
           I’m not a trust fund baby.
    Granted, my mother’s side of the family were Southern Aristocracy, but Earl died before I was born and Nannie lost half the farm on her own and had the other half stolen from her. She ended up living her final years with my parents, my sister and I. I’ve often said that if Nannie hadn’t lose all of her money, I won’t have a septum in my nose from all the Coke I would have snorted in the 70’s and 80’s with her inheritance.
    My father’s side of the family were railroaders. Stuart lived the American Dream by having a bit larger house and a bit fatter wallet than his father, but we were by no means rich by current American standards. Upper Middle Class at best.
    Now my widowed mother is living all right now, in a small house in the Northern Neck of Virginia, off the earnings from the sale of Ed-Lil, our river place, and from Dad’s social security and IBM retirement. But she isn’t rich either.
    Her surviving sister Virginia lives in an Assisted Living home just down the hill from me in Tucson with her husband and my godfather Len. Uncle Len is 93, in fading health but still the brightest man I know as well as the most politically progressive person I’ve ever met.
    “I need to stay alive until after the election,” he said back in 2004, “just so I can vote against President Bush.”
    Len, until his health began to decline, was an avid golfer. And Len has had tickets to the Masters Golf Tournament in Augusta, Georgia, since 1964. That’s right, since 1964. Pretty much all of my nuclear and extended family have been to the Masters in past years on Len’s nickel, Mom and Dad a number of time. But lately, Len as just bought his three badges and given them away to others.
    But this year, at my mother’s strong encouragement, I got to go to The Masters.
    Now, I was ambivalent about this. Sure, I’ve enjoyed watching The Masters for years on TV, and I played my share of golf as a kid (I’ve only played a few times as an adult. Just cost too much now), but being around rich entitled white people for four days sounded like this artist’s definition of Hell. I hemmed and hawed for a few months and then I agreed. Why? Primarily because this may be the last chance I ever get to go. Len may not live another year and once he’s dead, the tickets go away. They can not be inherited. And secondly, my mother offered to foot the bill, buy the plane ticket, pay for the rental car and the motel rooms. And since I had little vacation time accrued at the day job, I decided to just go for the two rounds on the weekend and not go to the first two rounds on Thursday and Friday. And two days of white people sounded like enough for me. Len, in his generosity, bought the badge and gave it to me as a gift. He is a lovely man.
    About the badges, the tickets, if you don’t know. They don’t cost all that much, $175 for all four rounds of golf. But the badges are next to impossible to obtain, for they only allow so many people into The Masters, and those who have the opportunity to buy the badges, always do. They stopped taking names for the waiting list in the 1970’s and I’ve been told that if everyone who has tickets now died today, there would still be 2/3 of the waiting unfulfilled.
So I said yes. So did my cousin Sally, one of Len’s daughters. We would go separately but hopefully see each other on the course, even though, with my tight schedule, I doubted that would happen. (I visited Bo, one of my best friends, in Charleston, S.C. on Saturday night and on Sunday, right after the tournament, I drove back to Atlanta, and caught an early Monday morning plane now. Sally and I talked on the phone a few times but never saw each other at Augusta.)
    So on Good Friday, April 6th, 2007, I boarded a plane, flew to Atlanta, got my rental car and headed to Augusta. The plan was to just get a motel room in Athens or somewhere else along the way, and then get up early the next day and head into Augusta. I did just that.
    Augusta is neither a big town nor a little one. Traffic was slow and monstrous as soon as I got off the Interstate. It was around 10 a.m. I slowly inched my way closer to Augusta National. People seeking badges flanked the road. None were there selling them, only buying. Everyone was selling parking though, from the Pizza Hut owner to the hardware store guys. The Midas muffler shop has a sign that read “Closed for the week of The Masters”
    “Wow,” I said out loud as I crept by. Wouldn’t be the last time I said ‘Wow’ that day.
    [Note: Residents of Augusta often rent out their homes to the players, to large corporations, and to the rich and the very rich during Masters Week. Then they pocket two to three months of mortgage payments and leave town for the week.]
    I trusted my gut and headed closer to the main gate. Parking was running around ten bucks. I figured before I arrived that parking would be one of my own highest personal expensive. Right across from the gate, I found an evangelical church renting space for $20 a day. I took it.
    No cameras or cell phones are allowed on the grounds. I put on my Krispy Kreme baseball cap and my light polar fleece jacket, adjust my rose colored shades, put the Canon D30 in the trunk, lock the Saturn Ion and head for the front gate.
    It is very cold this morning, for spring in Georgia that is. Got down to freezing last night. They say it’ll only get into the 50’s today. Plus the wind is really blowing. This is going to be a hell of a round of golf.
    After pissing in the fanciest Port-A-Potty I’ve ever taken a leak in, I get in line to enter the country club. It’s going to take a little time, for there are metal detectors, laser scanners and a troop of security guards in front of me.
    I’m excited, I have to admit.
    Then two finely dressed black men get behind me in line. We start up a conversation talking about this and that. Is this your first Masters? (It is for all three of us). Where are you from? (Me, Tucson, they, Atlanta). How did you get tickets? (Me, through my uncle, they, through their work). Isn’t this exciting? (We all three agree it is). Smiles and laughter all around.
Then the taller of the two men ask me if I have been here on Thursday and Friday.
    I knew what the answer was and I knew the reason why. I’ve been making this joke for days in Tucson. I paused and decided to speak the truth.
    “No, I’m only going to be here for today and tomorrow,” I say,  “I was telling friends back home before I left, that I think I can only handle two days of White People.”
    The two black men say nothing for half a second and then both of them throw back their heads in laughter. After a minute, the taller man sighs and with a whimsical but serious look on his face says.
    “It’s their world. It’s their world.”
    I chuckle back and say “Ain’t that the truth.”
    And he ain’t talking about just Augusta National Country Club either.
    We all three sigh as our laughter subsides.
    “Ain’t that the truth,” I say again.

           Within minutes, I'm through the gate. I stop and get a cup of coffee and then head for the golf course. I stop by a table and get a couple of pocket programs and a single sheet that has today's tee times and pairings on it. I walk to the first tee and take it all in.
           It's even prettier than on TV.
           The front nine climbs numerous hills to the north and the back nine drops down to the creeks to the south, more or less. A ridge of Loblolly Pines can been seen a mile to the west. Pretty as can be.
           I decide to follow Phil Mickelson today but he doesn't tee off for another hour or so, so I take the time to wander around the back nine. No one is playing the back nine so it's pretty much just me and a few dozen other people, just taking in the famous golf course.
           15 minutes later, I'm at Amen Corner, that famous section of Augusta, that is the 11th green, the 12th hole, and the 13th tee.
           "Would you look at this," I say to no one but myself.
           I walk beside the 13th fairway and then I see the 13th green, surrounded by a blanket of bright azalea bushes, in full bloom, the colors of fire engine Red, of pure White. I begin to quietly cry.
           "Wow," I whisper but I don't need to. No one is here. Too early in the day for people. Just perfect for me and the course.
           "I'm here."
           I make my way back to the first tee, but along the way I stop for some provisions. My mom said over and over that I needed to get a Pimento Cheese sandwich, while at Augusta.
           "But Mom, I don't really like Pimento Cheese."
           "Buy them anyway," Mary said, "You'll be sorry you didn't."
           Augusta National has got it down to a science on how to feed and beverage people on the course. At about four locations, they have these Masters Green colored tents, each with four lines a piece that travel through the structure, where you can buy candy, beer, soda, chips, and
handmade sandwiches. Ham and Cheese, Egg Salad, and the revered Pimento Cheese. All sandwiches are in heat-sealed Masters Green bags, each saying they are 'Made Fresh Daily'. I get in one of the lines and buy two sandwiches, an Egg Salad and a Pimento Cheese. Buy a diet Coke
too. I like Egg Salad. I buy the Pimento Cheese, just thinking there will be hell to pay if I don't at least try one.
           "What?" I can hear Mom say on Monday, "You didn't even try one? You made a big mistake, Stu."
           And they are cheap too. Buck fifty a sandwich. $1.50 is worth not getting shamed by my mother.
           I stuff the sandwiches into the pockets of my fleece jacket, one per pocket. I'm not hunger now, but I will be so enough.

           3rd Fairway: The twosome of Phil Mickelson and Jose Maria Olazabal:
    "Flowering Peach"

           Course conditions are just bizarre today. Barely 50 degrees with the wind blowing at about 20 to 30 miles an hour. Olazabal has boogied one of the first two hole but Phil has pared One and Two. I've figured out how to follow this twosome. Watch them putt on the greens and then pick them up in the fairway, when they hit their second shot. Can't keep up with them if I watch all the tee shots.

           4th  Green: Par three: “Flowering Crab Apple’

           Did you see that? Unbelievable.
           Olazabal's ball hit the green but didn't make it to the top plateau and it rolled and rolled. Finally it came to a stop. Then a big gust of wind came up and BLEW IT a couple more inches, after it had already stopped rolling, the first time.
           I giggle.
           I look to the guy next to me and say "It's like trying to putt on concrete."
           He smiles. I giggle again.

           5th  Fairway: Par four: “Magnolia”

           I'm getting hungry. I reach into my pocket and pull out the Egg Salad, ripping the green bag with my teeth. I'm walking to the green. Phil has hit his second shot. I take a bite. I suddenly stop walking. I chew and close my eyes.
           Man, this is one good Egg Salad sandwich.
           I continue to walk and chew, shaking my head with joyous disbelief.

           8th Fairway: Par five: “Yellow Jasmine”

           Phil's playing great. Some of the most amazing pars I've ever seen. From the leader board that I saw at the 7th, only one golfer is under par. For the tournament. Not for the round, for the tournament. Phil's is 4 shots back.
           I'm built to do this, walk and follow a twosome for 18 holes. At least once a week back home I hike deep into the desert or high in the mountains. I'm getting older and have a bit more of a love handle than I've ever had, but my legs are as strong as when I was 30. Or I tell myself
that. Hiking up and down the hills of Augusta is a piece of cake for me. I see others though who are having difficulties. They only hike for a hole or two today and then find a place to sit or just pealing off and find a grandstand. Me, I'm almost done with the front nine and I'm not even winded. A bit cold but not winded.
           And hungry again.
           I reach into my other pocket and pull out the Pimento Cheese sandwich. I gently tear it open, peel back the green plastic and take a bite as I walk.
           I stop dead in my tracks.
           I moan, like I'm having sex.
           I take another bite.
           I moan again.
           The cheese is sharp Cheddar. The white bread is like a cloud. The red pimentos adds just a hint more flavor. I'm blown away.
           Momma was right.
           "They are the best Pimento Cheese sandwiches you will ever eat," she said on the phone last week.
           She was right as rain.

          10th Tee: Par four: “Camellia”

           Haven't seen Phil tee off up close yet. In order to keep up with Phil and Jose Maria, I've picked them up after their tee shots and then followed them to the greens after they've hit their second shots. But it looks like I'll be able to keep up with them from the tee here at 10, for the hole doglegs hard to the left. Looks like it'll be just fine.
           Phil tees his ball, steps back and then addresses the ball. The head of his drive is huge. Must be one of those new titanium drivers. Michelson is a quick hitter. He takes just a couple of seconds and then begins his back swing. He then hits the ball with a loud 'whack' and follows
through. I quickly turn my head to watch the ball. Granted, the hole is downhill and to the left but it is a monster drive. Then after the hundred yards or so, as if the ball is on remote control, the ball curves hard to the left, following the curve of the dog leg.
           I can't help myself. I just start to laugh.
           "Good God Almighty," I say to the breeze.

           "Amen Corner"
           [11th green: Par four: “White Dogwood”; 12th hole: Par three: “Golden Bell”;
           13th tee: Par five: Azalea]

           I was here at Amen Corner hours ago. No one was here then except a few dozen people in the bleaches, saving their seats for later, listening the strong wind blow through the Loblolly Pines, looking at the bright vision of Azaleas that surround the 12th green. I cried just over there, earlier today, seeing the huge expanse of white, red, purple and blue Azaleas that surround the 13th green, it dwarfing the impressive display here at 12. I remember saying quietly to myself, 'I
can't believe I'm here,' over by the leader board at 13 and 14. Again, I'm not a big golfer now but I am one for tradition, beauty, spectacle, ceremony, and mystery, and Augusta has all of those and more.
           But to be honest, Augusta has a darker side too. A long history of discrimination against women and Blacks. Yes, there are black men as members of the club now, but no woman is a full fledged member of Augusta National. Only wives of members and they must come with their husbands.
           [Word is that there are only 300 members of Augusta National, and to become a member, you must be asked and then pony up about a half million dollars, before you pay for your yearly membership fees. Legend has it that Bill Gates asked to be a member and the Board politely told him he needed to be asked. They let him cool his heels for a two years before asking him to join.]
           This is the South, the home of my birth and things have changed and things have not. No longer are all the caddies in the tournament African-American, but all the caddies are still required to wear the white coveralls of that past era. Television has made it so a black kid in Chicago can root for Tiger Woods, a half Black/half Asian man who is the most intimidating, dominant, and aggressive player on the tour today. 50 plus years ago, Tiger wouldn't even be playing the game
of Golf, much less winning Green Jackets.
    So things have changed some. Also a working class artist and counselor can come to the event, that is, if he has a rich uncle who has tickets. Guess that was always true, now that I think about it.
           But one thing I've notice, while walking the course today, just can't be denied.
           This is the land of Wealth and Privilege.
           Examples?
           90% of the crowd is white and many are old.
           Those who are young walk with the air of New Money, oblivious of everything except what is going on inside of their heads. They talk too loud. They act like their shit don't stink. They demand faster service at the walkthrough food cantinas. They are jerks.
           Balance that, however, with the Old Money, polite to all they meet, smiling and conversational to me and others. Understanding that they are living a dream and wishing that all could be so lucky. These rich people are the very good rich, who believe in Noblesse Oblige, that with wealth and power comes social responsibility. They know they are fortunate and even though, they can appear condescending at times, they do not intend that.
           Old Money is here and I've had a number of quick delightful exchanges with men and women of privilege today, but I've also been muscled aside needlessly and almost knocked down by New Money, living firmly in their head and wishing for happiness in a future that may never
come, ignoring the joy of the present all around them.
           And then there is the cigars. Sweet Jesus Christ, the cigars.
           Ok. I smoke cigarettes, but I try to be considerate about it, not to smoke around those who don't smoke, not to smoke and walk on city streets upwind of others. I was a bit worried, before I came today, that I may have to go into the woods to have a butt here at Augusta.
           Boy, was I worried for nothing.
           All day long I've been surround by tall, overweight, white men smoking huge expensive cigars. So large are these stogies, that it looks like these men are sucking on a brown penis. Not a pleasing image I tell you. And when they exhale, a literal cloud escapes their body and covers the surround crowd in thick smoke. And they don't care that they are in a large group of people. There are New Money. 'God damn it! I worked hard for all of this. I pulled myself up by my boots straps, unlike other lazy bums.' [Ignoring the facts that they get a couple of legs up for being men, white and ex-athletes.] Their cigar smoke is a visible fart on the course. I've done my best to avoid these men today.
           So Money is here in a big way. But like the South, it's complicated and complex. No single cliché fit. There are nice Rich people here, many asshole Rich, some black people, mostly white, all pretty much having the time of their life.
           All part of the exclusive club of Masters Ticket holders.
           Including an Art Boy from Tucson, Arizona.

           17th fairway: Par 4; “Nardina”

           Phil Mickelson continues to play well, making a lot of pars, staying close to the leaders. He'll probably not win the Tournament but he's been a joy to watch today. Tall, a big man, with a bouncy walk like me and seems to play with a perpetual little grin on his face all the time. I like that.
           Phil and Jose Maria are way over there at the 17th tee box, over two hundred yards away. I can just barely see them practice-swing. I skipped the cluster-fuck of 16 so I could see their drives coming right at me and hopefully get a good view of their approach shots to the green as well.
           I see Jose swing first. A second later I hear the crack of the ball, then I hear someone yell 'Left, Left!!!'
           I'm left.
           Then I hear the ball above my head clicking and clacking through the branches of the tall pines. Then, miraculously, the ball drops a hundred feet from me on the edge of the fairway. Safe but not a very long drive.
           Then I see Phil address the ball.
           [If you don't know it, Phil and Tiger are two of the longest drivers on the tour. All day long Phil's been out driving Jose Maria by at least twenty yards, sometimes more.]
           I see Phil's swing, hear the whack and again, hear a man yelling 'Left! Left!' A couple clicks and clacks in the trees and lo and behold, if Phil's ball doesn't drop five feet in front of me. Only me and another guy are standing here. We both look to our left toward the green. Very tough shot through the trees. I smile at the guy next to me. He smiles back.
           "Well, this is certainly a good spot to see Phil hit, eh?" I say.
           "You're telling me!" he says in a Northern accent.
           "I think we need to take just a couple steps back and then just stay put,' I say, "The action will come to us."
           "Sounds like a plan," says the white man, roughly my age.
           I look toward the tee. Phil is walking right toward me. How about that?
              Within just a couple of minutes, Phil has arrived with his caddie Bones, a CBS camera crew and a hundred spectators or so. Myself and the Yankee have front row seats to the shot. Phil still has that perpetual smile on his face, like a Heroin addict on dope. Bones guards the ball as Phil walks ahead, through the gap in the trees and into the fairway. He stops, thinks, looks toward the green and then turns around and heads back to his ball. He and Bones then consult on the yardage to the hole, looking down at little pads of paper. The ball lays high on some pine needles.
    Then I have an epiphany.
    That large Loblolly Pine tree, just inside of the ropes, that’s tall and fat? That tree? That’s the Eisenhower Tree! The tree President Eisenhower always hit into, the one he wanted cut down. Now, it has support cables internally to keep the old branches from cracking under their weight. It’s the tree that ate Jose Maria’s and Phil’s ball.
    I look at the tree, for a long time. It’s a beautiful tree. I love tree. I wish I had my camera. I look at Phil looking at his yardage pad. I look at his white ball I look at the deep green Eisenhower Tree behind him. I blink twice, turning my eyelids into shutters. I want to remember this moment. I blink again. Then I start to tear up. I’m blinking now for another reason.
    Bones and Phil come up with a plan. Bones hands Phil a wedge of some sort. Phil stands over the ball. He's facing me. [If he wasn't a lefty I would be looking at his back but not today, not with Phil.] Phil takes a couple of quick half swings, stops and then bring the club way back. Whack goes the ball and club. Out shoot the ball, threading its way through a narrow gap in the pines and disappears over the hill. It looks like a great shot. [Found out later when I got home to Tucson and watched the replay on my VCR, that it was a very good shot. A little long but he got his par.] The crowd explodes with applause and delight
              "Great shot, Phil," say one member of his entourage.
               "Way to go, Phil," yells another.
              Phil just smiles and nods and give his club back to Bones.
              I'm smiling too, and wiping away a tear.

           18th Green: Par four: “Holly”

           Phil made his par. So did Jose Maria. I stand near where the CBS commentator is interview Michelson. A number of twenty-somethings are trying to work their way into the picture, standing behind Phil and the commentator. Augusta National is smart. They've built a small riser for these interviews, just out of view of the videographic narcissist fans. I'm still smiling. Great to walk with Phil today. Seems like a nice guy.
           But there are still a number of twosomes behind me.
           It appears the Sun is less than an hour from setting. Still got to drive 3 hours to Charleston, South Carolina to see Bo and Cathy and the twins tonight, but I'm having so much fun.
           I check the leader board and then check my Saturday pairing sheet. Two twosomes back is a guy I've never heard of but he's in the lead. And he has my name.
           I fold up my pairing sheet, put it in my pocket and head down to the hill to the back nine.
           I need to find Stuart Apply.

          17th fairway: Par four: “Nardina”
           (Near the Eisenhower Tree)

           I'm standing right where I was less than an hour ago, but there are more people here now. A lot more. Only a few more pairs left on the course. The course is squeezing itself toward the 18th.
           Apply is at the tee, just like Phil was a while ago. Stuart's easy to spot. Longish blond hair, bright white visor, dark black sweater.
           I see his back swing and follow through, then hear the pop of the drive, then someone yelling "Left! Left!" Here we go again, but no clickity clack in the trees this time. But I notice people looking behind me. Lo and behold, Stuart has driving into the bunker beneath the neighboring 7th green. I slowly walk toward the bunker and stop at the rope line. Just me and another guy are standing there. Takes a while for others to figure it out. I light a smoke.
          Sure enough, after about ten minutes or so, up walked Stuart Apply. He sizes up his shoot. I look above him and I see a TV camera tower. Judging from the angle of the lend of the camera in the tower, and the position of Stuart and I, I figure I may be on television right now.
           I whisper over to the guy next to me.
              "I think we are on TV," pointing toward the camera.
               "Hi, Mom," says the man quietly.
               We both softly laugh. We are considerate. After all, Stuart is preparing to hit out of the bunker and he’s trying not to loose the lead.
             "Actually," I say, " My mother is watching right now."
              I wonder if she can see me.
             Stuart hits a bad bunker shot, hitting the front lip of the trap. He ends up triple bogeying the hole. How quickly things can shift at the Masters. From being in the lead to not.

             On my way to Charleston, South Carolina, on Interstate 20 East:

              Sun's going down. And men are still on the course at Augusta but I got to get to Bo's. Don't want to get there too late.
              What a unbelievable day of golf.
              Think I'll give my mother a call and thank her for the trip.
               I grab my cell phone. Still got plenty of bars. I dial my mother.
              "Hello," Mary says.
              "Hey, Mom. It's your son."
               "Where are you?" she says excitedly.
            "Just a little east of Augusta, on my way to see Bo and Cathy."
              "So did you have a good time at the Masters?" she says with some hesitation in her voice.
             "Mom, I had the best time. Amazing golf all day."
           "Oh good, good, good." I can hear the relief in her voice.
              "I followed Phil Mickelson all day" and then gave her a brief rundown of the day.
               After a few minutes, I say to Mary:
              "So, did you see me on TV?"
               "Yes, Yes, I did. You were with Stuart Apply when he was hitting that bunker shot. Isn't that right?"
              Wow, I think.
              "Yep that was me."
              "I thought it was you. I thought it was you," Mary says over and over.
               You can tell it made her whole day, her whole week, just to she saw her son on TV at the Masters.

            Postscript:

            Sunday wasn't so much fun. Since Tiger was in the final pairing and the weather was a bit better, everyone and their mother's son came out. I followed Phil Mickelson again, this time paired with Rory Sabbatini. Some good shots, some great shots, but more of a hectic feel to the course than I like. Too many white people. Too much cigar smoke. I actually overheard Rory and Phil complaining about the cigar smoke on the 18th fairway, after they had to endure clouds of it in the last tee box.
              A few  final images that stick with me:

             1) Rory Sabbatini's wife silently cheering every good shot her husband hit, every good putt he made. Cute woman, but she’s overly tan and her breasts seem too big for her body. Wonder why that is?
             2) Walking on the 17th fairway again, by the Eisenhower Tree. I picked up a small stick as a souvenir of the day, or rather, of the day before. The twig sits now, on a knick knack shelf at home.
             3) Walking with the mob for Tiger. No cheers on the back nine that Sunday. Kind of obnoxious fans, those Americans who winning is everything, second is nothing, and honest effort is for losers. After Tiger missed an opportunity for birdie at 17, the Tiger Mob got grumpy. Tiger was down by two with a hole to go, and he wasn't going to win.
              4) 18th green. Everyone is there. I actually had a good sight line to the green. Tiger had an approach shot to the green. He needed to hole it from the fairway, from 150 yards away to tie Zach Johnson. I looked to my right and saw an elderly man in a Masters Green jacket. I smiled at him. He smiled back. He's a member, one of the elite 300. It being Easter Sunday, I'd been saying 'Happy Easter' to everyone.
             "Happy Easter to you," I said to the gray haired man. Gray hair a little on the long side. His wife standing in front of him. You can tell, he was very handsome back in the day. Can tell she was beautiful as well. Still fine looking people.
              "Happy Easter to you as well," he said, looking me squarely in the eye. I kept his gaze.
              "Have you had a good time?" he asked, like any good host in the South would.
               "I've had a delightful time. Thanks for all that you have done," I said.
            "You are quite welcome," he said.
              We turned our attention back to the 18th green. Tiger hasn't hit his shot to the green yet. Then I heard the club member speak to his wife, in that kind sailing voice of a Southern Aristocrat.
              "Well, honey,” he said, “Tiger needs to hole this from the fairway, to tie. No one has done that in a major tournament since 1952.”
           And after a short pause he said:
             "And it isn't going to happen today."

             Tiger made par on 18. Came in second for the tournament behind newcomer Zach Johnson. Tiger in an interview later said that the reason he lost the tournament is that he played 17 and 18 poorly on Friday and Saturday. I don’t think so. The reason Tiger lost, is that Zach Johnson played lights out on the back nine on Sunday, and Tiger Woods didn’t.
           Zach Johnson thanked Jesus Christ after he put on the green jacket. His wife cried. He cried. I saw it on TV when I got home.
    I didn’t stick around for the jacket ceremony. I was in the gift shop, buying my mother a Masters screensaver for her computer, and a sleeve of balls for Bo.

"UNC 19, U of A 16" (c) 2007

“UNC 19, U of A 16” © January 2007
by Stu Jenks, Class of '79, Resident of Tucson since 1982.

           I’m happy that we’re winning but I really don’t know if I’m having that good of a time.
           Sure, there have been great moments in this game. Watching Carolina run its patented half-court offense, passing the ball crisply around the parameter and over the top until someone is open for a 7-footer, prompted me to say to the Carolina alum next to me ‘Don’t you just love Carolina ball?’ And seeing the boys in the light blue for the first time, doing their warm-ups, as I walked into McKale. Almost brought tears to my eyes. [During my time at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, from 1973-1979, I never went to a game. Only frat boys and girls went to games back then. Plus being the stoner Art student that I was at the time, I knew I couldn’t light up a joint in Carmichael. Yep. This is my first time I’ve seen Carolina play live, and in person] And when the crowd began to boo the team as they ran toward the tunnel before the game and I instinctively leaped to the rail, to be a lone Six Man wearing a threadbare light blue sweatshirt in a sea of red, yelling ‘Tarheels, Tarheel, Tarheels’…well, it just doesn’t get any better than that.
           But now it’s early in the second half and things are getting weird. Actually, they’ve been weird for a while. The U of A fans have been noisier than I’ve ever seen them. Good for them. That’s your job, to support your team. But it hasn’t been close for a while now. Carolina has had between a 12 and a 20-point lead for much of the game. And for the latter part of the first half and most of the second half, the crowd has turned ugly.                            I have seen it before. At the USC game last year. Other games too.
           Now granted, it isn’t everyone in the stands, but many of the fans are yelling vulgar statements at the team. Not, my team. Not Carolina. Their team, the U of A. And if they aren’t yelling at the Wildcats, they are cussing at the refs for any and all calls that didn’t go their way. When Arizona’s Williams sprained his ankle in the backcourt in the first half, and the refs rightly let Carolina’s fastbreak continue, the crowd went nuts. Not a half hearted boo mind you. But a stream of loud and black vitriol.
           “Fuck you, Ref!”
           “What the fuck are you doing!”
           “You stupid motherfucker!”
           “Asshole, asshole!”
           And yes, it’s been a bad day for the U of A. They have missed a bunch of open looks. But  the fans haven’t just let the refs have it. They are screaming at their players too.
           “God damn it! Play defense!”
           “Make the motherfucking basket!”
           “What the fuck is wrong with you guys!”
           “Sons a bitches!”
           I ain’t no prude, but this is embarrassing. This wasn’t how I was raised to be a fan. I was taught that I’m here to support my team. To yell when they make a basket, to encourage their play, to make lots of noise when the other team is on offense, not to be yelling obscenities when they don’t live up to my expectations.
           “Jesus Christ,” I say to Mark, one of my best friends, who is seated to my left.
           “They are taking this game a little too seriously,” I continue.
           Now don’t get me wrong. I’m glad we are winning and I have expressed my pleasure on how the game is going a number of times. Often throughout the game, I have exploded out of my seat, when, say, Ellington has completed a windmill jam, or when Lawson has slashed to the basket and scored. But I’ve only stood up for a few seconds after a basket or a steal. I’m fully aware that behind me, in much worse seats then mine are hundreds of U of A fans, and I suppose they are getting tired of seeing my light blue back rocketing out of my seat as we score yet another basket. Then again, if their team was playing well, they would have sometime to cheer about too, they’ll be jump out of their seats. But it hasn’t been going the Wildcats’ way for much of this game.
           But the language. Good Lord, people.
           Hansbrough dunks the ball and gets fowled in the process. I jump up and yell. I clap my hands a few times and then I sit back down.
           Suddenly, I feel three sharp pokes at my back. What the fuck, I think. I turn around. A middle aged white woman is glaring at me. Then she speaks.
           “You need to be less excited! I can’t see the game. You need to be less excited!” she says.
           My mind goes into complete vapor lock. Some many things I want to say to her. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? I have the right to get up and cheer. And I’m sitting right back down!’ were one of the things that went through my mind. Another thing was to explain to her that she’s not missing anything when I ‘m cheering. ‘The U of A is just throwing the ball inbounds and Carolina is getting back on defense. I’m in my seat by the time the U of A brings the ball across halfcourt.’ Another thought was ‘Are you out of her fucking mind?’
           But all that came out of my mouth was some quiet angry mumble. I turn around and stare back at the game. Tyler makes his free throw but I hardly see it go in, I’m so angry. Do I not now stand up when Carolina does something great? Hell, no. I’m not doing anything wrong. You’re not doing anything wrong, says my gut. Well, I gotta say something to this bully of a woman. And Christ, she poked me [At lunch, when Mark found out that the woman touched me, he was in shock. ‘She crossed the line,’ he said ‘You never touch anyone at a game. She crossed the line.’] I try and focus on the game. We’re still up by 20 or so.
           I lean over to Mark. I assume he saw and hear what happened. I try and be nice.
           “Well, Mark, it’s simple transference.” I say, “She is angry at her team for them not playing very well and she’s transferring her anger at them onto me, the guy in the light blue sweatshirt who is getting up and yelling for his team.”
           Mark says nothing. He knows I’m angry. He’s seen my temper in the past. He knows this isn’t over.
           “But Mark, have I don’t anything wrong?” I say with an edge in my voice.
           “You have done nothing wrong,’ Mark says.
           “ I know. Christ, I’m allowed to cheer, aren’t I?”
           Just then Ellington steals the balls and runs toward the Carolina basket. I don’t stand up but I am yelling. No one is getting back on defense. He has a wide-open lane to the basket. He takes it. Two points.
           “Yea!!!” I say, getting up and cheering. I know this is pissing off that lady, but did you see that steal, that dunk?
           I turn and face her and say in a very loud voice, so she and everyone else can hear.
           “I tell you what! Your team plays better! I get less excited!”
           I turn and sit down.
           She calls me a jerk and an asshole to the back of my head, off and on, for the rest of the game.
           Within a few minutes, I’m not getting up and cheering anymore. Not because there isn’t plenty to cheer about. Not because some white woman with huge entitlement issues doesn’t want me to. It’s just, at this point in the game, it’s becoming ugly on the court. Less than ten minutes left in the game. Carolina up by 20. No sense in rubbing it in by getting up and yelling. Funny. If the woman had just waited five minutes, she wouldn’t have had to poke me in the back. I would have, on my own, stopped standing and cheering for my team.
           Mark is not having a good time now. He knows it’s over. I try to comfort him.
           “Well, Mark, you can still come back from 20 with under ten to play. Carolina was down 20 with 7 minutes left against Virginia Tech a couple of weeks ago and they almost won the game.” [Later that day, Stanford was down by 18 and came back and beat #1 ranked UCLA]
           Mark turns to me and say, “Yea, if we were playing Oregon State.”
           True. You ain’t playing Oregon State today, I think. I stop talking.
           The crowd’s getting uglier and uglier. A U of A player gets called for a charge. Good call. The Carolina point guard was just standing there in the backcourt and the U of A player ran him over. But the crowd goes nuts again. All booing, with some punctuated ‘Fuck you!’ thrown in.
           I’m still aware of the angry white woman behind me. There’s another ‘jerk’  directed at the back of my head.
           “That woman is still pissed off,” I say quietly to Mark.
           I have to admit. I’m seething. Unbelievable. I’m too excited?
           Game’s winding down. UNC up by over 20. Arizona seems to have given up the ghost. It was weird to see most of the Wildcats stop playing hard around the 5 minutes mark. They could have still won the game at that point. But not now, with a minute to go and down by 26. Roy Williams puts in the third string. Mostly small white men. 1 through 10 sit down. 11 through 15 go in. Seconds tick off. Under a minute now.
           Then a short white guard for Carolina put up a three. No one was near him. He misses the shot. But the crowd goes nuts again. Boos and Fuck Yous and who knows what.
           I lean toward Mark.
           “Jesus, Mark, what is wrong with these people. He’s just trying to get some points on the books for himself. He never plays. And Christ, he missed the shot.”
           “Fuck you, Asshole,” someone to my left yells.
           “Go to hell, you fucking dick,” says someone to my right.
           The boos don’t stop for a good long while.
           In less than a minute it’s over.
    Carolina 92, U of A 64.
           I find out later that it’s the worst loss at McKale Center in over 20 years, the worst loss in the Lute Olsen era at the University of Arizona.
           I think of going down after the game and taking some shots of the court but Carolina left the floor immediately after the buzzer. Just did their job and went home. Plus I’m still irritated at that woman behind me, at the rude and vicious crowd in general.
           Mark and I walk out. We’re going to get some lunch but he’s going to ride his bike home first and then I’ll pick you up at his place. I give him a hug and off he goes to get his bicycle. I see some Carolina fans walking toward me. We quietly say to each other, with a big smiles on our faces, ‘Go Heels’. We’re try to be good Carolina men and women. No gloating. No rubbing it in. It’s not polite.
           Then I see an very odd sight. A Hispanic couple, with full gang tats and teardrops, decked out from head to toe in Carolina Blue. [North Carolina apparel is and has been for ten years or more, the uniform of Norteno Crips, a major gang organization in California, Arizona and elsewhere] They are not being calm. They are not being cool. They are yelling ‘Go Carolina’ as they walk. You can tell they are hoping to pick a fight. I smile but not too big. What an image. Now that’s the photograph of the day, but am I going to ask them if I can take their picture? Hell, no.
           I continue walking, away from McKale, toward my truck. I can feel the angry heat coming from some Arizona fans, hitting at the back of my head. Don’t dally, Stu. Just get back to the truck and go get Mark.
    Three more people in Carolina Blue walk toward. MBA types, not gang members.   
    “Go Heels,” I say quietly.
    “Go Heels,” they softly reply.