Bergen stepped through the North Gate at the course with his clubs, cart, and his spiffy new Aussie hat. As he joked with Freddie Couples while completing his warmup routine near the first hole, the starter asked who he was and what he was doing there. Bergen showed him his “practice pass,” smiled, and said he had been striking the ball really well all winter, and was looking forward to playing his first round at Augusta, and giving Freddie a run for his money. 

The starter quietly contacted security before informing Bergen that the “practice round” pass entitled him to view the practice round of those participating in the tournament, not play a practice round. 

Bergen instantly became indignant, saying the pass said nothing about viewing, and demanded he be allowed to play his round. Not only that, he wanted to be in a group with Scottie Schlffler, but it wouldn’t be a deal-breaker if that weren’t possible. He said he would play with Freddie Couples, who was still close by, or anyone else—even one of those shitty LIV players, like Sergio Garcia or Bubba Watson.

Augusta Security took a measured approach with Bergen, telling him that he seemed like a nice fellow who just made a little mistake, and it would be bad for everyone if they had to cuff him and take him to jail. Bergen slumped his shoulders and said, “But I drove all night and practiced all winter. I bought two dozen Top-Flites and this cool hat.” Security then offered to buy him a hot-chocolate and a donut at concessions, which Bergen gloomily accepted.

He then walked back to the parking lot, removed his glove and shoes, deposited his clubs in the trunk of his 2012 Camry, and reentered Augusta National as a spectator. Several times throughout the day, in the distance he saw Freddie Couples pointing and laughing at him as he obviously recounted Bergen’s mistake to the other golfers. which they found quite hilarious. 

The only thing overshadowing Bergen’s misadventures was Rory Mcllroy winning the tournament in a playoff, thus completing golf’s grand slam.

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At one time, before marriage and family took up all of his time, the 1.5 millionth ranked most popular Amazon author was a respectable twelve to fifteen handicap. But the years long absence from the game eroded his skills and when he started to play again he could barely break one-hundred like a beginner. 

Of his diminished play Kane was quite verbose, “Bottom line is I hate sucking. Everybody tries to tell me it’s not about that—it’s about spending time with friends and enjoying a beautiful day. Well, instead of the frustration of four putting, dumping balls in the lake or dribbling my drive off the tee I can spend time with friends on my back porch drinking beer and swirling whiskey. When we’re drinking beer and swilling whiskey I don’t have to see anybody get their golf cool on smoking a dumb cigar or hear them play “American Girl” for the millionth fucking time on a tinny phone in their cart. Also, I have a dog and enjoy the beautiful day- everyday- taking her for a walk. She chases squirrels while I look at the clouds and listen to the squawking geese—such complainers. But there’s none of this skulling the ball out of the sandtrap, shanking it into the woods or trying to hit it off the side of a hill.”

Kane said the pressure from his brothers and friends to play has been intense in recent years, but he held strong until the fateful night when Jesse Holmes texted him early in the spring and asked him to be his partner. “You feel bad always telling everybody no. So I’m half in the bag and I get this text from Holmes—all of sudden I’m Venmoing the commissioner the league fee and I’m in. How bad could it be I thought? First time out a fifty-four and since then nothing below a forty-five—all of it torture. Self-imposed torture in the service of trying not to disappoint a friend.”

While tired of coming up with excuses not to play Kane thinks the only long term solution to his golf problem would be to finally just get rid of his clubs, shoes and everything else once and for all. Thinking on that for a moment he doubted he could ever be that kind to himself. 

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Before the round at Bardmoor Golf Club, long time friend Alvin Gryffindor generously passed out cigars to the group of twelve golfers and instead of quietly accepting the tobacco novelty Kane took the opportunity to rail on his brothers and friends as a bunch of elitist, white, middle management assholes. Fixing his gaze on the group dressed in their brightly colored golf shirts with their oversized drivers Kane said, “Look at all of you sucking on those cigars without even a thought for the Cuban migrant working twelve hour days for pennies so you can reassert your unearned white privilege. You make me sick.”

This opening salvo from Kane was met with eye rolls and rejoinders from his brothers telling him they had something for him to “suck on” and he should “shut the fuck up” or they were going to call his wife to set him straight.

Realizing he was bringing down the entire event Kane was able to remain quiet for a time, but after losing a nine dollar push on the sixth hole he began complain about the need to wager.  “Why do we have to always measure ourselves in competition and try to exert our dominance? Are these dick measuring contests really necessary? Can’t we just enjoy this beautiful day and the fellowship of friends and sport for the sake of sport?” And, then looking around he said, “I know all of you guys and there’s no shame in having a tiny penis. Really—it’s okay. Cast aside this never ending, soul crushing capitalistic need for competition and let us just be men enjoying men. ”

Gryffindor and their other friend Francis Paramecci, who had sort of lost touch with Kane in recent years and were reuniting for this golf weekend looked at him with certain amount of confusion. Seeing this confusion Kane’s younger brother Mike said, “Sorry, since he’s become the 1.5 millionth most popular ranked author on Amazon he tends to be an insufferable ninnie.” The younger Kane then turned to his brother and again said, “Hey P.A., shut-the-fuck-up—you stupid tosser.”

Kane was able to remain relatively quiet for long stretches and mostly made indistinct guttural sounds to himself, but at the fifteenth hole he gave the golf cart girl an earful about Florida’s recycling policy as they just threw can after can of empty beer into the garbage. The girl told Kane, “I’m twenty years old and my job is to smile and get a big tip from you, not make environmental policy. Two Buds and two Coors Lights—that’ll be $16 and no, I don’t have change for a twenty,” she said with a broad grin taking his money.

Kane was able to keep his powder dry for the remainder of the round, but sitting outside with a beer as they tallied up the scores and bets he again lost it. His brother Peter turned up the volume on the loop of U2 songs he had playing the entire round. “Oh my god, how can you listen to this horrific dad-rock-bullshit. Every fucking song is the same shit about reaching for the fucking heavens and finding your higher self. Over and over and over they never find what they’re looking for and it sucks. Preachy anthems from self-aggrandizing Irish zillionaires who live in castles don’t inform or enlighten anything. How can you not see that? It sucks.”  

Sweating profusely after this rant Kane excused himself to use the restroom. While he was gone everyone quickly got in their cars and left, forcing him to Uber it home.

The scene repeated itself the next day as Kane lectured on the New Green Deal, the continuing relevance of Bob Dylan and the proper way to enter and exit a golf cart, thus wrecking a second sunny, warm Florida golf day.

The group again ditched him when he went to the restroom after the round.         

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