Back in '73, when I turned 17, which is middle age in Georgia, two of Dad's superintendent buddies, (a Mr. Maples and a Mr. Womack, if I recall) informed him that his eldest son was suffering from the worst case of golf irreverence they had ever seen.  They suggested the only cure was the Great Golf Pilgrimage in April.

While it's true I may have used the offensively irreverent phrase "Overseed National", Cousin Ludell was much worse, as he often intentionally referred to our golfers as "patrons".  It wasn't long before I found myself rolling east in my VW Westphalia on a fine April morning, Ludell reluctantly riding shotgun.

It was different in those days, as it was much easier for riffraff to get inside the fence.  This was long before TV saturated everyone's mind with waves of pink and red bushes, white trees, multiple shades of green lushness, romantic piano music, jib shots arcing across the bridge at #12 and announcers who sounded as if they were always on the edge of weeping.

Historical Note:  While hard to believe, green speeds at #12 were below 7, springtime was more even tempered then, without the wild swings of hormonal weather rage of today, and we had yet to encounter the "Why can't we do that?" inquisitions the following week.

I was having a great time and had just "Woo-hooed" a tremendous tee shot of Big Jack's when tragedy struck:  Ludell was assaulted.

I wandered around the course in a complete state of awe, kind of like when you step inside your first European cathedral that took 300 years to build.  I was having a great time and had just "Woo-hooed" a tremendous tee shot of Big Jack's when tragedy struck:  Ludell was assaulted.

Enraged at the blasphemous "Woo-hoo", informers in the crowd accused Ludell of the heinous act and the green jackets descended upon him.  To make things worse, Ludell had apparently just donned his Rainbow 'Fro Wig and was scribbling something on a piece of cardboard when they seized him and frog-marched him off to a special "Courtesy Tent" inside the fence.

Ludell never came out of that tent.

I waited around for hours and finally returned to the parking lot where I sat in the camper, read Herman Hesse, brewed up some Red Zinger tea and tried to meet women.  (There weren't many women my age at the event, the youngest I encountered was Donella and she was about 70.)

Anyway, I could not return home without Ludell -- he was our cup changer -- so I waited until dark, when he finally showed up at the camper, where I was busily fending off the romantic advances of Donella and her mother.

Ludell had apparently just donned his Rainbow 'Fro Wig and was scribbling something on a piece of cardboard when they seized him and frog-marched him off to a special "Courtesy Tent" inside the fence...

Years later, Ludell would spin a wild tale about being tortured in the special tent with lectures on the social graces of Southern Golf, delivered by elderly church ladies.  When they determined he was sufficiently reformed, they spilled bourbon all over him, opened the rear tent flap and hurled him through a hidden gate in the fence.  He landed on the sidewalk and was immediately swept up by specially positioned police who were paid for their cooperation with 18 holes the following week.

But on that day, all Ludell would say was, "One of them officials stole my rainbow wig.  I'll probably never see it again."