November 14, 2022 • 31 mins
Walter Wright Thompson died before he could fulfill his dream of walking Augusta National during the Masters. His son took that walk for him.
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Speaker 1 (00:02):
You're listening to the cost of these dreams. From Right Thompson,
a podcast about sports stories from My Heart Media, Graphic
Audio and Goat Rodeo. Our final episode is Holy Ground. Megan,
do you play golf? I do not play golf. I
(00:26):
don't either. My mom tried really hard to make as
my siblings and I call it the rich white kids
sports stick and golf. I just could not get into lacrosse. Stuck.
But uh no. I I never grew up playing golf
and and and certainly didn't get the kids who did.
No but me either. I think I got put in
(00:47):
the tennis bucket and was still insufferably bad at that.
But I uh. In regards to golf, though, I have
been um to the place where the Masters tournament is
played every year. It's in Georgia, right, yeah, Augusta, Georgia.
It's supposedly it's the like golf mecca. Right in the
United States. At least? Have you watched the Masters on television?
(01:09):
I haven't. Okay, well, you haven't had been made to
do that, but a lot of us, a lot of
us have watched the Masters on television. So much of
Right's work is about fathers and sons and the things
that we hand down to one another and the things
that we don't. And this one is distinctly personal for Right. Yeah. Well,
so Right as a sportswriter ends up getting credentials to
(01:33):
the tournament every year. Like whether or not Right gave
a ship about golf, this is his job to cover
this tournament, right, but he does. It turns out that
he liked, he really does care about golf, and he
watched it with his dad. His dad made him watch
it every year and he never ever got to take
his dad there, which was something you know, they talked about,
and uh, it was definitely in the plans. And I think,
(01:55):
you know, there's something about this piece that talks about
you know, I've lost people in my life. I'm sure
everyone has lost someone in their life, the physical representations
that take us back to certain things. And for Right,
it is this golf tournament in Georgia that happens once
a year. This is holy ground. Well, I mean, one
(02:24):
of the best parts about covering the Masters is that
you can go in the grill room, you can go
in the dining room, you can go out on the veranda.
You get there early and you just eat breakfast, and
it's you know, there's the fog and the dew, and
it's you know, even though it's really hot late in
the day, sometimes it's chilly in the morning. And so
I had to go up there and eat breakfast. And
(02:45):
it's like a really old school menu, you know, like
chip beef on toast, like ship World War two veterans
won't and uh, it's like, you know, you're up there
and they're only six or seven tables, so if you're
sitting alone at the foretop, they'll put somebody there. So
I'm sitting there and the sky sits down and we
just start talking. I used to have his business card
(03:06):
I heard from him after the story rand It's like
was that me? Was like, yeah, so yeah, I'm sitting
up there eating breakfast and like Chip. My dad loved Chip.
He was in the army. He loved chip beef on toast,
which I always thought was disgusting. Was it ship on
a shingle? Most everything makes me think about my daddy,
(03:33):
And this morning, of all the stupid reasons to fight
back tears in public, it's chip beef on toast. I'm
sitting at the corner table on the clubhouse for Randa
Augusta National, waiting for Arnold Palmer to hit the ceremonial
first tea shot of the Masters. My father loved watching
Arnie to do it from the veranda with a plate
(03:53):
of chip beef, hotty tidy brother. Soon, another lucky diner
asked if he can join me. His food arrives first.
As we talk a bit bundled against the chill, he
looks at the empty space in front of me. What
did you order? Yes, chip beef on toast, I say,
he laughs, Breakfast of Champions. It was my dad's favorite meal,
(04:17):
I explained. Did you ever bring him here? He asked.
There was a silence, No, I said, turning away from
the Augusta National Golf Club. But Augusta, Georgia CBS Sports Pride,
the presents the Masters. Daddy watched the Masters every year.
(04:41):
He dreamed of attending just one, and so he's always
on my mind when I come here for my job. Indeed,
for all of us lucky enough to actually walk through
these gates, we cannot leave without having thoughts of our dads.
For Augusta National as a place for fathers and sons,
Davis loved third Navigates, the same fair ways as David's
(05:02):
Love Jr. New fathers carefully hold their toddler's hands. Can
you see you'll hear them say strong arms, tenderly steer,
stooped backs. Look out, Dad, you'll hear them say. That
is Augusta. When Jack Nicholas finished his final round ever
at the Master's, his eyes welled on the green. He
(05:24):
glanced over in his son, who was catting for him,
and he repeated his own father's last words, don't think
it ain't been charming. As Jack ended his relationship with
this special place, he looked at his son and thought
of his father. When Tiger Woods won for the first time,
his eyes searched the gallery near the scoring shed for
(05:46):
Earl woods old time record at the Master's. There it
is a win for the ages. Reg's mom and his
father with that bypass operation six weeks ago. They hugged
(06:07):
Tiger's head cradled on his father's shoulder, And when he
walked off the green almost a decade later and Earl
Woods was no longer there, Tiger remembered that shoulder and
he mourned, that is Augusta. This too is Augusta. Me
needing a father more than ever finishing the chip beef
on toast, walking the grounds in search of fatherly wisdom.
(06:37):
We were a father and son and my dad's imagination
before my parents even knew I was a boy. On
the day I was born, he sat down and wrote
a letter to himself, cataloging his thoughts as his first
child came into the world. He called me his son,
with daughter written each time in parentheses, just in case.
(06:58):
When I arrived, before my mother even cleared her head,
he had already filled out the birth certificate. There was
never even a discussion of what I would be called.
Walter Wright Thompson Jr. He wrote, Walter Right Thompson Sr.
Had grown up in the Mississippi Sticks with three brothers.
(07:18):
Many of the traits my friends would recognize in me
come from him. He loved to be the loudest guy
in the room, and he loved telling stories and hearing
them too. He loved his favorite places to eat beyond
any sense of normalcy, and the sound of the ocean
in the hum of late night conversation. He loved working hard.
(07:38):
His own dad was a tough man with unfulfilled boyhood dreams.
Nothing was good enough when my daddy a star quarterback
would run for three touchdowns and throw for two more.
Big Frasier would be waiting after to ask why he
missed that tackle early in the third quarter. Daddy decided
that when he had a son of his own, he
(08:00):
do it differently. He'd give his whole heart shower all
the love and attention and approval he could muster. He
would be a good daddy, Sweet Daddy. I remember tailgating
before olmen's football games, him throwing passes just far enough
away that I'd have to dive. I remember destin Florida,
when I dropped my favorite stuffed animal, Sweetie. I didn't
(08:23):
tell him until we got back to the condo, and
he spent hours looking for that rabbit, and he found it.
I keep it around, but I don't ever tell anyone why.
When I look at it, I can feel how much
he loved me. I remember skipping school to go fishing,
and I remember promising not to tell Mama. I remember
(08:44):
him always reminding me that you catch more flies with
hunting than you do with vinegar, and if it feels wrong,
it is. I remember him taking me to see Superman
the night had opened, even though I was in trouble
and I remember watching the guns and navarone a thousand
times comes with him, and I remember as clear as
if it happened yesterday, that April day and night six,
(09:07):
when Jack Nicholas was charging towards his sixth green jacket.
I was playing in the other room, probably with the
G I Joe aircraft carrier, and he called again, so
I went into their room. He was lying on his stomach.
Jack Nicholas is going to win the Master's son, and
(09:29):
you've got to watch this. You will remember this for
the rest of your life. So we lay there, my
feet only coming to his knees. I was nine. He
was forty six years younger than Jack, maybe, yes, And
he cried when that final putt went in. I can't
(09:50):
remember now if I'd ever seen him cry before the
year slipped away. But every April we lay down on
our stomachs tom buckets, he called them, and ood over
the azaleas and odd over a men corner. Each time
he'd smile and mentioned it. One day he'd sure like
to see what such a place must look like in person.
(10:11):
He grew older, I went to college and as a
freshman called him to ask if he was watching this
kid named Tiger Woods. He was. As I sat in
the fight out the THETA House three states away, I
could picture him lying on his stomach, and home didn't
feel so far away. It has been ten years. I
(10:33):
no longer watched The Masters on television, and I pinched
myself every time I get the credential, though I try
to hide it. Sports writers are supposed to act jaded.
Right I'm sitting right now with colleagues at the Press
Center interview room. Tiger Woods is at the dais no
longer the kid he was a decade ago either. Normally
(10:54):
he's full of boring blather, using a lot of words
but carefully saying nothing. Only now he's talking about fathers
and sons, about losing one and gaining another. I lean
in a bit. He talks about regret and the things
he wishes he'd done. He talks about what kind of
parent he'd like to be here. I am thirty one
(11:14):
years old, he says, and my father is getting smarter
every year. It's just amazing. But hopefully my child down
the road a little bit will say the same thing. That,
to me is the definition of growing up. There comes
a time when every son starts the slow transition to
father mine began four years ago. My dad felt a
(11:36):
pain and went to the doctor. The scan revealed cancer.
He was fifty seven years old, with marriages to attend
and grandkids to spoil. Instead, he was in a fight
for his life. He pulled into a parking lot on
the way home and read the report. It said something
about the pancreas. He understood he was in trouble. But
(11:58):
the man never backed down. Once in college, he knocked
out an sec football player for messing with his brother.
He attacked this disease just as viciously. After the first
chemo session, he stopped at a greasy fast food chain
to get a sack of sliders, a fuck you to
the poison. To walk through the hospital with him was
(12:18):
to understand his gift for life. All the nurses and
doctors and patients, especially the patients who set there through
treatments alone, called him by name. For each he had
a kind word and a smile. He raised the energy
level of every room he entered. We took a fishing
trip he'd always want to take. I knew there wasn't
(12:40):
any time to waste. We spent a glorious few days
on a river in Arkansas, filling our cooler with trout,
talking late into the night. I'm not afraid, he told me.
Before leaving the fishing camp. I made a reservation for
a year later this he said, we had to do again.
We'll be here, he said, almost whispering a guarantee. Back home,
(13:03):
he spent hours alone in his spot behind the house.
There was a cane break out there in a brick wall,
tall oak trees and a creek. He'd sit there long
past sunset and he'd think about his life. You'd be
in the kitchen. You can look out the window and
just see him sitting in the chair. Uh. And so
that's where he usually was. You know, my mom thought
(13:26):
he was just sitting out there thinking about like thinking
about death. I don't, you know, it was, you know,
it was very much like his space. And I don't
I don't know what he did out there, but I
mean I think he was, uh sitting out there just
trying to make peace with whatever was coming. I mean,
I remember that so clearly that my mom, who was
(13:46):
very stoic, uh was just like she pointed out that
I was I was home visiting, and she pointed out
the kitchen window and I looked, and she said, it
just breaks my heart. I think he's scared, like that
really stuck with me, like that's on one sort of
I remember that much more clearly than almost anything else
at that time. Sometimes it does happen like in the movies.
(14:13):
He responded to the chemo, the doctor saw the tumor shrinking,
and finally a scan revealed he was cancer free. We
couldn't believe it. He didn't act surprised. I was at
the Master's when we got the news. Daddy and I
made immediate plans for a vacation. We go back to Destin,
where he found my stuffed animal. I bought the tickets,
(14:34):
and the day after the tournament, I drove to Atlanta,
met him at the airport, and together we flew south.
I gave him my Master's media credential. He collected them
kept in hanging by his bathroom mirror to remind himself
that his son had gone places. He treasured the parking
passes too, and faithfully affixed them to his truck. After
I left Augusta in Florida, we sat in lounge chairs
(14:57):
by the ocean. We ate quail and grits, and Daddy
talked the place into giving us the recipe. We drove
in a Mustang convertible with the top roll back, and
we made plans. His reprief made him realize that he
needed to stop practicing laws sixteen hours a day and
do those things he'd always dreamed of doing. He wanted
to visit China and stand above those gorgeous He wanted
(15:20):
to see Tuscany and rent a villa. Mostly, he wanted
to go with me to the Masters. It's a done deal,
I told him. We celebrated his birthday. I picked up dinner,
the first and only time I ever did that. We laughed,
and I gave him a present, a Black Master's windbreaker.
(15:42):
He held it up before him, glancing at me, words failing.
He slipped it on and went outside to read. I
shuffled off to bed, with the cancer gone. Time was
no longer precious. We had all the time in the world.
But something made me take one last look, seeing him
sitting on the balcony, thin and pale, the waves crashing
(16:04):
somewhere out in the blackness, A thin ribbon of smoke
rising up from an ash tray. M Like I should
have known, But you know, I was twenty nine and
(16:28):
so aren't younger than that. And I was just like, oh,
of course he beat it, his fucking bulletproof, Like what now?
Like now I would be much more skeptical about that news,
but I just took it totally at face value, like, well, okay, great,
that just that seems on brand. All right, what's next?
So if somebody tells me how they have pancreatic cancer,
(16:49):
I'm like, you're dead. You're dead. You might die in
six weeks, you might die in eighteen months. Uh. He
made it two years, which is almost unheard of. But still,
I mean, it's fucking game over. It's game over. And
then it went fast after that. I was in Pittsburgh
(17:12):
and they do those European tours of international soccer teams,
and so it was roma playing Chelsea at whatever that
football stadium is, hines Field, and uh, I got back
to Kansas City and then he just it's crazy. He
just like there were no signs. He just I just
didn't feel He's like, I don't feel good, and we
(17:34):
went downhill fast. Love is a strange thing. You go
from a fraternity dance to the altar of a church
to a cold hospital room asking is one of us
about to die? The doctor said no, they were wrong.
(17:56):
As I sat in Kansas City watching the movie Miracle,
which I remember, but for some reason, my father passed away.
He was only a few days away from my return
fishing trip. My mom didn't want to tell me until
I got back to Mississippi, so she made what had
to be the toughest phone call of her life. After
watching her husband of thirty four years take his final breath,
(18:18):
she called me and said, it doesn't look good, and
then I needed to bring a suit. I refused to
pack funeral clothes, holding out hope. The next morning, I
landed in Memphis and took the escalator down to baggage claim.
I saw my brother William at the bottom. I smiled
and waved. He just shook his head, and at that
(18:40):
moment my mother slipped out from behind a sign. I knew,
you're sweet. Daddy died. She said, I could only get
out one question. Was he scared? Mama shook her head. No.
The funeral week was a blur. When we picked out
his face of its sport coat. I went into his
(19:01):
bathroom holding those master's credentials in my hands. I took
them out slipping them into his jacket pocket. Seven months
later I was back at Augusta. He was a hard week.
I wore a pair of his shoes around the course,
trying to walk it for him. I wrote a column
about it for my newspaper, and as I'm doing now,
(19:22):
I tried to find some closure. Then I believe my
grief ended with the catharsis of a last paragraph. I
was naive and dumb, as I found out when I
returned to Augusta in the coming years, finding my pain
stronger each time. Exactly a year after he died, my
family gathered at home. We had a baby tree grown
(19:43):
from an acorn that came from the sturdy oaks at
Old missus legendary Grove, where Daddy spent so many happy afternoons.
We gathered at the spot where he'd set, where he'd
made his peace, and we dug a small hole, filling
in with the roots of the sapling and potting soil,
and it was pouring rain. We planted this tree before
(20:05):
it started raining, and you know, we were skeptical even
then about our ability to make it grow. But we're like, well,
we'll see. And then that night, I mean sometimes it
rains in Mississippi and it's unbelievable. I mean, it's biblical.
And so you know, we had this little thing outside
that measures the water. I'm like, my god, it's three
(20:28):
inches and like no times, I'm like I gotta go
out there. It's mud everywhere, and I got this umbrella
and I'm like this is this is ridiculous. I'm soaking
wet because the umbrellas over the tree. You know, I
guess in hindsight, I should have stood over the tree
and put the umbrella over both of us. Uh that
obviously occurs to me now, but oddly it did not
(20:48):
occur to me then. So I'm standing out there and uh,
all this is still very very raw, and uh, you know,
I start trying to talk to him. I remember that
very clearly. I mean I just remember like talking to
nobody in the rain, and I agree, you out there,
(21:10):
you know, And it was like I felt even silly
as I was doing it, and yet it felt somehow,
uh disrespectful to not take seriously the possibility that, like,
there are things about the universe we don't understand. And
so but I'm standing out there in the rain holding
an umbrella over a tiny oak tree that's about to die.
(21:33):
Talking to myself, that's quite the night. You're looking for
a person, but you're also looking for, you know, someone
to illuminate the path. Maybe I'll find these answers out
here at this place he loves so much. Is that crazy?
(21:54):
Nothing seems crazy to me anymore. The grass shines like
polished green mirrors. The flowers explode o with a rainbow
of shrapnel. Pinks, purples, yellows, and whites. Mostly though, I
see the fathers and sons like the livelies from Charleston,
West Virginia sitting in front of me watching the Part
three tournament. For fifteen years, he'd entered the lottery for
(22:15):
practice round tickets. This year he won, and he took
his two sons out of school for a day. I
wanted that to be us. Down by Ike's Pond. Television
reporter Jim Gray interviews players as they leave the course.
He asked what I'm working on, and when I tell him,
he nods, pointing to a white haired man sitting in
(22:36):
the sun by the water. It's Jerry Gray, his father,
and for sixteen years he's come with his famous son
to Augusta. It's the only week we spend together all year,
Jim tells me, and again, I'm jealous. He really doesn't
seem fair. Sometimes a boy needs his daddy. I got
married about a year ago, and I knew he'd have
(22:57):
loved to stand up at the front of that church.
In a way, he was in the pocket of my tuxedo.
I carried his yellow livestrong bracelet, and as Sonja started
down the aisle, rubbed at once, just to let him
know if he was watching, that he might be gone.
But he wasn't forgotten. I've been looking for him. I
try to find messages, things he might have left behind
(23:18):
to lead me down the right path. I know he
thought like that. For months after his death, my mom
found flashlights in every room of the house, big ones,
small ones, medium sized ones, all with fresh batteries. Then
she realized he put them there from when he was gone,
in case she got scared of the dark. Every now
and then I'll discover something prescient. I have the notes
(23:40):
he left me from when I visited for what turned
out to be the last time. There's a quote to
influence people appealed to their dreams and aspirations, not just
their needs. He wrote in blue Ink w W T Jr.
We're so glad to have you home for a few days,
Love Daddy. Or the prayer he read it as as
Thanksgiving when we all still believed. Maybe he knew differently,
(24:04):
for he wrote to himself at the bottom, what a
great prayer for all of us this Thanksgiving day and
for all of tomorrow's. None of us can take for granted,
But those small whispers and nudges are rare. So I
try to find bits of wisdom and the comfort of
his presence at the places he loved. I eat at
the Mayflower Cafe in Jackson, Mississippi. I stay at the
(24:26):
hay Adams Hotel in Washington, d C. And now I've
come here to this wonderful, ageless cathedral, Walking up and
down the perfectly manicured fairways, hoping to find a father.
(24:46):
I walk up number ten, crossing fifteen near the grandstand,
working back and forth through the ponds, making my way
toward Amen Corner. He first told me about it, the
most amazing place in golf, he'd say, reverently. Maybe he'll
be here, Maybe he knows his son is lost. I
climbed the bleachers, finding a spot to sit alone. As
(25:09):
I did on that rainy night by the small tree.
I try to talk to him, Daddy, I whisper, are
you out there? Something amazing happens. Understand that I don't
believe in stuff like that, and I'm certain it was
a coincidence. But just as the words are leaving my mouth,
from across the course, a roar rises from the gallery,
(25:30):
breaking the silence, the voices collecting into throaty applause, moving
through the pines until it fades away, silence returning to
amen corner as the sun warms my face. Jim and
Jerry Gray climbed the bleachers. They watch a few groups
move through, and as they walk away, Jim carefully holds
(25:53):
the ropes whose father can slip beneath it. It's a
touching moment, something a good son should do for his dad.
Watching this, I realized something. Although I relate to Jim,
I also hope that someday my boy will do the
same for me. It's that way with fathers and sons.
The hole in your chest after losing your daddy never
(26:14):
gets filled. You don't get a new father, you become
one yourself. And my transition from son to father is
nearing completion. I walked back as a clubhouse gets bigger
on the horizon, I see a dad and his boy
standing near the tenth fairway. Both are wearing golf clothes.
I see myself and that father, hoping he can mold
(26:35):
his boy as his own dad molded him. It occurs
to me that all my questions have already been answered.
I've been shown how to be a father. I just
need to throw passes a little long so he'll have
to dive. I need to make sure he doesn't lose
his stuffed animal. And I need to take him fishing.
I need to make him promise not to tell Mama.
(26:56):
I need to make sure he knows that you catch
more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, and
that if it feels wrong, it is. We need to
watch the guns of Navarone, and I need him to
lie next to me on our tongue buckets as I
explained about a golf tournament in April and Georgia, about
Amen Corner and Jack Nicholas. And I need to tell
a little Walter Wright Thompson the third that his grandfather
(27:18):
was a great man. The clubhouse is in front of
me now, and I have one final task. Once I
bought my dad's shirts and windbreakers. On this afternoon, I
have something different to buy. I hurry into the cavernous
golf shop, past the frame posters and the women's clothes,
to the back of the store. This is unfamiliar territory.
(27:39):
I searched the wall for the things I want, and
I asked the clerk to take them down. I buy
a tiny green master's onesie. Then I pick out a
small knit golf shirt for a toddler. I have one
just like it. So someday in the next few years,
when I finally become a father myself and continue this
timeless cycle, my son, parentheses daughter can have a connection
(28:01):
to this place that's meant so much to me. At
the counter, the woman takes off the tax. When she
sees the cute little clothes she coups. Her words make
me hopeful. Oh, she gushes, What a good daddy. I mean,
a human being dies and I write six thousand words.
(28:23):
But how it affects me? I mean boy that has
a twenty something year old early thirties. I mean, the
tragedy is not that I lost time with him. It's
that he lost time with me and my brother and
my mother and these two kids you'll never meet. I mean,
I have such a different perspective that in a lot
(28:43):
of ways, that's a time capsule of a very specific
stage of grief. I'm not sure that person exists anymore.
I mean, for being honest, really, like, these are all
stories about sports, and there's some journalism nerds who might
know them, but basically these things are lying in bird cages.
(29:07):
And but this one feels like it really did something
for some people. And you know, if I had to
pick one and had to unwrite all the other ones,
it would that would very obviously keep this one. I'm
not sure I could write it now, Like I'm not
sure I'm in touch with that pain enough. I mean,
(29:31):
it's still there, I think, but like I don't. It
was very visceral. I mean I wrote it in the
press room at AUGUSTA. Uh just good, you know, fucking
idiot And uh, I don't know. I'm just very grateful
that story keeps him alive in a way that I
(29:55):
didn't foresee. The Cost of these dreams is from iHeartMedia,
Graphic Audio, and Wright Thompson. This series is produced by
Goat Rodeo n N Wright and Megan Nadolski are the
lead producers. This episode is part of the eight part
(30:18):
series The Cost of These Dreams. Find other episodes wherever
you get your podcasts. If you want to dive in
deeper to write Thompson's The Cost of These Dreams, access
the full audio book wherever you get your audio books.
Discover other works by Wright Thompson, including his latest book,
Pappy Land, wherever books are sold. From the Goat Rodeo team.
(30:39):
Production assistants from Rebecca Sidel, Isabel Kirby McGowan, Hams A
Ship Too, Maxwell Johnston and Kara Shillen. Music by Ian N. Wright.
Our Deep thanks to Right Thompson, Caitlin Riley and John Weiss.
Thanks for listening.
You're listening to the cost of these dreams. From Right Thompson,
a podcast about sports stories from My Heart Media, Graphic
Audio and Goat Rodeo. Our final episode is Holy Ground. Megan,
do you play golf? I do not play golf. I
(00:26):
don't either. My mom tried really hard to make as
my siblings and I call it the rich white kids
sports stick and golf. I just could not get into lacrosse. Stuck.
But uh no. I I never grew up playing golf
and and and certainly didn't get the kids who did.
No but me either. I think I got put in
(00:47):
the tennis bucket and was still insufferably bad at that.
But I uh. In regards to golf, though, I have
been um to the place where the Masters tournament is
played every year. It's in Georgia, right, yeah, Augusta, Georgia.
It's supposedly it's the like golf mecca. Right in the
United States. At least? Have you watched the Masters on television?
(01:09):
I haven't. Okay, well, you haven't had been made to
do that, but a lot of us, a lot of
us have watched the Masters on television. So much of
Right's work is about fathers and sons and the things
that we hand down to one another and the things
that we don't. And this one is distinctly personal for Right. Yeah. Well,
so Right as a sportswriter ends up getting credentials to
(01:33):
the tournament every year. Like whether or not Right gave
a ship about golf, this is his job to cover
this tournament, right, but he does. It turns out that
he liked, he really does care about golf, and he
watched it with his dad. His dad made him watch
it every year and he never ever got to take
his dad there, which was something you know, they talked about,
and uh, it was definitely in the plans. And I think,
(01:55):
you know, there's something about this piece that talks about
you know, I've lost people in my life. I'm sure
everyone has lost someone in their life, the physical representations
that take us back to certain things. And for Right,
it is this golf tournament in Georgia that happens once
a year. This is holy ground. Well, I mean, one
(02:24):
of the best parts about covering the Masters is that
you can go in the grill room, you can go
in the dining room, you can go out on the veranda.
You get there early and you just eat breakfast, and
it's you know, there's the fog and the dew, and
it's you know, even though it's really hot late in
the day, sometimes it's chilly in the morning. And so
I had to go up there and eat breakfast. And
(02:45):
it's like a really old school menu, you know, like
chip beef on toast, like ship World War two veterans
won't and uh, it's like, you know, you're up there
and they're only six or seven tables, so if you're
sitting alone at the foretop, they'll put somebody there. So
I'm sitting there and the sky sits down and we
just start talking. I used to have his business card
(03:06):
I heard from him after the story rand It's like
was that me? Was like, yeah, so yeah, I'm sitting
up there eating breakfast and like Chip. My dad loved Chip.
He was in the army. He loved chip beef on toast,
which I always thought was disgusting. Was it ship on
a shingle? Most everything makes me think about my daddy,
(03:33):
And this morning, of all the stupid reasons to fight
back tears in public, it's chip beef on toast. I'm
sitting at the corner table on the clubhouse for Randa
Augusta National, waiting for Arnold Palmer to hit the ceremonial
first tea shot of the Masters. My father loved watching
Arnie to do it from the veranda with a plate
(03:53):
of chip beef, hotty tidy brother. Soon, another lucky diner
asked if he can join me. His food arrives first.
As we talk a bit bundled against the chill, he
looks at the empty space in front of me. What
did you order? Yes, chip beef on toast, I say,
he laughs, Breakfast of Champions. It was my dad's favorite meal,
(04:17):
I explained. Did you ever bring him here? He asked.
There was a silence, No, I said, turning away from
the Augusta National Golf Club. But Augusta, Georgia CBS Sports Pride,
the presents the Masters. Daddy watched the Masters every year.
(04:41):
He dreamed of attending just one, and so he's always
on my mind when I come here for my job. Indeed,
for all of us lucky enough to actually walk through
these gates, we cannot leave without having thoughts of our dads.
For Augusta National as a place for fathers and sons,
Davis loved third Navigates, the same fair ways as David's
(05:02):
Love Jr. New fathers carefully hold their toddler's hands. Can
you see you'll hear them say strong arms, tenderly steer,
stooped backs. Look out, Dad, you'll hear them say. That
is Augusta. When Jack Nicholas finished his final round ever
at the Master's, his eyes welled on the green. He
(05:24):
glanced over in his son, who was catting for him,
and he repeated his own father's last words, don't think
it ain't been charming. As Jack ended his relationship with
this special place, he looked at his son and thought
of his father. When Tiger Woods won for the first time,
his eyes searched the gallery near the scoring shed for
(05:46):
Earl woods old time record at the Master's. There it
is a win for the ages. Reg's mom and his
father with that bypass operation six weeks ago. They hugged
(06:07):
Tiger's head cradled on his father's shoulder, And when he
walked off the green almost a decade later and Earl
Woods was no longer there, Tiger remembered that shoulder and
he mourned, that is Augusta. This too is Augusta. Me
needing a father more than ever finishing the chip beef
on toast, walking the grounds in search of fatherly wisdom.
(06:37):
We were a father and son and my dad's imagination
before my parents even knew I was a boy. On
the day I was born, he sat down and wrote
a letter to himself, cataloging his thoughts as his first
child came into the world. He called me his son,
with daughter written each time in parentheses, just in case.
(06:58):
When I arrived, before my mother even cleared her head,
he had already filled out the birth certificate. There was
never even a discussion of what I would be called.
Walter Wright Thompson Jr. He wrote, Walter Right Thompson Sr.
Had grown up in the Mississippi Sticks with three brothers.
(07:18):
Many of the traits my friends would recognize in me
come from him. He loved to be the loudest guy
in the room, and he loved telling stories and hearing
them too. He loved his favorite places to eat beyond
any sense of normalcy, and the sound of the ocean
in the hum of late night conversation. He loved working hard.
(07:38):
His own dad was a tough man with unfulfilled boyhood dreams.
Nothing was good enough when my daddy a star quarterback
would run for three touchdowns and throw for two more.
Big Frasier would be waiting after to ask why he
missed that tackle early in the third quarter. Daddy decided
that when he had a son of his own, he
(08:00):
do it differently. He'd give his whole heart shower all
the love and attention and approval he could muster. He
would be a good daddy, Sweet Daddy. I remember tailgating
before olmen's football games, him throwing passes just far enough
away that I'd have to dive. I remember destin Florida,
when I dropped my favorite stuffed animal, Sweetie. I didn't
(08:23):
tell him until we got back to the condo, and
he spent hours looking for that rabbit, and he found it.
I keep it around, but I don't ever tell anyone why.
When I look at it, I can feel how much
he loved me. I remember skipping school to go fishing,
and I remember promising not to tell Mama. I remember
(08:44):
him always reminding me that you catch more flies with
hunting than you do with vinegar, and if it feels wrong,
it is. I remember him taking me to see Superman
the night had opened, even though I was in trouble
and I remember watching the guns and navarone a thousand
times comes with him, and I remember as clear as
if it happened yesterday, that April day and night six,
(09:07):
when Jack Nicholas was charging towards his sixth green jacket.
I was playing in the other room, probably with the
G I Joe aircraft carrier, and he called again, so
I went into their room. He was lying on his stomach.
Jack Nicholas is going to win the Master's son, and
(09:29):
you've got to watch this. You will remember this for
the rest of your life. So we lay there, my
feet only coming to his knees. I was nine. He
was forty six years younger than Jack, maybe, yes, And
he cried when that final putt went in. I can't
(09:50):
remember now if I'd ever seen him cry before the
year slipped away. But every April we lay down on
our stomachs tom buckets, he called them, and ood over
the azaleas and odd over a men corner. Each time
he'd smile and mentioned it. One day he'd sure like
to see what such a place must look like in person.
(10:11):
He grew older, I went to college and as a
freshman called him to ask if he was watching this
kid named Tiger Woods. He was. As I sat in
the fight out the THETA House three states away, I
could picture him lying on his stomach, and home didn't
feel so far away. It has been ten years. I
(10:33):
no longer watched The Masters on television, and I pinched
myself every time I get the credential, though I try
to hide it. Sports writers are supposed to act jaded.
Right I'm sitting right now with colleagues at the Press
Center interview room. Tiger Woods is at the dais no
longer the kid he was a decade ago either. Normally
(10:54):
he's full of boring blather, using a lot of words
but carefully saying nothing. Only now he's talking about fathers
and sons, about losing one and gaining another. I lean
in a bit. He talks about regret and the things
he wishes he'd done. He talks about what kind of
parent he'd like to be here. I am thirty one
(11:14):
years old, he says, and my father is getting smarter
every year. It's just amazing. But hopefully my child down
the road a little bit will say the same thing. That,
to me is the definition of growing up. There comes
a time when every son starts the slow transition to
father mine began four years ago. My dad felt a
(11:36):
pain and went to the doctor. The scan revealed cancer.
He was fifty seven years old, with marriages to attend
and grandkids to spoil. Instead, he was in a fight
for his life. He pulled into a parking lot on
the way home and read the report. It said something
about the pancreas. He understood he was in trouble. But
(11:58):
the man never backed down. Once in college, he knocked
out an sec football player for messing with his brother.
He attacked this disease just as viciously. After the first
chemo session, he stopped at a greasy fast food chain
to get a sack of sliders, a fuck you to
the poison. To walk through the hospital with him was
(12:18):
to understand his gift for life. All the nurses and
doctors and patients, especially the patients who set there through
treatments alone, called him by name. For each he had
a kind word and a smile. He raised the energy
level of every room he entered. We took a fishing
trip he'd always want to take. I knew there wasn't
(12:40):
any time to waste. We spent a glorious few days
on a river in Arkansas, filling our cooler with trout,
talking late into the night. I'm not afraid, he told me.
Before leaving the fishing camp. I made a reservation for
a year later this he said, we had to do again.
We'll be here, he said, almost whispering a guarantee. Back home,
(13:03):
he spent hours alone in his spot behind the house.
There was a cane break out there in a brick wall,
tall oak trees and a creek. He'd sit there long
past sunset and he'd think about his life. You'd be
in the kitchen. You can look out the window and
just see him sitting in the chair. Uh. And so
that's where he usually was. You know, my mom thought
(13:26):
he was just sitting out there thinking about like thinking
about death. I don't, you know, it was, you know,
it was very much like his space. And I don't
I don't know what he did out there, but I
mean I think he was, uh sitting out there just
trying to make peace with whatever was coming. I mean,
I remember that so clearly that my mom, who was
(13:46):
very stoic, uh was just like she pointed out that
I was I was home visiting, and she pointed out
the kitchen window and I looked, and she said, it
just breaks my heart. I think he's scared, like that
really stuck with me, like that's on one sort of
I remember that much more clearly than almost anything else
at that time. Sometimes it does happen like in the movies.
(14:13):
He responded to the chemo, the doctor saw the tumor shrinking,
and finally a scan revealed he was cancer free. We
couldn't believe it. He didn't act surprised. I was at
the Master's when we got the news. Daddy and I
made immediate plans for a vacation. We go back to Destin,
where he found my stuffed animal. I bought the tickets,
(14:34):
and the day after the tournament, I drove to Atlanta,
met him at the airport, and together we flew south.
I gave him my Master's media credential. He collected them
kept in hanging by his bathroom mirror to remind himself
that his son had gone places. He treasured the parking
passes too, and faithfully affixed them to his truck. After
I left Augusta in Florida, we sat in lounge chairs
(14:57):
by the ocean. We ate quail and grits, and Daddy
talked the place into giving us the recipe. We drove
in a Mustang convertible with the top roll back, and
we made plans. His reprief made him realize that he
needed to stop practicing laws sixteen hours a day and
do those things he'd always dreamed of doing. He wanted
to visit China and stand above those gorgeous He wanted
(15:20):
to see Tuscany and rent a villa. Mostly, he wanted
to go with me to the Masters. It's a done deal,
I told him. We celebrated his birthday. I picked up dinner,
the first and only time I ever did that. We laughed,
and I gave him a present, a Black Master's windbreaker.
(15:42):
He held it up before him, glancing at me, words failing.
He slipped it on and went outside to read. I
shuffled off to bed, with the cancer gone. Time was
no longer precious. We had all the time in the world.
But something made me take one last look, seeing him
sitting on the balcony, thin and pale, the waves crashing
(16:04):
somewhere out in the blackness, A thin ribbon of smoke
rising up from an ash tray. M Like I should
have known, But you know, I was twenty nine and
(16:28):
so aren't younger than that. And I was just like, oh,
of course he beat it, his fucking bulletproof, Like what now?
Like now I would be much more skeptical about that news,
but I just took it totally at face value, like, well, okay, great,
that just that seems on brand. All right, what's next?
So if somebody tells me how they have pancreatic cancer,
(16:49):
I'm like, you're dead. You're dead. You might die in
six weeks, you might die in eighteen months. Uh. He
made it two years, which is almost unheard of. But still,
I mean, it's fucking game over. It's game over. And
then it went fast after that. I was in Pittsburgh
(17:12):
and they do those European tours of international soccer teams,
and so it was roma playing Chelsea at whatever that
football stadium is, hines Field, and uh, I got back
to Kansas City and then he just it's crazy. He
just like there were no signs. He just I just
didn't feel He's like, I don't feel good, and we
(17:34):
went downhill fast. Love is a strange thing. You go
from a fraternity dance to the altar of a church
to a cold hospital room asking is one of us
about to die? The doctor said no, they were wrong.
(17:56):
As I sat in Kansas City watching the movie Miracle,
which I remember, but for some reason, my father passed away.
He was only a few days away from my return
fishing trip. My mom didn't want to tell me until
I got back to Mississippi, so she made what had
to be the toughest phone call of her life. After
watching her husband of thirty four years take his final breath,
(18:18):
she called me and said, it doesn't look good, and
then I needed to bring a suit. I refused to
pack funeral clothes, holding out hope. The next morning, I
landed in Memphis and took the escalator down to baggage claim.
I saw my brother William at the bottom. I smiled
and waved. He just shook his head, and at that
(18:40):
moment my mother slipped out from behind a sign. I knew,
you're sweet. Daddy died. She said, I could only get
out one question. Was he scared? Mama shook her head. No.
The funeral week was a blur. When we picked out
his face of its sport coat. I went into his
(19:01):
bathroom holding those master's credentials in my hands. I took
them out slipping them into his jacket pocket. Seven months
later I was back at Augusta. He was a hard week.
I wore a pair of his shoes around the course,
trying to walk it for him. I wrote a column
about it for my newspaper, and as I'm doing now,
(19:22):
I tried to find some closure. Then I believe my
grief ended with the catharsis of a last paragraph. I
was naive and dumb, as I found out when I
returned to Augusta in the coming years, finding my pain
stronger each time. Exactly a year after he died, my
family gathered at home. We had a baby tree grown
(19:43):
from an acorn that came from the sturdy oaks at
Old missus legendary Grove, where Daddy spent so many happy afternoons.
We gathered at the spot where he'd set, where he'd
made his peace, and we dug a small hole, filling
in with the roots of the sapling and potting soil,
and it was pouring rain. We planted this tree before
(20:05):
it started raining, and you know, we were skeptical even
then about our ability to make it grow. But we're like, well,
we'll see. And then that night, I mean sometimes it
rains in Mississippi and it's unbelievable. I mean, it's biblical.
And so you know, we had this little thing outside
that measures the water. I'm like, my god, it's three
(20:28):
inches and like no times, I'm like I gotta go
out there. It's mud everywhere, and I got this umbrella
and I'm like this is this is ridiculous. I'm soaking
wet because the umbrellas over the tree. You know, I
guess in hindsight, I should have stood over the tree
and put the umbrella over both of us. Uh that
obviously occurs to me now, but oddly it did not
(20:48):
occur to me then. So I'm standing out there and uh,
all this is still very very raw, and uh, you know,
I start trying to talk to him. I remember that
very clearly. I mean I just remember like talking to
nobody in the rain, and I agree, you out there,
(21:10):
you know, And it was like I felt even silly
as I was doing it, and yet it felt somehow,
uh disrespectful to not take seriously the possibility that, like,
there are things about the universe we don't understand. And
so but I'm standing out there in the rain holding
an umbrella over a tiny oak tree that's about to die.
(21:33):
Talking to myself, that's quite the night. You're looking for
a person, but you're also looking for, you know, someone
to illuminate the path. Maybe I'll find these answers out
here at this place he loves so much. Is that crazy?
(21:54):
Nothing seems crazy to me anymore. The grass shines like
polished green mirrors. The flowers explode o with a rainbow
of shrapnel. Pinks, purples, yellows, and whites. Mostly though, I
see the fathers and sons like the livelies from Charleston,
West Virginia sitting in front of me watching the Part
three tournament. For fifteen years, he'd entered the lottery for
(22:15):
practice round tickets. This year he won, and he took
his two sons out of school for a day. I
wanted that to be us. Down by Ike's Pond. Television
reporter Jim Gray interviews players as they leave the course.
He asked what I'm working on, and when I tell him,
he nods, pointing to a white haired man sitting in
(22:36):
the sun by the water. It's Jerry Gray, his father,
and for sixteen years he's come with his famous son
to Augusta. It's the only week we spend together all year,
Jim tells me, and again, I'm jealous. He really doesn't
seem fair. Sometimes a boy needs his daddy. I got
married about a year ago, and I knew he'd have
(22:57):
loved to stand up at the front of that church.
In a way, he was in the pocket of my tuxedo.
I carried his yellow livestrong bracelet, and as Sonja started
down the aisle, rubbed at once, just to let him
know if he was watching, that he might be gone.
But he wasn't forgotten. I've been looking for him. I
try to find messages, things he might have left behind
(23:18):
to lead me down the right path. I know he
thought like that. For months after his death, my mom
found flashlights in every room of the house, big ones,
small ones, medium sized ones, all with fresh batteries. Then
she realized he put them there from when he was gone,
in case she got scared of the dark. Every now
and then I'll discover something prescient. I have the notes
(23:40):
he left me from when I visited for what turned
out to be the last time. There's a quote to
influence people appealed to their dreams and aspirations, not just
their needs. He wrote in blue Ink w W T Jr.
We're so glad to have you home for a few days,
Love Daddy. Or the prayer he read it as as
Thanksgiving when we all still believed. Maybe he knew differently,
(24:04):
for he wrote to himself at the bottom, what a
great prayer for all of us this Thanksgiving day and
for all of tomorrow's. None of us can take for granted,
But those small whispers and nudges are rare. So I
try to find bits of wisdom and the comfort of
his presence at the places he loved. I eat at
the Mayflower Cafe in Jackson, Mississippi. I stay at the
(24:26):
hay Adams Hotel in Washington, d C. And now I've
come here to this wonderful, ageless cathedral, Walking up and
down the perfectly manicured fairways, hoping to find a father.
(24:46):
I walk up number ten, crossing fifteen near the grandstand,
working back and forth through the ponds, making my way
toward Amen Corner. He first told me about it, the
most amazing place in golf, he'd say, reverently. Maybe he'll
be here, Maybe he knows his son is lost. I
climbed the bleachers, finding a spot to sit alone. As
(25:09):
I did on that rainy night by the small tree.
I try to talk to him, Daddy, I whisper, are
you out there? Something amazing happens. Understand that I don't
believe in stuff like that, and I'm certain it was
a coincidence. But just as the words are leaving my mouth,
from across the course, a roar rises from the gallery,
(25:30):
breaking the silence, the voices collecting into throaty applause, moving
through the pines until it fades away, silence returning to
amen corner as the sun warms my face. Jim and
Jerry Gray climbed the bleachers. They watch a few groups
move through, and as they walk away, Jim carefully holds
(25:53):
the ropes whose father can slip beneath it. It's a
touching moment, something a good son should do for his dad.
Watching this, I realized something. Although I relate to Jim,
I also hope that someday my boy will do the
same for me. It's that way with fathers and sons.
The hole in your chest after losing your daddy never
(26:14):
gets filled. You don't get a new father, you become
one yourself. And my transition from son to father is
nearing completion. I walked back as a clubhouse gets bigger
on the horizon, I see a dad and his boy
standing near the tenth fairway. Both are wearing golf clothes.
I see myself and that father, hoping he can mold
(26:35):
his boy as his own dad molded him. It occurs
to me that all my questions have already been answered.
I've been shown how to be a father. I just
need to throw passes a little long so he'll have
to dive. I need to make sure he doesn't lose
his stuffed animal. And I need to take him fishing.
I need to make him promise not to tell Mama.
(26:56):
I need to make sure he knows that you catch
more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, and
that if it feels wrong, it is. We need to
watch the guns of Navarone, and I need him to
lie next to me on our tongue buckets as I
explained about a golf tournament in April and Georgia, about
Amen Corner and Jack Nicholas. And I need to tell
a little Walter Wright Thompson the third that his grandfather
(27:18):
was a great man. The clubhouse is in front of
me now, and I have one final task. Once I
bought my dad's shirts and windbreakers. On this afternoon, I
have something different to buy. I hurry into the cavernous
golf shop, past the frame posters and the women's clothes,
to the back of the store. This is unfamiliar territory.
(27:39):
I searched the wall for the things I want, and
I asked the clerk to take them down. I buy
a tiny green master's onesie. Then I pick out a
small knit golf shirt for a toddler. I have one
just like it. So someday in the next few years,
when I finally become a father myself and continue this
timeless cycle, my son, parentheses daughter can have a connection
(28:01):
to this place that's meant so much to me. At
the counter, the woman takes off the tax. When she
sees the cute little clothes she coups. Her words make
me hopeful. Oh, she gushes, What a good daddy. I mean,
a human being dies and I write six thousand words.
(28:23):
But how it affects me? I mean boy that has
a twenty something year old early thirties. I mean, the
tragedy is not that I lost time with him. It's
that he lost time with me and my brother and
my mother and these two kids you'll never meet. I mean,
I have such a different perspective that in a lot
(28:43):
of ways, that's a time capsule of a very specific
stage of grief. I'm not sure that person exists anymore.
I mean, for being honest, really, like, these are all
stories about sports, and there's some journalism nerds who might
know them, but basically these things are lying in bird cages.
(29:07):
And but this one feels like it really did something
for some people. And you know, if I had to
pick one and had to unwrite all the other ones,
it would that would very obviously keep this one. I'm
not sure I could write it now, Like I'm not
sure I'm in touch with that pain enough. I mean,
(29:31):
it's still there, I think, but like I don't. It
was very visceral. I mean I wrote it in the
press room at AUGUSTA. Uh just good, you know, fucking
idiot And uh, I don't know. I'm just very grateful
that story keeps him alive in a way that I
(29:55):
didn't foresee. The Cost of these dreams is from iHeartMedia,
Graphic Audio, and Wright Thompson. This series is produced by
Goat Rodeo n N Wright and Megan Nadolski are the
lead producers. This episode is part of the eight part
(30:18):
series The Cost of These Dreams. Find other episodes wherever
you get your podcasts. If you want to dive in
deeper to write Thompson's The Cost of These Dreams, access
the full audio book wherever you get your audio books.
Discover other works by Wright Thompson, including his latest book,
Pappy Land, wherever books are sold. From the Goat Rodeo team.
(30:39):
Production assistants from Rebecca Sidel, Isabel Kirby McGowan, Hams A
Ship Too, Maxwell Johnston and Kara Shillen. Music by Ian N. Wright.
Our Deep thanks to Right Thompson, Caitlin Riley and John Weiss.
Thanks for listening.
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