THE 1991 Masters ranks as my all-time most memorable golf tournament. For one, I covered it. For another, I chaperoned our bet to the event—Frankie Miñoza.
But we almost did not make it to Augusta, Georgia, the Masters venue since the tournament’s birth in 1934.
That’s because Frankie skipped our original flight, citing a spat with his wife.
It took some oppressive prodding from Rod Feliciano (bless his soul) before Frankie relented.
Rod, the president then of the National Golf Association of the Philippines (NGAP), virtually twisted arms to get Frankie to play in the world’s most prestigious golf event. Frankie not showing up would be a disaster of global magnitude—the Masters being an invitational event. Even the defending Masters champion himself needs to be invite—in writing—to be able to defend his crown.
After Rod had rebooked our tickets, Frankie and I made it to San Francisco, CA, in the nick of time. From there, Rod and our entourage took a connecting flight to Atlanta, the Georgia capital.
From Atlanta, we boarded a coaster driven by the nephew of Ramon Ballesca, Rod’s No. 1 chum in America, for Augusta some two hours away.
Ramon (bless his soul) was the only guy I knew who considered beer water—literally. He drank beer at breakfast. He drank beer at lunch. He drank beer at 4 p.m. He drank beer at dinner. Before hitting the sack, he would gulp down a bottle of pale Pilsen: San Miguel.
Ramon played a key role in Frankie teeing off for Round One of the 1991 Masters.
When Frankie, nursing a pollen-induced eye swelling and moping inside the Cadillac, wavered in playing Round One despite Rod’s impassioned plea “for the country’s sakes,” Ramon stepped in and said: “You better heed Rod or I’ll drag you out of the car!”
Frankie scored 78-75 and he got cut.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” said Frankie. “Greg Norman got cut, too.”
After watching Ian Woosnam, the Welsh with the Popeye arms, sink his winning eight-foot putt, Frankie said: “I have a new idol.”
“Me, too,” said Ramon. “Woosnam is a beer drinker!”